Seven Seats to the Moon Page 24

  “What if we got to vote our money?”

  “Huh?”

  “Sure,” said J. “Cast it, see? Let them take a pie-shaped ballot. You know those pies. And send it out at income tax time. Everybody gets to assign a percentage of his tax, whatever that is, the way he wants the government to spend it.” J began to heave with mirth. “Can you imagine sitting up all night to listen to the tax returns? Talk about suspense!”

  “That’s pink, I think,” said Glad. “Or else it’s fascist. Hey, partner, not bad!” He began to play rapidly with concentration. Everybody had to keep up with him. “Game,” he said, “so take your ace of clubs.”

  “Oh, boy,” said J, taking his ace of clubs. “Every damn bureau would have to put on a campaign to justify itself. But nobody would vote them the money to do that. Imagine the post office, shaking in its sacks? All those invisible men? Betcha some tax day people would forget, and we wouldn’t have any mail!” J heaved.

  Glad Neeby said mildly, “What about people who’ve got no money, got no tax, got no vote?”

  “Oh, we’d all get to vote for the President and all that, just as we do now.”

  “What difference would that make when you got the country run by the millionaires?” Glad’s voice kept lazy, but his eye was narrowing.

  “I do?” said J. “I thought there was more money in the hands of widows than anybody else.”

  “Hey,” said Susie, “maybe he’s got something. No woman is going to vote umpteen billion dollars to kill people. Especially boys!”

  “Well, I don’t know,” drawled Sophia. “If you could get rid of a few catty females for, say, four ninety-five—”

  “Oh, if it was on sale,” said Susie solemnly.

  J kept on chuckling. “Want to bet the American people wouldn’t have the most pampered cats and dogs in history?” He was tickled by his fancy, which was absurd. But not too much more absurd than anything else. How could it be?

  Tony said explosively on the phone, “What’s he doing in the house?”

  “Nothing, so far. Hummel’s got a gun on him. At what point should he shoot? Or should we bust in right away?”

  “Don’t let Little be taken,” said Tony. “Hold it as long as you can. I’m coming.”

  “It wouldn’t work, pal,” said Neeby. “The people, for Pete’s sake, can’t understand everything the government is doing. I’ll bet no one man, in government or out, understands it all right now. Got to depend on somebody else to give you the gist. You try and keep track of the whole blooming thing yourself—In the first place you can’t, and in the second place you’re not going to get any work done. Who’s hexing these cards?”

  “Our name is Legion,” sighed J. (Some revelations I get, he thought. Here’s Glad Neeby—knew them all the time.)

  “Whose name is Legion?” Glad inquired.

  “Oh, the ones in the middle, slogging along.…”

  “Everybody’s in the middle if you ask me.” Glad was arranging his hand briskly. “If you’re not, man, you’re in trouble.”

  “Okay, okay,” said J, to whom his friend’s remark was perfectly lucid. “But how many really want to go?”

  “Go where?”

  “Oh, to the moon. You want to go?”

  “Not me,” said Glad. “I’ve got high blood pressure. Four spades.”

  “Hex, he says!” said Susie. “Pass.”

  Sophia said, “I know what that means, but I forget what I, need to say.”

  Goodrick, whose head was beginning to ache, could make no sense out of any of this. He wished the Neebys would go home.

  Outside the glass wall a man was prone in the azaleas watching, on a diagonal past the card table, the door from the family room into the kitchen. He had a gun in his hand.

  Win stood with his sister in the doorway to the darkened hospital room. “It’ll be okay,” she whispered. “Go on home, Win.”

  He put his arm around her and squeezed. “Marion’s nervous,” he said. “We’ll both be holding our thumbs for Avery.”

  “Sssh—I’m going to stay right by him. The doctor said I could.”

  “Want me to call Ma and Dad? Tell them what’s happening?”

  “What could they do, tonight?” she said stupidly. “Avery wouldn’t want them and I … well, I have to be with him. I’ll see, in the morning.…”

  Win squeezed her again and went away.

  “I don’t want to go in there,” said Nanjo.

  Cary had parked in front of a tavern, a blank door that did not, she knew it could not, in this part of town, conceal anything but a dive.

  Cary swore. He said, “What’s the matter with you? You been telling me stupid lies the whole damn night. Come on, we’re going in and have a beer, so what’s bugging you?”

  “I don’t want to,” Nanjo said. He clutched her arm hard and breathed on her cheek.

  “Afterward,” he said, “I know where we can go.”

  “I want to go home,” whined Nanjo.

  “Well, listen at that!” Cary let go and began to get out at his side. Nanjo grabbed for the latch, tumbled out on her side, and began to run.

  Cary yelled after her. He yelled terrible things. But he did not follow.

  “Seven hundred rubber,” said Glad Neeby. “Off your game tonight, aren’t you, J?”

  “Listen,” said Susie indignantly, “if you don’t get the tickets …”

  “Game of skill. Absolutely,” said her husband. “Am I right, partner?”

  Sophia was on edge. She couldn’t pull the required cliché out of her mouth. She only smiled.

  J said, “There just ain’t enough tickets to go around.” He was looking at his wife. What is it? his eyes asked.

  Her eyes answered, I don’t know.

  Nanjo had some notion where she was. She was on low ground in a shabby section of a shabby business street, but she knew where the high ground lay. She had never been on foot on a street like this one; she had better get off of it. But it was at least better lighted than the side streets that lay, somehow bleak, in shadow.

  She tried to guess where the nearest bus line would be. Up the slope a way, surely. And up higher she might find a place to telephone. She could ask Daddy to come. She didn’t want to do that. She’d rather manage to get home by herself.

  Then she saw, ahead on her present course, three men standing under the streetlight at the next corner. They were all looking her way; they must have heard Cary yelling. Well, she would just stiffen into brisk decisive behavior, just as if she were fine, thank you, and knew exactly what she was doing.

  So she crossed in the middle of the block to the other side of this avenue. Traffic was light. Nanjo was nimble. Now she could double back and turn uphill on a side street. When she came to the turning point, she glanced to her left. One of the men had detached himself from the corner group and was coming along the avenue in her direction. Nanjo set her legs to driving hard.

  The side street was residential, she guessed. But the dwellings were mean, and Nanjo didn’t know what kind of people lived in such places. Didn’t know. She had always thought of herself as above any snobbery. But the truth was, she did not really know people who must manage on very much less of an income than her parents. She must get home, that’s all. Back to what she understood.

  And she’d better not get silly and begin to imagine there was a man following her. And she’d better not run. No, no. Steady and fast, up the slope to the next well-lighted cross street. How many blocks was that? Three? Four?

  At the next intersection she paused to look both ways for traffic and for any sign of a drugstore, for instance, lighted, still open, safe. No, no, the cross street was dreary and deserted. But now, under the lamp that hung above this intersection, she was able to see the man. He was right over there on the corner opposite. He was looking at her. He had followed her.

  He was Cal, the gardener.

  Nanjo’s heart bounced up and seemed to choke her. It thumped down. She set her face to be
looking straight ahead, to give no encouragement, no sign, no signal. She crossed and walked, as fast as she could without running, on up the slope. But she was breathing as if she were running a race.

  The neighborhood must get better. What did she mean by better? She meant more like her own neighborhood? She meant houses that were smarter, neater, more expensive? She meant something familiar, that she could trust because it was familiar? But the houses were almost all dark. She didn’t know. She didn’t want to go pounding frantically on any of these doors. She didn’t want to make a big deal out of this, anyway. She wanted to get herself home, independently, quietly, secretly. So keep going—just another block or two. He wouldn’t—

  She knew when Cal crossed over to her side of the street; she thought she heard him call her name too close behind.

  Oh, God! Oh, no! Please! Panic came in.

  She saw the church. It was on the next corner, a plain structure of stucco with blank walls. Where was the door? At the corner? Around the corner? Would it be locked? Oh, would this be sanctuary? Would Cal follow her in and rape her on a pew? No. Yes. What difference would it make if she were in a church if he wanted to do it!

  Nanjo began to run. He called again. The church was blank, dark, lifeless. Nobody was there. No person. So what good … Then she saw that on the downhill side of the church there was, below the sidewalk level, a paved yard, a kind of Sunday-school playground, perhaps. The church had a lower story, and there was a door down there.

  Nanjo didn’t know where the main door was. Anyway, it would be locked. And so would that door down there (into the nursery, maybe?). But maybe she could hide! Just vanish. Hide in the dark. Stop breathing. Fool him. Escape him. Get away, free.

  She was in shadow as she came to the flight of concrete steps that led down. Ah, they were not a solid block. She could hide under them. Quick as a cat she put her hand on the iron rail, slipped under it, and jumped lightly down. She felt strong and clever. She was young. She could do anything! She wasn’t going to get messed up. She was going to get out of this, escape, get home!

  She crept under the slant of the steps. There might be spiders, snakes. She didn’t know. But above her there was a more dangerous creature.

  She began to be able to hear his breathing. She had stopped her own. Her lungs were bursting, but her wits raced. Did he know where she had gone? Was he coming down after her? Well, if he did, she could crawl through to the other side (or not, depending upon how he turned), and she would whisk up the steps before he knew it. What was he doing? Her ears were beginning to ring.

  Now she could hear his voice. Oh, it was Cal, the gardener. He had an impediment. He was speaking less intelligibly than ever, She couldn’t make out … oh! He was drunk! He was drunk! So he wouldn’t care. He wouldn’t think of stopping to think. He had lost his job because of her. He wouldn’t care what he did to Nancy Jo Little!

  She had to breathe. She made a sound, a gasp. She couldn’t help it. She heard his boots scrape.

  Nanjo had time to wonder who it was, kneeling on hurting knees in the dirt and the dark, where no one on earth—no one but Cal, the gardener—knew where she was. What girl was this?

  Above her he yipped, soprano, and then like a muted explosion he crashed, and she heard him come thudding and softly tumbling down. And now there was no sound at all.

  Goodrick, in the shadowed kitchen, was feeling for the flashlight in his pocket. It had a handy shape. He didn’t carry guns. He didn’t believe in them. Unnecessary. They, having no guns, either, were thoroughly trained to believe in them, and the illusion would do. Speed and surprise. He’d herd them into a corner. He’d threaten the women. He’d get it out of Little and shut them all up with more threats. Goodrick was tired of waiting around. They’d never go home.

  At the back, outside, the man flat among the azaleas was wishing he knew the floor plan of the house. He wasn’t sure how many ways he ought to be watching.

  At the front, outside, Marietta toddled up the path and touched the doorbell.

  Sophia pushed back her chair quickly. She was very glad to move. Must be her mother, she said to the rest. J suggested they all needed refills; he went behind the bar. Goodrick drew back deeper into the kitchen. The man in the azaleas was cursing to himself. Too much movement in there.

  Marietta, conducted to the family room by her daughter, did not respond to greetings with normal effusions. She had been, in some desperation, at the movies with a friend from the Wimple, and the picture had terrified her. She had never seen such a world!

  When Susie asked, sacrificially, whether Marietta would like to take her hand, Marietta said No, she wouldn’t for the world interrupt their pleasure. (Meantime Glad Neeby was fanning and folding and refanning his cards, because she had.) There was a kind of social impasse; J announced that the ice was melted.

  Marietta, at once, waddled over and snatched up the ice bucket. “Oh, let me!” she cried. “I can fetch some ice. I can do that.” She started for the kitchen.

  Something in her cry made Susie seek Sophia’s eye, but Sophia wouldn’t look. Sophia sat down at the card table stiffly. J was putting mixings into the glasses. Glad put his hand of cards facedown and sighed.

  As Marietta was still feeling for the kitchen light switch beside the doorjamb, Goodrick caught her from the other side with his left arm over her chin. “Keep quiet,” he said into her ear. “You want to die?” But Marietta’s finger, dragging down the wall in terror, turned the light on.

  As the kitchen light bloomed, it cast a bright band out across the planting of azaleas. The man there flattened himself. Marietta could not scream, but Goodrick felt a ripple of alarm. He glanced out the window. He dragged the old lady deeper into the kitchen. “How do I get out?” he said into her ear. “Garage? Where’s the door?”

  She still had the ice bucket by its handle. She lifted her arm and tried to point.

  Goodrick saw the door. “Keep quiet,” he growled, “or I’ll take you with me all the way to hell.” He gave her a shove that sent her staggering to lean on the counter. The ice bucket fell with a clatter. “Death,” she said in a low, hoarse voice. But he was across and out the door that led through a short passage to the garage. The big overhead door to the driveway was open and hung high. Goodrick slunk down the aisle between the two cars, slipped quickly to his left, and was lost in the shrubbery. He’d seen a gun in the azaleas; this house and garden were no place for him. “Death?” Her and her angels! What did he know? He shuddered.

  “What was that?” Sophia said. Her cards went splattering. She got up.

  “Just a minute,” said J, warning her not to move farther. His house. He would go and see.

  The Neebys sat paralyzed, staring toward the kitchen. So the man in the azaleas crawled like a huge, lively worm out of the light.

  But Goodrick was racing across the Neeby’s lawn. A car started to life. It was moving as he leaped aboard.

  J said, “What happened, Marietta?”

  Still leaning on the counter, she turned her head. “The angel of darkness,” she whimpered. “The angel of death.”

  “Where?” said J, coming to hold onto her. His question struck him as absurd. So did her answer.

  “Garage,” she said.

  But Glad Neeby was now standing belligerently just inside the kitchen door. “What’s the matter?” he said sternly and sensibly.

  “I don’t know,” said J.

  The stout woman was balanced on her feet now and turning ponderously. Sophia came running. “Mother, what happened?”

  “Death,” said Marietta. “Warning.”

  “Something’s scared her,” said Susie Neeby sensibly.

  Sophia embraced her mother and began to croon comfort.

  As the women took over, J entered the way to the garage. “Take it easy, boy,” said Glad Neeby. “I’m right behind you.” So they both peered into the dimness, seeing only the cars standing cold and silent, smelling as cars do smell. J put on the rather sickly gara
ge light, one bulb overhead.

  “Nobody,” said Glad.

  Susie now said, behind them, “Glad, be careful. I thought … I don’t know … corner of my eye … something moved out in the back.”

  “We better check around back then,” said Glad Neeby in a matter-of-fact way.

  The women put Marietta down in a chair in the family room; she seemed to have no voice now. Sophia stood close to her, watching through the glass wall the moving shadows as J and Glad Neeby crossed and recrossed the backyard.

  Susie said, “Of course, last week Mrs. Arriola was carrying on about this house being …”

  “Shush,” said Sophia. “Wait.”

  (Her mother didn’t have to know that Mrs. Arriola thought the house was haunted. On the other hand, if she had already been told so, this might explain the whole incident.)

  The men circled the house and came in. J reached for the cord and shut the draperies. “Doors all locked, now,” said Glad. “Nobody’s out there.”

  Sophia bent and put her arm across her mother’s shoulders. “Mother, did something upset you this evening?”

  “I don’t understand—” wept Marietta.

  “Come along to bed. At least, lie down. I’ll go with you. And J is going to look under all the beds.”

  The Neebys sat down at the card table and lifted their eyebrows at each other. Susie leaned and said in a whisper, “Mrs. Arriola probably told her the house was haunted.”

  “Nuts!” said Glad. “Damn it, I had a hundred and fifty honors.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Friday Night

  When Sophia heard a car pull to a stop out in the street, she thought, Ah, good! Somebody’s bringing Nanjo home. She petted her mother down into the bed and went back to where J and the guests were drinking their drinks and chatting.

  “I may be a rat at heart,” J was saying. “I was saying to somebody not so long ago, I’m in a rut. Okay. It’s a darned nice rut, and it suits me.” He looked too somber for the words.

  “Well,” said Glad, “I guess I’m stuck in mine until retirement age. Of course, the world will probably blow up before I reach it.”