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«More than a game. Oh, God, I feel cold. Hold me.»
He moved to hug her.
«It's okay.»
«No. I had the funniest feeling just now, as if he were real.»
«He is. He's not gone.»
«Unless we do something. Help me.»
«Help?» He held her even tighter, then shut his eyes, and at last called:
«Sascha?»
Silence.
«I know you're there. You can't hide.»
His hand moved to where Sascha might be.
«Listen. Say something. Don't scare us, Sascha. We don't want to be scared or scare you. We need each other. We three against the world. Sascha?»
Silence.
«Well?» whispered Douglas.
Maggie breathed in and out.
They waited.
«Yes?»
There was a soft flutter, the merest exhalation on the night air.
«Yes.»
«You're back!» both cried.
Another silence.
«Welcome?» asked Sascha.
«Welcome!» both said.
And that night passed and the next day and the night and day after that, until there were many days, but especially midnights when he dared to declare himself, pipe opinions, grow stronger and firmer and longer in half-heard declarations, as they lay in anticipatory awareness, now she moving her lips, now he taking over, both open as warm, live ventriloquists' mouthpieces. The small voice shifted from one tongue to the other, with soft bouts of laughter at how ridiculous but loving it all seemed, never knowing what Sascha might say next, but letting him speak on until dawn and a smiling sleep.
«What's this about Halloween?» he asked, somewhere in the sixth month.
«Halloween?» both wondered.
«Isn't that a death holiday?» Sascha murmured.
«Well, yes . .
«I'm not sure I want to be born on a night
like that.»
«Well, what night would you like to be born on?»
Silence as Sascha floated a while.
«Guy Fawkes,» he finally whispered.
«Guy Fawkes??!!»
«That's mainly fireworks, gunpowder plots, Houses of Parliament, yes? Please to remember the fifth of November? »
«Do you think you could wait until then?»
«I could try. I don't think I want to start out with skulls and bones. Gunpowder's more like it. I could write about that.»
«Will you be a writer, then?»
«Get me a typewriter and a ream of paper.»
«And keep us awake with the typing? «
«Pen, pencil, and pad, then?»
«Done!»
So it was agreed and the nights passed into weeks and the weeks leaned from summer into the first days of autumn and his voice grew stronger,
as did the sound of his heart and the small commotions of his limbs. Sometimes as Maggie slept, his voice would stir her awake and she would reach up to touch her mouth, where the surprise of his dreaming came forth.
«There, there, Sascha. Rest now. Sleep.»
«Sleep,» he whispered drowsily, «sleep.» And faded away.
«Pork chops, please, for supper.»
«No pickles with ice cream?» both said, almost at once.
«Pork chops,» he said, and more days passed and more dawns arose and he said: «Hamburgers!»
«For breakfast?»
«With onions,» he said.
October stood still for one day and then…
Halloween departed.
«Thanks,» said Sascha, «for helping me past that. What's up ahead in five nights?»
«Guy Fawkes!»
«Ah, yes!» he cried.
And at one minute after midnight five days later, Maggie got up, wandered to the bathroom, and wandered back, stunned.
«Dear,» she said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Douglas Spaulding turned over, half awake. «Yes?»
«What day is it?» whispered Sascha.
«Guy Fawkes, at last. So?»
«I don't feel well,» said Sascha. «Or, no, I feel fine. Full of pep. Ready to go. It's time to say good-bye. Or is it hello? What do I mean?»
«Spit it out.»
«Are there neighbors who said, no matter when, they'd take us to the hospital?»
«Yes.»
«Call the neighbors,» said Sascha.
They called the neighbors.
At the hospital, Douglas kissed his and listened.
«It's been nice,» said Sascha.
«Only the best.»
«We won't talk again. Good-bye,» said Sascha.
«Good-bye,» both said.
At dawn there was a small clear cry somewhere. Not long after, Douglas entered his wife's hospital room. She looked at him and said
«Sascha's gone.»
«I know,» he said quietly.
«But he left word and someone else is here.
Look.»
He approached the bed as she pulled back a coverlet.
«Well, I'll be damned.»
He looked down at a small pink face and eyes that for a brief moment flickered bright blue and
then shut.
«Who's that?» he asked.
«Your daughter. Meet Alexandra.»
«Hello, Alexandra,» he said.
«And do you know what the nickname for Alexandra is?» she said.
«What?''
«Sascha,» she said.
He touched the small cheek very gently.
«Hello, Sascha,» he said.
Another Fine Mess
The Electrocution
Hopscotch
He moved to hug her.
«It's okay.»
«No. I had the funniest feeling just now, as if he were real.»
«He is. He's not gone.»
«Unless we do something. Help me.»
«Help?» He held her even tighter, then shut his eyes, and at last called:
«Sascha?»
Silence.
«I know you're there. You can't hide.»
His hand moved to where Sascha might be.
«Listen. Say something. Don't scare us, Sascha. We don't want to be scared or scare you. We need each other. We three against the world. Sascha?»
Silence.
«Well?» whispered Douglas.
Maggie breathed in and out.
They waited.
«Yes?»
There was a soft flutter, the merest exhalation on the night air.
«Yes.»
«You're back!» both cried.
Another silence.
«Welcome?» asked Sascha.
«Welcome!» both said.
And that night passed and the next day and the night and day after that, until there were many days, but especially midnights when he dared to declare himself, pipe opinions, grow stronger and firmer and longer in half-heard declarations, as they lay in anticipatory awareness, now she moving her lips, now he taking over, both open as warm, live ventriloquists' mouthpieces. The small voice shifted from one tongue to the other, with soft bouts of laughter at how ridiculous but loving it all seemed, never knowing what Sascha might say next, but letting him speak on until dawn and a smiling sleep.
«What's this about Halloween?» he asked, somewhere in the sixth month.
«Halloween?» both wondered.
«Isn't that a death holiday?» Sascha murmured.
«Well, yes . .
«I'm not sure I want to be born on a night
like that.»
«Well, what night would you like to be born on?»
Silence as Sascha floated a while.
«Guy Fawkes,» he finally whispered.
«Guy Fawkes??!!»
«That's mainly fireworks, gunpowder plots, Houses of Parliament, yes? Please to remember the fifth of November? »
«Do you think you could wait until then?»
«I could try. I don't think I want to start out with skulls and bones. Gunpowder's more like it. I could write about that.»
«Will you be a writer, then?»
«Get me a typewriter and a ream of paper.»
«And keep us awake with the typing? «
«Pen, pencil, and pad, then?»
«Done!»
So it was agreed and the nights passed into weeks and the weeks leaned from summer into the first days of autumn and his voice grew stronger,
as did the sound of his heart and the small commotions of his limbs. Sometimes as Maggie slept, his voice would stir her awake and she would reach up to touch her mouth, where the surprise of his dreaming came forth.
«There, there, Sascha. Rest now. Sleep.»
«Sleep,» he whispered drowsily, «sleep.» And faded away.
«Pork chops, please, for supper.»
«No pickles with ice cream?» both said, almost at once.
«Pork chops,» he said, and more days passed and more dawns arose and he said: «Hamburgers!»
«For breakfast?»
«With onions,» he said.
October stood still for one day and then…
Halloween departed.
«Thanks,» said Sascha, «for helping me past that. What's up ahead in five nights?»
«Guy Fawkes!»
«Ah, yes!» he cried.
And at one minute after midnight five days later, Maggie got up, wandered to the bathroom, and wandered back, stunned.
«Dear,» she said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Douglas Spaulding turned over, half awake. «Yes?»
«What day is it?» whispered Sascha.
«Guy Fawkes, at last. So?»
«I don't feel well,» said Sascha. «Or, no, I feel fine. Full of pep. Ready to go. It's time to say good-bye. Or is it hello? What do I mean?»
«Spit it out.»
«Are there neighbors who said, no matter when, they'd take us to the hospital?»
«Yes.»
«Call the neighbors,» said Sascha.
They called the neighbors.
At the hospital, Douglas kissed his and listened.
«It's been nice,» said Sascha.
«Only the best.»
«We won't talk again. Good-bye,» said Sascha.
«Good-bye,» both said.
At dawn there was a small clear cry somewhere. Not long after, Douglas entered his wife's hospital room. She looked at him and said
«Sascha's gone.»
«I know,» he said quietly.
«But he left word and someone else is here.
Look.»
He approached the bed as she pulled back a coverlet.
«Well, I'll be damned.»
He looked down at a small pink face and eyes that for a brief moment flickered bright blue and
then shut.
«Who's that?» he asked.
«Your daughter. Meet Alexandra.»
«Hello, Alexandra,» he said.
«And do you know what the nickname for Alexandra is?» she said.
«What?''
«Sascha,» she said.
He touched the small cheek very gently.
«Hello, Sascha,» he said.
Another Fine Mess
1995 year
The sounds began in the middle of summer in the middle of the night.
Bella Winters sat up in bed about three a.m. and listened and then lay back down. Ten minutes later she heard the sounds again, out in the night, down the hill.
Bella Winters lived in a first-floor apartment on top of Vendome Heights, near Effie Street in Los Angeles, and had lived there now for only a few days, so it was all new to her, this old house on an old street with an old staircase, made of concrete, climbing steeply straight up from the low-lands below, one hundred and twenty steps, count them. And right now…
«Someone's on the steps,» said Bella to herself.
«What?» said her husband, Sam, in his sleep.
«There are some men out on the steps,» said Bella. «Talking, yelling, not fighting, but almost. I heard them last night, too, and the night before, but . .
«What?» Sam muttered.
«Shh, go to sleep. I'll look.»
She got out of bed in the dark and went to the window, and yes, two men were indeed talking out there, grunting, groaning, now loud, now soft. And there was another noise, a kind of bumping, sliding, thumping, like a huge object being carted up the hill.
«No one could be moving in at this hour of the night, could they?» asked Bella of the darkness, the window, and herself.
«No,» murmured Sam.
«It sounds like . .
«Like what?» asked Sam, fully awake now.
«Like two men moving-«
«Moving what, for God's sake?»
«Moving a piano. Up those steps.''
«At three in the morning!?»
«A piano and two men. Just listen.»
The husband sat up, blinking, alert.
Far off, in the middle of the hill, there was a kind harping strum, the noise a piano makes when suddenly thumped and its harp strings hum.
«There, did you hear?»
«Jesus, you're right. But why would anyone steal-«
«They're not stealing, they're delivering.»
«A piano?»
«I didn't make the rules, Sam. Go out and ask. No, don't; I will.»
And she wrapped herself in her robe and was out the door and on the sidewalk.
«Bella,» Sam whispered fiercely behind the porch screen. «Crazy.»
«So what can happen at night to a woman fifty-five, fat, and ugly?» she wondered.
Sam did not answer.
She moved quietly to the rim of the hill. Somewhere down there she could hear the two men wrestling with a huge object. The piano on occasion gave a strumming hum and fell silent. occasionally one of the men yelled or gave orders.
«The voices,» said Bella. «I know them from somewhere,» she whispered and moved in utter dark on stairs that were only a long pale ribbon going down, as a voice echoed:
«Here's another fine mess you've got us in.» Bella froze. Where have I heard that voice, she wondered, a million times!
«Hello,» she called.
She moved, counting the steps, and stopped.
And there was no one there.
Suddenly she was very cold. There was nowhere for the strangers to have gone to. The hill was steep and a long way down and a long way up, and they had been burdened with an upright piano, hadn't they?
How come I know upright she thought. I only heard. But-yes, upright! Not only that, but inside a box!
She turned slowly and as she went back up the steps, one by one, slowly, slowly, the voices began to sound again, below, as if, disturbed, they had waited for her to go away.
«What are you doing?» demanded one voice.
«I was just-« said the other.
«Give me that!» cried the first voice.
That other voice, thought Bella, I know that, too. And I know what's going to be said next!
«Now,» said the echo far down the hill in the night, «just don't stand there, help me!»
«Yes!» Bella closed her eyes and swallowed hard and half fell to sit on the steps, getting her breath back as black-and-White pictures flashed in her head. Suddenly it was 1929 and she Was very small, in a theater with dark and light pictures looming above the first row where she sat, transfixed, and then laughing, and then transfixed and laughing again.
She opened her eyes. The two voices were still down there, a faint wrestle and echo in the night, despairing and thumping each other with their hard derby hats.
Zelda, thought Bella Winters. I'll call Zelda. She knows everything. She'll tell me what this is. Zelda, yes!
Inside, she dialed Z and E and L and D and A before she saw what she had done and started over. The phone rang a long while until Zelda's voice, angry with sleep, spoke half way across L.A.
«Zelda, this is Bella!»
«Sam just died?»
«No, no, I'm sorry-
«You're sorry?»
«Zelda, I know you're going to think I'm crazy, but . . .»
«Go ahead, be crazy.»
«Zelda, in the old days when they made films around L.A., they used lots of places, right? Like Venice, Ocean Park . . . «
«Chaplin did, Langdon did, Harold Lloyd, sure.»
«Laurel and Hardy?»
«What?»
«Laurel and Hardy, did they use lots of locations?»
«Palms, they used Palms lots, Culver City Main Street,' Effie Street.»
»Effie Street!»
«Don't yell, Bella.»
«Did you say Effie Street?»
«Sure, and God, it's three in the morning!»
«Right at the top of Effie Street!?»
«Hey, yeah, the stairs. Everyone knows them. That's where the music box chased Hardy downhill and ran over Him.»
«Sure, Zelda, sure! Oh, God, Zelda, if you could see, hear, what I hear! «
Zelda was suddenly wide awake on the line. «What's going on? You serious?»
«oh, God, yes. On the steps just now, and last night and the night before maybe, I heard, I hear-two men hauling a-a piano up the hill.»
«Someone's pulling your leg!»
«No, no, they're there. I go out and there's nothing. But the steps are haunted, Zelda! One voice says: 'Here's another fine mess you've got us in.' You got to hear that man's voice!»
«You're drunk and doing this because you know I'm a nut for them.»
«No, no. Come, Zelda. Listen. Tell!»
Maybe half an hour later, Bella heard the old tin lizzie rattle up the alley behind the apartments. It was a car Zelda, in her joy at visiting silent-movie theaters, had bought to lug herself around in while she wrote about the past, always the past, and steaming into Cecil B. DeMille's old place or circling Harold Lloyd's nation-state, or cranking and banging around the Universal backlot, paying her respects to the Phantom's opera stage, or sitting on Ma and Pa Kettle's porch chewing a sandwich lunch. That was Zelda, who once wrote in a silent country in a silent time for Silver Screen.
Zelda lumbered across the front porch, a huge body with legs as big as the Bernini columns in front of St. Peter's in Rome, and a face like a harvest moon.
On that round face now was suspicion, cynicism, skepticisms, in equal pie-parts. But when she saw Bella's pale stare she cried:
«Belle! «
«You see I'm not lying!» said Bella.
«I see!»
«Keep your voice down, Zelda. Oh, it's scary and strange, terrible and nice. So come on.»
And the two women edged along the walk to the rim of the old hill near the old steps in old Hollywood, and suddenly as they moved they felt time take a half turn around them and it was another year, because nothing had changed all the buildings were the way they were in 1928 and the hills beyond like they were in 1926 and the steps, just the, way they were when the cement was poured in 1921.
«Listen, Zelda. There!»
And Zelda listened and at first there was only a creaking of wheels down in the dark, like crickets, and then a moan of wood and a hum of piano strings, and then one voice lamenting about this job, and the other voice claiming he had nothing to do with it, and then the thumps as two derby hats fell, and an exasperated voice announced:
«Here's another fine mess you've got us in.»
Zelda, stunned, almost toppled off the hill. She held tight to Bella's arm as tears brimmed in her eyes.
«It's a trick. Someone's got a tape recorder or-«
«No, I checked. Nothing but the steps, Zelda, the steps!»
Tears rolled down Zelda's plump cheeks.
«Oh, God, that is his voice! I'm the expert, I'm the mad, fanatic, Bella. That's Ollie. And that other voice, Stan! And you're not nuts after all!»
The voices below rose and fell and one cried: «Why don't you do something to help me?»
Zelda moaned. «Oh, God, it's so beautiful.»
«What does it mean?» asked Bella. «Why are they here? Are they really ghosts, and why would ghosts climb this hill every night, pushing that music box, night after night, tell me, Zelda, why?»
Zelda peered down the hill and shut her eyes for a moment to think. «Why do any ghosts go anywhere? Retribution? Revenge? No, not those two. Love maybe's the reason, lost loves or something Yes?»
Bella let her heart pound once or twice and then said, «Maybe nobody told them.»
«Told them what?»
«Or maybe they were told a lot but still didn't believe, because maybe in their old years things got bad, I mean they were sick, and sometimes when you're sick you forget.»
«Forget what!?»
«How much we loved them.»
«They knew!»
«Did they? Sure, we told each other, but maybe not enough of us ever wrote or waved when they passed and just yelled 'Love!' you think?»
«Hell, Bella, they're on TV every night!»
«Yeah, but that don't count. Has anyone, since they left us, come here to these steps and said? Maybe those voices down there, ghosts or whatever, have been here every night for years, pushing that music box, and nobody thought, or tried, to just whisper or yell all the love we had all the years. Why not?»
'Why not?» Zelda stared down into the long darkness where perhaps shadows moved and maybe a piano lurched clumsily among the shadows. «You're right.»
If I'm right,» said Bella, «and you say so, there's only one thing to do-«
«You mean you and me?»
«Who else? Quiet. Come on.»
They moved down a step. In the same instant lights came
on around them, in a window here, another there. A screen door opened somewhere and angry words shot out into the night:
«Hey, what's going on?»
«Pipe down!»
«You know what time it is?» «My God,» Bella whispered, «everyone else hears now!»
«No, no.» Zelda looked around wildly. «They'll spoil everything!»
«I'm calling the cops!» A window slammed.
«God,» said Bella, «if the cops come-«
«What?»
«It'll be all wrong. If anyone's going to tell them to take it easy, pipe down, it's gotta be us. We care, don't we?»
«God, yes, but-«
«No buts. Grab on. Here we go.»
The two voices murmured below and the piano tuned itself with hiccups of sound as they edged down another step and another, their mouths dry, hearts hammering, and the night so dark they could see only the faint streetlight at the stair bottom, the single street illumination so far away it was sad being there all by itself, waiting for shadows to move.
More windows slammed up, more screen doors opened. At any moment there would be an avalanche of protest, incredible outcries, perhaps shots fired, and all this gone forever.
Thinking this, the women trembled and held tight, as if to pummel each other to speak against the rage.
«Say something, Zelda, quick.»
«What?»
«Anything! They'll get hurt if we don't-«
» They?»
«You know what I mean. Save them.»
«Okay. Jesus!» Zelda froze, clamped her eyes shut to find the words, then opened her eyes and said, «Hello.»
«Louder. «
`'Hello,» Zelda called softly, then loudly.
Shapes rustled in the dark below. One of the voices rose while the other fell and the piano strummed its hidden harp strings.
«Don't be afraid,» Zelda called
«That's good. Go on.»
«Don't be afraid,» Zelda called, braver now. «Don't listen to those others yelling. We won't hurt you. It's just us. I'm Zelda, you wouldn't remember, and this here is Bella, and we've known you forever, or since we were kids, and we love you. It's late, but we thought you should know. We've loved you ever since you were in the desert or on that boat with ghosts or trying to sell Christmas trees door-to-door or in that traffic where you tore the headlights off cars, and we still love you, right, Bella?»
The night below was darkness, waiting.
Zelda punched Bella's arm.
«Yes!» Bella cried, «what she said. We love you.»
«We can't think of anything else to say.»
«But it's enough, yes?» Bella leaned forward anxiously. «It's enough?»
A night wind stirred the leaves and grass around the stairs and the shadows below that had stopped moving with the music box suspended between them as they looked up and up at the two women, who suddenly began to cry. First tears fell from Bella's cheeks, and when Zelda sensed them, she let fall her own.
So now,'' said Zelda, amazed that she could form words but managed to speak anyway, «we want you to know, you don t have to come back anymore. You don't have to climb
the hill every night, waiting. For what we said just now is it, isn't it? I mean you wanted to hear it here on this hill, with those steps, and that piano, yes, that's the whole thing, it had to be that, didn't it? So now here we are and there you are and it's said. So rest, dear friends.»
«Oh, there, Ollie,»,» added Bella in a sad, sad whisper. «Oh, Stan, Stanley.»
The piano, hidden in the dark, softly hummed its wires and creaked its ancient wood.
And then the most incredible thing happened. There was: a series of shouts and then a huge banging crash as the music box, in the dark, rocketed down the hill, skittering on the steps, playing chords where it hit, swerving, rushing, and ahead of it, running, the two shapes pursued by the musical beast, yelling, tripping, shouting, warning the Fates, crying out to the gods, down and down, forty, sixty, eighty, one hundred steps.
And half down the steps, hearing, feeling, shouting, crying themselves, and now laughing and holding to each other, the two women alone in the night wildly clutching, grasping, trying to see, almost sure that they did see, the three things ricocheting off and away, the two shadows rushing, one fat,, one thin, and the piano blundering after, discordant and mindless, until they reached the street, where, instantly, the one overhead streetlamp died as if struck, and the shadows floundered on, pursued by the musical beast.
And the two women, abandoned, looked down, exhausted with laughing until they wept and weeping until they laughed, until suddenly Zelda got a terrible look on her face as if shot.
«My God!» she shouted in panic, reaching out. «Wait. We didn't mean, we don't want-don't go forever! Sure, go. so the neighbors here sleep. But once a year, you hear? Once a year, one night a year from tonight, and every year after that, come back. It shouldn't bother anyone so much. But we got to tell you all over again, huh? Come back and bring the box with you, and we'll be here waiting, won't we, Bella?»
«Waiting, yes.»
There was a long silence from the steps leading down into an old black-and-white, silent Los Angeles.
«You think they heard?»
They listened.
And from somewhere far off and down, there was the faintest explosion like the engine of an old jalopy knocking itself to life, and then the merest whisper of a lunatic music from a dark theater when they were very young. It faded.
After a long while they climbed back up the steps, dabbing at their eyes with wet Kleenex. Then they turned for a final time to stare down into the night.
«You know something?» said Zelda. «I think they heard.»
The sounds began in the middle of summer in the middle of the night.
Bella Winters sat up in bed about three a.m. and listened and then lay back down. Ten minutes later she heard the sounds again, out in the night, down the hill.
Bella Winters lived in a first-floor apartment on top of Vendome Heights, near Effie Street in Los Angeles, and had lived there now for only a few days, so it was all new to her, this old house on an old street with an old staircase, made of concrete, climbing steeply straight up from the low-lands below, one hundred and twenty steps, count them. And right now…
«Someone's on the steps,» said Bella to herself.
«What?» said her husband, Sam, in his sleep.
«There are some men out on the steps,» said Bella. «Talking, yelling, not fighting, but almost. I heard them last night, too, and the night before, but . .
«What?» Sam muttered.
«Shh, go to sleep. I'll look.»
She got out of bed in the dark and went to the window, and yes, two men were indeed talking out there, grunting, groaning, now loud, now soft. And there was another noise, a kind of bumping, sliding, thumping, like a huge object being carted up the hill.
«No one could be moving in at this hour of the night, could they?» asked Bella of the darkness, the window, and herself.
«No,» murmured Sam.
«It sounds like . .
«Like what?» asked Sam, fully awake now.
«Like two men moving-«
«Moving what, for God's sake?»
«Moving a piano. Up those steps.''
«At three in the morning!?»
«A piano and two men. Just listen.»
The husband sat up, blinking, alert.
Far off, in the middle of the hill, there was a kind harping strum, the noise a piano makes when suddenly thumped and its harp strings hum.
«There, did you hear?»
«Jesus, you're right. But why would anyone steal-«
«They're not stealing, they're delivering.»
«A piano?»
«I didn't make the rules, Sam. Go out and ask. No, don't; I will.»
And she wrapped herself in her robe and was out the door and on the sidewalk.
«Bella,» Sam whispered fiercely behind the porch screen. «Crazy.»
«So what can happen at night to a woman fifty-five, fat, and ugly?» she wondered.
Sam did not answer.
She moved quietly to the rim of the hill. Somewhere down there she could hear the two men wrestling with a huge object. The piano on occasion gave a strumming hum and fell silent. occasionally one of the men yelled or gave orders.
«The voices,» said Bella. «I know them from somewhere,» she whispered and moved in utter dark on stairs that were only a long pale ribbon going down, as a voice echoed:
«Here's another fine mess you've got us in.» Bella froze. Where have I heard that voice, she wondered, a million times!
«Hello,» she called.
She moved, counting the steps, and stopped.
And there was no one there.
Suddenly she was very cold. There was nowhere for the strangers to have gone to. The hill was steep and a long way down and a long way up, and they had been burdened with an upright piano, hadn't they?
How come I know upright she thought. I only heard. But-yes, upright! Not only that, but inside a box!
She turned slowly and as she went back up the steps, one by one, slowly, slowly, the voices began to sound again, below, as if, disturbed, they had waited for her to go away.
«What are you doing?» demanded one voice.
«I was just-« said the other.
«Give me that!» cried the first voice.
That other voice, thought Bella, I know that, too. And I know what's going to be said next!
«Now,» said the echo far down the hill in the night, «just don't stand there, help me!»
«Yes!» Bella closed her eyes and swallowed hard and half fell to sit on the steps, getting her breath back as black-and-White pictures flashed in her head. Suddenly it was 1929 and she Was very small, in a theater with dark and light pictures looming above the first row where she sat, transfixed, and then laughing, and then transfixed and laughing again.
She opened her eyes. The two voices were still down there, a faint wrestle and echo in the night, despairing and thumping each other with their hard derby hats.
Zelda, thought Bella Winters. I'll call Zelda. She knows everything. She'll tell me what this is. Zelda, yes!
Inside, she dialed Z and E and L and D and A before she saw what she had done and started over. The phone rang a long while until Zelda's voice, angry with sleep, spoke half way across L.A.
«Zelda, this is Bella!»
«Sam just died?»
«No, no, I'm sorry-
«You're sorry?»
«Zelda, I know you're going to think I'm crazy, but . . .»
«Go ahead, be crazy.»
«Zelda, in the old days when they made films around L.A., they used lots of places, right? Like Venice, Ocean Park . . . «
«Chaplin did, Langdon did, Harold Lloyd, sure.»
«Laurel and Hardy?»
«What?»
«Laurel and Hardy, did they use lots of locations?»
«Palms, they used Palms lots, Culver City Main Street,' Effie Street.»
»Effie Street!»
«Don't yell, Bella.»
«Did you say Effie Street?»
«Sure, and God, it's three in the morning!»
«Right at the top of Effie Street!?»
«Hey, yeah, the stairs. Everyone knows them. That's where the music box chased Hardy downhill and ran over Him.»
«Sure, Zelda, sure! Oh, God, Zelda, if you could see, hear, what I hear! «
Zelda was suddenly wide awake on the line. «What's going on? You serious?»
«oh, God, yes. On the steps just now, and last night and the night before maybe, I heard, I hear-two men hauling a-a piano up the hill.»
«Someone's pulling your leg!»
«No, no, they're there. I go out and there's nothing. But the steps are haunted, Zelda! One voice says: 'Here's another fine mess you've got us in.' You got to hear that man's voice!»
«You're drunk and doing this because you know I'm a nut for them.»
«No, no. Come, Zelda. Listen. Tell!»
Maybe half an hour later, Bella heard the old tin lizzie rattle up the alley behind the apartments. It was a car Zelda, in her joy at visiting silent-movie theaters, had bought to lug herself around in while she wrote about the past, always the past, and steaming into Cecil B. DeMille's old place or circling Harold Lloyd's nation-state, or cranking and banging around the Universal backlot, paying her respects to the Phantom's opera stage, or sitting on Ma and Pa Kettle's porch chewing a sandwich lunch. That was Zelda, who once wrote in a silent country in a silent time for Silver Screen.
Zelda lumbered across the front porch, a huge body with legs as big as the Bernini columns in front of St. Peter's in Rome, and a face like a harvest moon.
On that round face now was suspicion, cynicism, skepticisms, in equal pie-parts. But when she saw Bella's pale stare she cried:
«Belle! «
«You see I'm not lying!» said Bella.
«I see!»
«Keep your voice down, Zelda. Oh, it's scary and strange, terrible and nice. So come on.»
And the two women edged along the walk to the rim of the old hill near the old steps in old Hollywood, and suddenly as they moved they felt time take a half turn around them and it was another year, because nothing had changed all the buildings were the way they were in 1928 and the hills beyond like they were in 1926 and the steps, just the, way they were when the cement was poured in 1921.
«Listen, Zelda. There!»
And Zelda listened and at first there was only a creaking of wheels down in the dark, like crickets, and then a moan of wood and a hum of piano strings, and then one voice lamenting about this job, and the other voice claiming he had nothing to do with it, and then the thumps as two derby hats fell, and an exasperated voice announced:
«Here's another fine mess you've got us in.»
Zelda, stunned, almost toppled off the hill. She held tight to Bella's arm as tears brimmed in her eyes.
«It's a trick. Someone's got a tape recorder or-«
«No, I checked. Nothing but the steps, Zelda, the steps!»
Tears rolled down Zelda's plump cheeks.
«Oh, God, that is his voice! I'm the expert, I'm the mad, fanatic, Bella. That's Ollie. And that other voice, Stan! And you're not nuts after all!»
The voices below rose and fell and one cried: «Why don't you do something to help me?»
Zelda moaned. «Oh, God, it's so beautiful.»
«What does it mean?» asked Bella. «Why are they here? Are they really ghosts, and why would ghosts climb this hill every night, pushing that music box, night after night, tell me, Zelda, why?»
Zelda peered down the hill and shut her eyes for a moment to think. «Why do any ghosts go anywhere? Retribution? Revenge? No, not those two. Love maybe's the reason, lost loves or something Yes?»
Bella let her heart pound once or twice and then said, «Maybe nobody told them.»
«Told them what?»
«Or maybe they were told a lot but still didn't believe, because maybe in their old years things got bad, I mean they were sick, and sometimes when you're sick you forget.»
«Forget what!?»
«How much we loved them.»
«They knew!»
«Did they? Sure, we told each other, but maybe not enough of us ever wrote or waved when they passed and just yelled 'Love!' you think?»
«Hell, Bella, they're on TV every night!»
«Yeah, but that don't count. Has anyone, since they left us, come here to these steps and said? Maybe those voices down there, ghosts or whatever, have been here every night for years, pushing that music box, and nobody thought, or tried, to just whisper or yell all the love we had all the years. Why not?»
'Why not?» Zelda stared down into the long darkness where perhaps shadows moved and maybe a piano lurched clumsily among the shadows. «You're right.»
If I'm right,» said Bella, «and you say so, there's only one thing to do-«
«You mean you and me?»
«Who else? Quiet. Come on.»
They moved down a step. In the same instant lights came
on around them, in a window here, another there. A screen door opened somewhere and angry words shot out into the night:
«Hey, what's going on?»
«Pipe down!»
«You know what time it is?» «My God,» Bella whispered, «everyone else hears now!»
«No, no.» Zelda looked around wildly. «They'll spoil everything!»
«I'm calling the cops!» A window slammed.
«God,» said Bella, «if the cops come-«
«What?»
«It'll be all wrong. If anyone's going to tell them to take it easy, pipe down, it's gotta be us. We care, don't we?»
«God, yes, but-«
«No buts. Grab on. Here we go.»
The two voices murmured below and the piano tuned itself with hiccups of sound as they edged down another step and another, their mouths dry, hearts hammering, and the night so dark they could see only the faint streetlight at the stair bottom, the single street illumination so far away it was sad being there all by itself, waiting for shadows to move.
More windows slammed up, more screen doors opened. At any moment there would be an avalanche of protest, incredible outcries, perhaps shots fired, and all this gone forever.
Thinking this, the women trembled and held tight, as if to pummel each other to speak against the rage.
«Say something, Zelda, quick.»
«What?»
«Anything! They'll get hurt if we don't-«
» They?»
«You know what I mean. Save them.»
«Okay. Jesus!» Zelda froze, clamped her eyes shut to find the words, then opened her eyes and said, «Hello.»
«Louder. «
`'Hello,» Zelda called softly, then loudly.
Shapes rustled in the dark below. One of the voices rose while the other fell and the piano strummed its hidden harp strings.
«Don't be afraid,» Zelda called
«That's good. Go on.»
«Don't be afraid,» Zelda called, braver now. «Don't listen to those others yelling. We won't hurt you. It's just us. I'm Zelda, you wouldn't remember, and this here is Bella, and we've known you forever, or since we were kids, and we love you. It's late, but we thought you should know. We've loved you ever since you were in the desert or on that boat with ghosts or trying to sell Christmas trees door-to-door or in that traffic where you tore the headlights off cars, and we still love you, right, Bella?»
The night below was darkness, waiting.
Zelda punched Bella's arm.
«Yes!» Bella cried, «what she said. We love you.»
«We can't think of anything else to say.»
«But it's enough, yes?» Bella leaned forward anxiously. «It's enough?»
A night wind stirred the leaves and grass around the stairs and the shadows below that had stopped moving with the music box suspended between them as they looked up and up at the two women, who suddenly began to cry. First tears fell from Bella's cheeks, and when Zelda sensed them, she let fall her own.
So now,'' said Zelda, amazed that she could form words but managed to speak anyway, «we want you to know, you don t have to come back anymore. You don't have to climb
the hill every night, waiting. For what we said just now is it, isn't it? I mean you wanted to hear it here on this hill, with those steps, and that piano, yes, that's the whole thing, it had to be that, didn't it? So now here we are and there you are and it's said. So rest, dear friends.»
«Oh, there, Ollie,»,» added Bella in a sad, sad whisper. «Oh, Stan, Stanley.»
The piano, hidden in the dark, softly hummed its wires and creaked its ancient wood.
And then the most incredible thing happened. There was: a series of shouts and then a huge banging crash as the music box, in the dark, rocketed down the hill, skittering on the steps, playing chords where it hit, swerving, rushing, and ahead of it, running, the two shapes pursued by the musical beast, yelling, tripping, shouting, warning the Fates, crying out to the gods, down and down, forty, sixty, eighty, one hundred steps.
And half down the steps, hearing, feeling, shouting, crying themselves, and now laughing and holding to each other, the two women alone in the night wildly clutching, grasping, trying to see, almost sure that they did see, the three things ricocheting off and away, the two shadows rushing, one fat,, one thin, and the piano blundering after, discordant and mindless, until they reached the street, where, instantly, the one overhead streetlamp died as if struck, and the shadows floundered on, pursued by the musical beast.
And the two women, abandoned, looked down, exhausted with laughing until they wept and weeping until they laughed, until suddenly Zelda got a terrible look on her face as if shot.
«My God!» she shouted in panic, reaching out. «Wait. We didn't mean, we don't want-don't go forever! Sure, go. so the neighbors here sleep. But once a year, you hear? Once a year, one night a year from tonight, and every year after that, come back. It shouldn't bother anyone so much. But we got to tell you all over again, huh? Come back and bring the box with you, and we'll be here waiting, won't we, Bella?»
«Waiting, yes.»
There was a long silence from the steps leading down into an old black-and-white, silent Los Angeles.
«You think they heard?»
They listened.
And from somewhere far off and down, there was the faintest explosion like the engine of an old jalopy knocking itself to life, and then the merest whisper of a lunatic music from a dark theater when they were very young. It faded.
After a long while they climbed back up the steps, dabbing at their eyes with wet Kleenex. Then they turned for a final time to stare down into the night.
«You know something?» said Zelda. «I think they heard.»
The Electrocution
1946 year
She let him tie the black silk over her eyes and he knotted it and jerked it so tight that she gasped and said, «Loosen it, damn you, Johnny, loosen it, or I won't go on!'?
«Sure,» he said easily, and she smelled his sharp breath; while beyond; the crowd rustled against the rope barrier and the carnival tent flapped in the night wind, and off, there was a drift of calliope music and the rattle of a trap drum.
Dimly, through the black silk, she could see the men, the boys, the few women, a good crowd, paying out dimes to see her strapped in this electric chair, the electrodes on her wrists and neck, waiting.
«There.» Johnny's voice whispered through the blindfold. «That better?»
She said nothing, but her hands gripped the ends of the wooden chair. She felt her pulse beating in her arms and neck. Outside the pitchman yelled through his small cardboard megaphone and slapped his cane across the banner where Electra's portrait shivered in the wind: yellow hair, hard blue eyes, sharp chin, seated in her death-chair like Someone come for tea.
With the black silk blinding her, it was easier to let her mind run back to wherever it wanted to go…
The carnival was either setting up in a new town or letting go; its brown tents inhaling by day, exhaling its stale air by night as the canvases slid rustling down along the dark poles. And then?
Last Monday night this young man with the long arms and the eager pink face bought three tickets to the sideshow and stood watching Electra three times as the electricity burned through her like blue fire while this young man strained at the rope barrier, and memorized her every move as she sat high up there on the platform, all fire and pale flesh.
He came four nights in a row.
«You got an audience, Ellie,» said Johnny on the third night.
«So I see,» she said.
«Don't pay no attention,» said Johnny.
«I won't,» she said. «Why should I? Don't worry.»
After all, she'd done the act for years. Johnny slammed on the power, and it filled her from ankle to elbows to ears as he handed her the bright sword and she thrust it out blindly over the audience, smiling under her half mask, to let them tap shoulders and brows as the blue sparks crackled and spat. On the fourth night she shoved the sword far out toward the young man with the sweating pink face, first among the crowd. The young man raised his hand swiftly, eagerly, as if to seize the blade. Blue sparks leaped the gap, but his hand didn't flinch or stop as he grabbed on and took the fire in his fingers and then his fist and then his wrist and his arm into his body.
His eyes, in the light, flared with blue alcohol flame, fed by the sword, whose fire in passing lit her arm and face and body. He stretched his hand still farther out, his waist jammed against the rope, silent and tense. Then Johnny cried, «Everybody touch it! Every one!» And Electra lifted the blade out on the air for others to feel and stroke, while Johnny cursed. Through the blindfold she saw the terrible illumination which would not leave the young man's face.
The fifth night, instead of touching the young man's fingers, she tapped the blazing tip of the sword against the palm of his hand, brushing and burning until he shut his eyes.
That night she walked out on the lake pier after the show and did not look back as she moved, but listened and began to smile. The lake shook against the rotting piles. The carnival lights made wandering, uneasy roads on the black water. The Ferris wheel whirled high and around, with its faint screams, and far away the calliope steamed and sobbed «Beautiful Ohio.» She slowed her walking. She put out her right foot, slowly, then her left, then she stopped and turned her head. And as she turned she saw the shadow, and his arms moved around her. A long time later she leaned back in his arms and stared up into his healthy, excited pink face, and said, «My God, you're more dangerous than my chair!»
«Is your name really Electra?» he said.
The next night as the power leaped through her, she stiffened, shuddered, and clamped her lips in her teeth, moaning. Her legs stirred; her hands groped and scratched the chair arms.
«What's wrong!» Beyond the blindfold, Johnny cried out, «What?»
And cut the power.
«I'm all right,» she gasped. The crowd murmured. «It's nothing Go on! Now!»
And he hit the switch.
The fire crawled through her and again she clenched her teeth and threw her head back against the chair. A face rushed out of the dark, and a body with it, to press against her. The power exploded. The electric chair stopped, then melted.
Johnny, a million miles off in the dark, handed her the sword. Her limp, twitching hand dropped it. He handed it back and instinctively she shoved it far out into the night.
Someone, out there in the roaring darkness, touched the blade. She could imagine his eyes burning there, his lips parted as the power jolted him. He was pressed against the rope, hard, hard against the rope, and could not breathe or cry out or pull back!
The power died. The smell of lightning stayed.
«That's it!» someone cried.
Johnny left her to squirm out of the leather straps, jumped off the low platform, and walked out toward the midway. Convulsively, she tore off the bonds, trembling. She ran from the tent, not looking back to see if the young man was still there against the rope.
She fell upon the cot of the trailer behind the tent, perspiring and shaking, and was still crying when Johnny stepped in to look down at her.
«What's the matter?» he said.
«Nothing, nothing, Johnny.»
«What was that you pulled out there just now?»
«Nothing, nothing.»
«Nothing, nothing,» he said. «Like hell it is.» His face twisted. «Like hell! You haven't done anything like that for years!»
«I was nervous!»
«Years it's been,» he said. «When we were first married you did that. You think I forgot how when I switched the power on this same happened like tonight? You been sitting in that chair for three years like someone listening to a radio. And tonight, and tonight!» he cried, choking, standing over her, his fists tightened. «Damn it, tonight.»
«Please, please, Johnny. I was nervous.»
«What were you thinking there in the chair?» he demanded, leaning down wildly. «What did you think about?»
«Nothing, Johnny, nothing. « He grabbed her hair. «Please!»
He threw her head down, turned, walked out, and stopped outside. «I know what you were thinking,» he said. «I know.» And she heard his footsteps fade away.
And the night passed and the day and another night with another crowd.
But nowhere in the crowd did she see his face. Now, in the blackness, with the blindfold tight to her face, she sat in the electric chair and waited while Johnny described the wonders of the Skeleton Man over on the next platform, and still she waited and stared at everyone who entered the tent. Johnny walked around the Skeleton Man, all stiffness, describing the living skull and the terrible bones, and at last the crowd rustled, turned, led by Johnny, his voice like a battered brass horn as he jumped up onto the platform with her so violently that she jerked aside and licked her red lips.
And now the knot of the blindfold was tied tighter and yet tighter as he bent to whisper:
«Miss him?»
She said nothing, but held her head up. The crowd stirred below, like animals in a straw stable.
«He's not here,» he whispered and locked the electrodes on her arms. She was silent. He whispered again, «He'll never come back.» He fitted the black skullcap over her hair. She trembled. «Afraid?» he wondered quietly. «What of?» He snapped the straps around her ankles. «Don't be afraid. Good clean electricity.» A gasp escaped her lips. He stood up. «I hit him,» he said softly, touching her blindfold. «Hit him so hard I broke his front teeth. Then I knocked him against a wall and hit him again and again-« He Stopped and shouted. «Ladies and gentlemen, witness the most astounding act in carnival history! Here you see a penitentiary electric chair exactly like those used in our biggest prisons. Perfect for the destruction of criminals!» With this last word she fell forward, fingers scratching the wood as he cried, «Before your very eyes, this dear lady will be electrocuted!»
The crowd murmured, and she thought of the tesla transformer under the platform and how Johnny might have fixed it so she got amperage, not voltage. Accident, bad accident Shame. Amperage, not voltage.
She wrenched her right hand free of its leather strap and heard the power switch slam shut as the blue fire seized and shook her, screaming!
The audience applauded and whistled and stomped. Oh she thought wildly, this is good, my death? Great! More applause! More screams!
Out of the black spaces a body fell. «Hit him so hard broke his teeth!» The body jerked. «Then I hit him and hit him again!» The body fell, was picked up, fell again. She screamed high and long as a million unseen mouths stung and bit her. Blue flames seized her heart. The young man' body writhed and exploded in bone shrapnel, flame, and ash
Calmly, Johnny handed her the sword.
«Now,» he said.
Being safe was like a blow to the stomach.
She sobbed, fumbling at the sword, quivering and jerking unable to move. The power hummed and the crowd stuck out their hands, some like spiders, some like birds leaping away wherever the sword sizzled and spat.
The power still lived in her bones as all over the carnival grounds the lights dimmed.
Click. The switch lay in its Off bed.
She sank in upon herself, the sweat running around her nose and her sagging mouth. Gasping, she fought free to pull the blindfold away.
The crowd had gone off to another platform, another miracle, where the Fat Lady called and they obeyed.
Johnny's hand lay on the switch. He dropped his hand, stood there watching her, his dark eyes cold, not flickering.
The tent lights looked dirty, old, yellow, and unclean. She stared blindly at the retreating crowd, Johnny, the tent, the lights. She looked shrunken in the chair. Half of her had poured out through the wires, flushed into the copper cable that fled over the town, leaping from high pole to pole. She lifted her head as if it weighed ninety pounds. The clean light had come, entered into and slid through her, and blasted out again; but it was not the same light anymore. She had changed it; she saw how she had made it. And she shivered because the light was discolored.
Johnny's mouth opened. She didn't hear him at first. He had to repeat what had to be said.
«You're dead,» he said firmly. And again: «You're dead.»
And sitting there in the electric chair, trapped by the leather straps, with a wind from the tent flaps playing over her face, evaporating the wetness, staring at him and seeing the dark in his eyes, she gave the only answer it was possible to give.
«Yes,» she said, eyes shut. «Oh, yes. I am.»
She let him tie the black silk over her eyes and he knotted it and jerked it so tight that she gasped and said, «Loosen it, damn you, Johnny, loosen it, or I won't go on!'?
«Sure,» he said easily, and she smelled his sharp breath; while beyond; the crowd rustled against the rope barrier and the carnival tent flapped in the night wind, and off, there was a drift of calliope music and the rattle of a trap drum.
Dimly, through the black silk, she could see the men, the boys, the few women, a good crowd, paying out dimes to see her strapped in this electric chair, the electrodes on her wrists and neck, waiting.
«There.» Johnny's voice whispered through the blindfold. «That better?»
She said nothing, but her hands gripped the ends of the wooden chair. She felt her pulse beating in her arms and neck. Outside the pitchman yelled through his small cardboard megaphone and slapped his cane across the banner where Electra's portrait shivered in the wind: yellow hair, hard blue eyes, sharp chin, seated in her death-chair like Someone come for tea.
With the black silk blinding her, it was easier to let her mind run back to wherever it wanted to go…
The carnival was either setting up in a new town or letting go; its brown tents inhaling by day, exhaling its stale air by night as the canvases slid rustling down along the dark poles. And then?
Last Monday night this young man with the long arms and the eager pink face bought three tickets to the sideshow and stood watching Electra three times as the electricity burned through her like blue fire while this young man strained at the rope barrier, and memorized her every move as she sat high up there on the platform, all fire and pale flesh.
He came four nights in a row.
«You got an audience, Ellie,» said Johnny on the third night.
«So I see,» she said.
«Don't pay no attention,» said Johnny.
«I won't,» she said. «Why should I? Don't worry.»
After all, she'd done the act for years. Johnny slammed on the power, and it filled her from ankle to elbows to ears as he handed her the bright sword and she thrust it out blindly over the audience, smiling under her half mask, to let them tap shoulders and brows as the blue sparks crackled and spat. On the fourth night she shoved the sword far out toward the young man with the sweating pink face, first among the crowd. The young man raised his hand swiftly, eagerly, as if to seize the blade. Blue sparks leaped the gap, but his hand didn't flinch or stop as he grabbed on and took the fire in his fingers and then his fist and then his wrist and his arm into his body.
His eyes, in the light, flared with blue alcohol flame, fed by the sword, whose fire in passing lit her arm and face and body. He stretched his hand still farther out, his waist jammed against the rope, silent and tense. Then Johnny cried, «Everybody touch it! Every one!» And Electra lifted the blade out on the air for others to feel and stroke, while Johnny cursed. Through the blindfold she saw the terrible illumination which would not leave the young man's face.
The fifth night, instead of touching the young man's fingers, she tapped the blazing tip of the sword against the palm of his hand, brushing and burning until he shut his eyes.
That night she walked out on the lake pier after the show and did not look back as she moved, but listened and began to smile. The lake shook against the rotting piles. The carnival lights made wandering, uneasy roads on the black water. The Ferris wheel whirled high and around, with its faint screams, and far away the calliope steamed and sobbed «Beautiful Ohio.» She slowed her walking. She put out her right foot, slowly, then her left, then she stopped and turned her head. And as she turned she saw the shadow, and his arms moved around her. A long time later she leaned back in his arms and stared up into his healthy, excited pink face, and said, «My God, you're more dangerous than my chair!»
«Is your name really Electra?» he said.
The next night as the power leaped through her, she stiffened, shuddered, and clamped her lips in her teeth, moaning. Her legs stirred; her hands groped and scratched the chair arms.
«What's wrong!» Beyond the blindfold, Johnny cried out, «What?»
And cut the power.
«I'm all right,» she gasped. The crowd murmured. «It's nothing Go on! Now!»
And he hit the switch.
The fire crawled through her and again she clenched her teeth and threw her head back against the chair. A face rushed out of the dark, and a body with it, to press against her. The power exploded. The electric chair stopped, then melted.
Johnny, a million miles off in the dark, handed her the sword. Her limp, twitching hand dropped it. He handed it back and instinctively she shoved it far out into the night.
Someone, out there in the roaring darkness, touched the blade. She could imagine his eyes burning there, his lips parted as the power jolted him. He was pressed against the rope, hard, hard against the rope, and could not breathe or cry out or pull back!
The power died. The smell of lightning stayed.
«That's it!» someone cried.
Johnny left her to squirm out of the leather straps, jumped off the low platform, and walked out toward the midway. Convulsively, she tore off the bonds, trembling. She ran from the tent, not looking back to see if the young man was still there against the rope.
She fell upon the cot of the trailer behind the tent, perspiring and shaking, and was still crying when Johnny stepped in to look down at her.
«What's the matter?» he said.
«Nothing, nothing, Johnny.»
«What was that you pulled out there just now?»
«Nothing, nothing.»
«Nothing, nothing,» he said. «Like hell it is.» His face twisted. «Like hell! You haven't done anything like that for years!»
«I was nervous!»
«Years it's been,» he said. «When we were first married you did that. You think I forgot how when I switched the power on this same happened like tonight? You been sitting in that chair for three years like someone listening to a radio. And tonight, and tonight!» he cried, choking, standing over her, his fists tightened. «Damn it, tonight.»
«Please, please, Johnny. I was nervous.»
«What were you thinking there in the chair?» he demanded, leaning down wildly. «What did you think about?»
«Nothing, Johnny, nothing. « He grabbed her hair. «Please!»
He threw her head down, turned, walked out, and stopped outside. «I know what you were thinking,» he said. «I know.» And she heard his footsteps fade away.
And the night passed and the day and another night with another crowd.
But nowhere in the crowd did she see his face. Now, in the blackness, with the blindfold tight to her face, she sat in the electric chair and waited while Johnny described the wonders of the Skeleton Man over on the next platform, and still she waited and stared at everyone who entered the tent. Johnny walked around the Skeleton Man, all stiffness, describing the living skull and the terrible bones, and at last the crowd rustled, turned, led by Johnny, his voice like a battered brass horn as he jumped up onto the platform with her so violently that she jerked aside and licked her red lips.
And now the knot of the blindfold was tied tighter and yet tighter as he bent to whisper:
«Miss him?»
She said nothing, but held her head up. The crowd stirred below, like animals in a straw stable.
«He's not here,» he whispered and locked the electrodes on her arms. She was silent. He whispered again, «He'll never come back.» He fitted the black skullcap over her hair. She trembled. «Afraid?» he wondered quietly. «What of?» He snapped the straps around her ankles. «Don't be afraid. Good clean electricity.» A gasp escaped her lips. He stood up. «I hit him,» he said softly, touching her blindfold. «Hit him so hard I broke his front teeth. Then I knocked him against a wall and hit him again and again-« He Stopped and shouted. «Ladies and gentlemen, witness the most astounding act in carnival history! Here you see a penitentiary electric chair exactly like those used in our biggest prisons. Perfect for the destruction of criminals!» With this last word she fell forward, fingers scratching the wood as he cried, «Before your very eyes, this dear lady will be electrocuted!»
The crowd murmured, and she thought of the tesla transformer under the platform and how Johnny might have fixed it so she got amperage, not voltage. Accident, bad accident Shame. Amperage, not voltage.
She wrenched her right hand free of its leather strap and heard the power switch slam shut as the blue fire seized and shook her, screaming!
The audience applauded and whistled and stomped. Oh she thought wildly, this is good, my death? Great! More applause! More screams!
Out of the black spaces a body fell. «Hit him so hard broke his teeth!» The body jerked. «Then I hit him and hit him again!» The body fell, was picked up, fell again. She screamed high and long as a million unseen mouths stung and bit her. Blue flames seized her heart. The young man' body writhed and exploded in bone shrapnel, flame, and ash
Calmly, Johnny handed her the sword.
«Now,» he said.
Being safe was like a blow to the stomach.
She sobbed, fumbling at the sword, quivering and jerking unable to move. The power hummed and the crowd stuck out their hands, some like spiders, some like birds leaping away wherever the sword sizzled and spat.
The power still lived in her bones as all over the carnival grounds the lights dimmed.
Click. The switch lay in its Off bed.
She sank in upon herself, the sweat running around her nose and her sagging mouth. Gasping, she fought free to pull the blindfold away.
The crowd had gone off to another platform, another miracle, where the Fat Lady called and they obeyed.
Johnny's hand lay on the switch. He dropped his hand, stood there watching her, his dark eyes cold, not flickering.
The tent lights looked dirty, old, yellow, and unclean. She stared blindly at the retreating crowd, Johnny, the tent, the lights. She looked shrunken in the chair. Half of her had poured out through the wires, flushed into the copper cable that fled over the town, leaping from high pole to pole. She lifted her head as if it weighed ninety pounds. The clean light had come, entered into and slid through her, and blasted out again; but it was not the same light anymore. She had changed it; she saw how she had made it. And she shivered because the light was discolored.
Johnny's mouth opened. She didn't hear him at first. He had to repeat what had to be said.
«You're dead,» he said firmly. And again: «You're dead.»
And sitting there in the electric chair, trapped by the leather straps, with a wind from the tent flaps playing over her face, evaporating the wetness, staring at him and seeing the dark in his eyes, she gave the only answer it was possible to give.
«Yes,» she said, eyes shut. «Oh, yes. I am.»
Hopscotch
1996 year
Vinia woke to the sound of a rabbit running down and across an endless moonlit field; but it was only the soft, quick beating of her heart. She lay on the bed for a moment, getting her breath. Now the sound of the running faded and was gone at a great distance. At last she sat up and looked down from her second-story bedroom window and there below, on the long sidewalk, in the faint moonlight before dawn, was the hopscotch.
Late yesterday, some child had chalked it out, immense and endlessly augmented, square upon square, line after line, numeral following numeral. You could not see the end of it. Down the street it built its crazy pattern, 3, 4, 5, on up to 10, then 30, 50, 90, on away to turn far corners. Never in all the children's world a hopscotch like this! You could Jump forever toward the horizon.
Now in the very early, very quiet morning, her eyes traveled and jumped, paused and hopped, along that presumptuous ladder of chalk-scratches and she heard herself whisper:
«Sixteen. «
But she did not run on from there.
The next square waited, she knew, with the scribbled blue chalk 17, but her mind flung out its arms and balanced, teetering, poised with her numb foot planted across the 1 and the 6, and could go no further.
Trembling, she lay back down.
The room was like the bottom of a cool well all night and she lay in it like a white stone in a well, enjoying it, floating in the dark yet clear element of half dreams and half wakening. She felt the breath move in small jets from her nostrils and she felt the immense sweep of her eyelids shutting and opening again and again. And at last she felt the fever brought into her room by the presence of the sun beyond the hills.
Morning, she thought. It might be a special day. After all, it's my birthday. Anything might happen. And I hope it does.
The air moved the white curtains like a summer breath.
«Vinia …?»
A voice was calling. But it couldn't be a voice. Yet-Vinia raised herself-there it was again.
«Vinia …?»
She slipped from bed and ran to the window of her high second-story window.
There on the fresh lawn below, calling up to her in the early hour, stood James Conway, no older than she, seventeen, very seriously smiling, waving his hand now as her head appeared.
«Jim, what're you doing here?» she said, and thought, Does he know what day this is?
«I've been up an hour already,» he replied. «I'm going for a walk, starting early, all day. Want to come along?»
Oh but I couldn't . . . my folks won't be back till late tonight, I'm alone, I'm supposed to stay . . .»
She saw the green hills beyond the town and the roads leading out into summer, leading out into August and rivers and places beyond this town and this house and this room and this particular moment.
«I can't go . . .» she said faintly.
«I can't hear you!» he protested mildly, smiling up at her under a shielding hand.
«Why did you ask me to walk with you, and not someone else?»
He considered this for a moment. «I don't know,» he admitted. He thought it over again, and gave her his most pleasant and agreeable look. «Because, that's all, just because.»
«I'll be down,» she said.
«Hey!» he said.
But the window was empty.
They stood in the center of the perfect, jeweled lawn, over which one set of prints, hers, had run, leaving marks, and another, his, had walked in great slow strides to meet them. The town was silent as a stopped clock. All the shades were still down.
«My gosh,» said Vinia, «it's early. It's crazy-early. I've never been up this early and out this early in years. Listen to everyone sleeping.»
They listened to the trees and the whiteness of the houses in this early whispering hour, the hour when mice went back to sleep and flowers began untightening their bright fists.
«Which way do we go?»
«Pick a direction.»
Vinia closed her eyes, whirled, and pointed blindly. «Which way am I pointing?»
«North. «
She opened her eyes. «Lefts go north out of town, then. I don't suppose we should.»
«Why?»
And they walked out of town as the sun rose above the hills and the grass burned greener on the lawns.
There was a smell of hot chalk highway, of dust and sky and waters flowing in a creek the color of grapes. The sun was a new lemon. The forest lay ahead with shadows stirring like a million birds under each tree, each bird a leaf-darkness, trembling. At noon, Vinia and James Conway had crossed vast meadows that sounded brisk and starched underfoot. The day had grown warm, as an iced glass of tea grows warm, the frost burning off, left in the sun.
They picked a handful of grapes from a wild barbed-wire vine. Holding them up to the sun, you could see the clear grape thoughts suspended in the dark amber fluid, the little hot seeds of contemplation stored from many afternoons of solitude and plant philosophy. The grapes tasted of fresh, clear water and something that they had saved from the morning dews and the evening rains. They were the warmed-over flesh of April ready now, in August, to pass on their simple gain to any passing stranger. And the lesson was this; sit in the sun, head down, within a prickly vine, in flickery light or open light, and the world will come to you. The sky will come in its time, bringing rain, and the earth will rise through you, from beneath, and make you rich and make you full.
«Have a grape,» said James Conway. «Have two. »
They munched their wet, full mouths.
They sat on the edge of a brook and took off their shoes and let the water cut their feet off to the ankles with an exquisite cold razor.
My feet are gone! thought Vinia. But when she looked, there they were, underwater, living comfortably apart from her, completely acclimated to an amphibious existence.
They ate egg sandwiches Jim had brought with him in a paper sack.
«Vinia,'' said Jim, looking at his sandwich before he bit it. ''would you mind if I kissed you?»
«I don't know,» she said, after a moment. «I hadn't thought. «
«Will you think it over?» he asked.
«Did we come on this picnic just so you could kiss me?» she asked suddenly.
«Oh, don't get me wrong! It's been a swell day! I don't want to spoil it. But if you should decide, later, that it's all right for me to kiss you, would you tell me?»
«I'll tell you,» she said, starting on her second sandwich, «if I ever decide.»
The rain came as a cool surprise.
It smelled of soda water and limes and oranges and the cleanest, freshest river in the world, made of snow-water, falling from the high, parched sky.
First there had been a motion, as of veils, in the sky. The clouds had enveloped each other softly. A faint breeze had lifted Vinia's hair, sighing and evaporating the moisture from her upper lip, and then, as she and Jim began to run, the raindrops fell down all about without touching them and then at last began to touch them, coolly, as they leaped green-moss logs and darted among vast trees into the deepest, muskiest cavern of the forest. The forest sprang up in wet murmurs overhead, every leaf ringing and painted fresh with water.
«This way!» cried Jim.
And they reached a hollow tree so vast that they could squeeze in and be warmly cozy from the rain. They stood together, arms about each other, the first coldness from the rain making them shiver, raindrops on their noses and cheeks, laughing. «Hey!» He gave her brow a lick. «Drinking water!»
«Jim!»
They listened to the rain, the soft envelopment of the world in the velvet clearness of falling water, the whispers in deep grass, evoking odors of old, wet wood and leaves that had lain a hundred years, moldering and sweet.
Then they heard another sound. Above and inside the hollow warm darkness of the tree was a constant humming, like someone in a kitchen, far away, baking and crusting pies contentedly, dipping in sweet sugars and snowing in baking powders, someone in a warm, dim, summer-rainy kitchen making a vast supply of food, happy at it, humming between lips over it.
«Bees, Jim, up there! Bees!»
«Shh!»
Up the channel of moist, warm hollow they saw little yellow flickers. Now the last bees, wettened, were hurrying home from whatever pasture or meadow or field they had covered, dipping by Vinia and Jim, vanishing up the warm flue of summer into hollow dark.
«They won't bother us. Just stand still.»
Jim tightened his arms; Vinia tightened hers. She could smell his breath with the wild tart grapes still on it. And the harder the rain drummed on the tree, the tighter they held, laughing, at last quietly letting their laughter drain away into the sound of the bees home from the far fields. And for a moment, Vinia thought that she and Jim might be caught by a sudden drop of great masses of honey from above, sealing them into this tree forever, enchanted, in amber, to be seen by anyone in the next thousand years who strolled by, while the weather of all ages rained and thundered and turned green outside the tree.
It was so warm, so safe, so protected here, the world did not exist, there was raining silence, in the sunless, forested day.
«Vinia,» whispered Jim, after a while. «May I now?»
His face was very large, near her, larger than any face she had ever seen.
«Yes,» she said.
He kissed her.
The rain poured hard on the tree for a full minute while everything was cold outside and everything was tree-warmth and hidden away inside.
It was a very sweet kiss. It was very friendly and comfortably warm and it tasted like apricots and fresh apples and as water tastes when you rise at night and walk into a dark, warm summer kitchen and drink from a cool tin cup. She had never imagined that a kiss could be so sweet and immensely tender and careful of her. He held her not as he had held her a moment before, hard, to protect her from the green rain weather, but he held her now as if she were a porcelain clock, very carefully and with consideration. His eyes were closed and the lashes were glistening dark; she saw this in the instant she opened her eyes and closed them again.
The rain stopped.
It was a moment before the new silence shocked them into an awareness of the climate beyond their world. Now there was nothing but the suspension of water in all the intricate branches of the forest. Clouds moved away to show the blue sky in great quilted patches.
They looked out at the change with some dismay. They waited for the rain to come back, to keep them, by necessity, in this hollow tree for another minute or an hour. But the sun appeared, shining through upon everything, making the scene quite commonplace again.
They stepped from the hollow tree slowly and stood with their hands out, balancing, finding their way, it seemed, in these woods where the water was drying fast on every limb and leaf.
«I think we'd better start walking,» said Vinia. «That way.»
They walked off into the summer afternoon.
They crossed the town limits at sunset and walked hand in hand in the last glowing of the summer day. They had talked very little the rest of the afternoon, and now as they turned down one street after another, they looked at the passing sidewalk under their feet.
Vinia woke to the sound of a rabbit running down and across an endless moonlit field; but it was only the soft, quick beating of her heart. She lay on the bed for a moment, getting her breath. Now the sound of the running faded and was gone at a great distance. At last she sat up and looked down from her second-story bedroom window and there below, on the long sidewalk, in the faint moonlight before dawn, was the hopscotch.
Late yesterday, some child had chalked it out, immense and endlessly augmented, square upon square, line after line, numeral following numeral. You could not see the end of it. Down the street it built its crazy pattern, 3, 4, 5, on up to 10, then 30, 50, 90, on away to turn far corners. Never in all the children's world a hopscotch like this! You could Jump forever toward the horizon.
Now in the very early, very quiet morning, her eyes traveled and jumped, paused and hopped, along that presumptuous ladder of chalk-scratches and she heard herself whisper:
«Sixteen. «
But she did not run on from there.
The next square waited, she knew, with the scribbled blue chalk 17, but her mind flung out its arms and balanced, teetering, poised with her numb foot planted across the 1 and the 6, and could go no further.
Trembling, she lay back down.
The room was like the bottom of a cool well all night and she lay in it like a white stone in a well, enjoying it, floating in the dark yet clear element of half dreams and half wakening. She felt the breath move in small jets from her nostrils and she felt the immense sweep of her eyelids shutting and opening again and again. And at last she felt the fever brought into her room by the presence of the sun beyond the hills.
Morning, she thought. It might be a special day. After all, it's my birthday. Anything might happen. And I hope it does.
The air moved the white curtains like a summer breath.
«Vinia …?»
A voice was calling. But it couldn't be a voice. Yet-Vinia raised herself-there it was again.
«Vinia …?»
She slipped from bed and ran to the window of her high second-story window.
There on the fresh lawn below, calling up to her in the early hour, stood James Conway, no older than she, seventeen, very seriously smiling, waving his hand now as her head appeared.
«Jim, what're you doing here?» she said, and thought, Does he know what day this is?
«I've been up an hour already,» he replied. «I'm going for a walk, starting early, all day. Want to come along?»
Oh but I couldn't . . . my folks won't be back till late tonight, I'm alone, I'm supposed to stay . . .»
She saw the green hills beyond the town and the roads leading out into summer, leading out into August and rivers and places beyond this town and this house and this room and this particular moment.
«I can't go . . .» she said faintly.
«I can't hear you!» he protested mildly, smiling up at her under a shielding hand.
«Why did you ask me to walk with you, and not someone else?»
He considered this for a moment. «I don't know,» he admitted. He thought it over again, and gave her his most pleasant and agreeable look. «Because, that's all, just because.»
«I'll be down,» she said.
«Hey!» he said.
But the window was empty.
They stood in the center of the perfect, jeweled lawn, over which one set of prints, hers, had run, leaving marks, and another, his, had walked in great slow strides to meet them. The town was silent as a stopped clock. All the shades were still down.
«My gosh,» said Vinia, «it's early. It's crazy-early. I've never been up this early and out this early in years. Listen to everyone sleeping.»
They listened to the trees and the whiteness of the houses in this early whispering hour, the hour when mice went back to sleep and flowers began untightening their bright fists.
«Which way do we go?»
«Pick a direction.»
Vinia closed her eyes, whirled, and pointed blindly. «Which way am I pointing?»
«North. «
She opened her eyes. «Lefts go north out of town, then. I don't suppose we should.»
«Why?»
And they walked out of town as the sun rose above the hills and the grass burned greener on the lawns.
There was a smell of hot chalk highway, of dust and sky and waters flowing in a creek the color of grapes. The sun was a new lemon. The forest lay ahead with shadows stirring like a million birds under each tree, each bird a leaf-darkness, trembling. At noon, Vinia and James Conway had crossed vast meadows that sounded brisk and starched underfoot. The day had grown warm, as an iced glass of tea grows warm, the frost burning off, left in the sun.
They picked a handful of grapes from a wild barbed-wire vine. Holding them up to the sun, you could see the clear grape thoughts suspended in the dark amber fluid, the little hot seeds of contemplation stored from many afternoons of solitude and plant philosophy. The grapes tasted of fresh, clear water and something that they had saved from the morning dews and the evening rains. They were the warmed-over flesh of April ready now, in August, to pass on their simple gain to any passing stranger. And the lesson was this; sit in the sun, head down, within a prickly vine, in flickery light or open light, and the world will come to you. The sky will come in its time, bringing rain, and the earth will rise through you, from beneath, and make you rich and make you full.
«Have a grape,» said James Conway. «Have two. »
They munched their wet, full mouths.
They sat on the edge of a brook and took off their shoes and let the water cut their feet off to the ankles with an exquisite cold razor.
My feet are gone! thought Vinia. But when she looked, there they were, underwater, living comfortably apart from her, completely acclimated to an amphibious existence.
They ate egg sandwiches Jim had brought with him in a paper sack.
«Vinia,'' said Jim, looking at his sandwich before he bit it. ''would you mind if I kissed you?»
«I don't know,» she said, after a moment. «I hadn't thought. «
«Will you think it over?» he asked.
«Did we come on this picnic just so you could kiss me?» she asked suddenly.
«Oh, don't get me wrong! It's been a swell day! I don't want to spoil it. But if you should decide, later, that it's all right for me to kiss you, would you tell me?»
«I'll tell you,» she said, starting on her second sandwich, «if I ever decide.»
The rain came as a cool surprise.
It smelled of soda water and limes and oranges and the cleanest, freshest river in the world, made of snow-water, falling from the high, parched sky.
First there had been a motion, as of veils, in the sky. The clouds had enveloped each other softly. A faint breeze had lifted Vinia's hair, sighing and evaporating the moisture from her upper lip, and then, as she and Jim began to run, the raindrops fell down all about without touching them and then at last began to touch them, coolly, as they leaped green-moss logs and darted among vast trees into the deepest, muskiest cavern of the forest. The forest sprang up in wet murmurs overhead, every leaf ringing and painted fresh with water.
«This way!» cried Jim.
And they reached a hollow tree so vast that they could squeeze in and be warmly cozy from the rain. They stood together, arms about each other, the first coldness from the rain making them shiver, raindrops on their noses and cheeks, laughing. «Hey!» He gave her brow a lick. «Drinking water!»
«Jim!»
They listened to the rain, the soft envelopment of the world in the velvet clearness of falling water, the whispers in deep grass, evoking odors of old, wet wood and leaves that had lain a hundred years, moldering and sweet.
Then they heard another sound. Above and inside the hollow warm darkness of the tree was a constant humming, like someone in a kitchen, far away, baking and crusting pies contentedly, dipping in sweet sugars and snowing in baking powders, someone in a warm, dim, summer-rainy kitchen making a vast supply of food, happy at it, humming between lips over it.
«Bees, Jim, up there! Bees!»
«Shh!»
Up the channel of moist, warm hollow they saw little yellow flickers. Now the last bees, wettened, were hurrying home from whatever pasture or meadow or field they had covered, dipping by Vinia and Jim, vanishing up the warm flue of summer into hollow dark.
«They won't bother us. Just stand still.»
Jim tightened his arms; Vinia tightened hers. She could smell his breath with the wild tart grapes still on it. And the harder the rain drummed on the tree, the tighter they held, laughing, at last quietly letting their laughter drain away into the sound of the bees home from the far fields. And for a moment, Vinia thought that she and Jim might be caught by a sudden drop of great masses of honey from above, sealing them into this tree forever, enchanted, in amber, to be seen by anyone in the next thousand years who strolled by, while the weather of all ages rained and thundered and turned green outside the tree.
It was so warm, so safe, so protected here, the world did not exist, there was raining silence, in the sunless, forested day.
«Vinia,» whispered Jim, after a while. «May I now?»
His face was very large, near her, larger than any face she had ever seen.
«Yes,» she said.
He kissed her.
The rain poured hard on the tree for a full minute while everything was cold outside and everything was tree-warmth and hidden away inside.
It was a very sweet kiss. It was very friendly and comfortably warm and it tasted like apricots and fresh apples and as water tastes when you rise at night and walk into a dark, warm summer kitchen and drink from a cool tin cup. She had never imagined that a kiss could be so sweet and immensely tender and careful of her. He held her not as he had held her a moment before, hard, to protect her from the green rain weather, but he held her now as if she were a porcelain clock, very carefully and with consideration. His eyes were closed and the lashes were glistening dark; she saw this in the instant she opened her eyes and closed them again.
The rain stopped.
It was a moment before the new silence shocked them into an awareness of the climate beyond their world. Now there was nothing but the suspension of water in all the intricate branches of the forest. Clouds moved away to show the blue sky in great quilted patches.
They looked out at the change with some dismay. They waited for the rain to come back, to keep them, by necessity, in this hollow tree for another minute or an hour. But the sun appeared, shining through upon everything, making the scene quite commonplace again.
They stepped from the hollow tree slowly and stood with their hands out, balancing, finding their way, it seemed, in these woods where the water was drying fast on every limb and leaf.
«I think we'd better start walking,» said Vinia. «That way.»
They walked off into the summer afternoon.
They crossed the town limits at sunset and walked hand in hand in the last glowing of the summer day. They had talked very little the rest of the afternoon, and now as they turned down one street after another, they looked at the passing sidewalk under their feet.