A Singular Man Part 16

"May I use your telephone, Mr. Smith."

"By all means do."

"I'll get in touch with the North Gate and make sure the way is clear. Anyway Mr. Smith we've screened in the site. Like to cruise by."

Under the budding trees. The lilting tips of green. The little shrubberies. Marble steps, pillars, stones. Stained gla.s.s in spring sunlight. Wheels humming on the pebbled drives. Smith giving signals through to the driver. A gauze screen standing high and white shaking in the breeze.

"I'm glad you've done that, Mr. n.o.ble."

"We thought it would take care of any more snoopers Mr. Smith."

Along the main avenue of Renown Cemetery and down a winding hill. An iron fence on top of a high stone wall. And beyond, the train tracks, a park and small river. Tall old elm trees. Magnolia all ready for the blossom and bud. Car slowing and stopping just past a building set in the side of a hill with two long canopies extending out to the road. Uniformed guards saluting Mr. n.o.ble stepping out of the car. Bending over to say parting words to George Smith.

"And just for the record, Mr. Smith, on behalf of the corporation, management and myself, I extend our most sincere apologies for what has happened. You go off now Mr. Smith and forget about any more trouble with this."

"Thank you Mr. n.o.ble. I appreciate it."

"The way is clear. Reporters think you're leaving by the West Gate Mr. Smith."

"Ah G.o.d."

"Never mind Mr. Smith everything's going to be all right."

"One parting word, Mr. n.o.ble, hardly know how to put this, but if someone should come along, I know this sounds crazy, but should someone take up position near my site playing music on a piece of paper pressed against a comb, just ignore them."

"I'll pa.s.s that on, Mr. Smith. Anything at all. Like that cigar, did you."

"Marvelous, Mr. n.o.ble. Bye bye, now."

"Best of good luck to you, Mr. Smith."

Gasoline station. Smith's car stopping to get filled. The windows wiped and polished. Smith sitting, one hand resting flat on the seat. And in the silence. On top of that hand, came the hand of Miss Martin. Pressing down on Smith's own flesh. Stirring his mind. Closing up the ears. Choking up the heart. For somehow one wants to cry. Salty flow to wash all the terrible misunderstanding away.

Smith's car creeping by a coal siding for freight trains. Out onto a dark road along a river and train tracks. Clicked along here in the club car, the evening with Miss Tomson. Parents dead. Miss Needles of the post office fighting a losing battle against chiselers, twisters and louts. Miss Martin trembles. Poor kid. She wants warmth and friends.h.i.+p. Instead of the elbow jostling everywhere. Wrap my arms around her. G.o.d give me nerve. Rest on one of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. White soft comfort. All hangs on a thread. Putting her hand on mine. Chilly cold thing comes up in the mind, you think how can anyone really feel heartfelt for me. There I am in the newspaper. Had a dignified mother and father carrying their backs straight. Never hurt a soul where a lonely sea beat waves up on a sh.o.r.e. And two trains a day went by. Hooting. Miss Martin a little hesitant secretary. On her first day she wore a filmy scarf, so shy stumbling over her words. Now says, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Northward through low hills and tidy white clapboard towns, neat stark and full of dreams. Country side growing green. Long narrow lanes now, between woods and then crossroads with a white church and steeple. Wide shady porches of houses tucked in under the trees. Smith telling out the turns in a low voice into the little microphone, driver raising a finger quietly shaking head as he gets the message.

The road dips down, cross a bridge over the rapids of a river far below. Over another little bridge and up between dark tall shadowy pines. Light shut out from the sky. Left turn past a farm and red barns. And two little houses sitting like children's toys on a lawn. More woods. An old clapboard house, seven kids standing on the porch and two on a swing under a big tree. The road narrowing.

"Mr. Smith, is there a hotel way out here. The road's ending. What's it called."

"Miss Martin, ahem."

"It's got a name."

"No."

"Hotel with no name. But we're at the end of the road."

"Everything's going to be all right Miss Martin. Now don't worry about a thing. Driver, take the right turning. Through the pines. It's perfectly safe, just a little b.u.mpy. Right, here."

Miss Martin sitting straight up in her seat, staring ahead and left and right, thick pine needles on either side. Blanket of brown years of needles underneath, dark and snake forbidding. Over a little hill in the road.

"Mr. Smith, no car's been down here for months it's nearly grown over. Where are we going."

"Miss Martin. This is not exactly a hotel"

"What is it."

"A moment Miss Martin, little trouble ahead with these branches. Driver, just proceed - I'm responsible for any scratches on the car."

Car squeezing between the low branches and new green leaves of maple trees. Down a little hill and ahead a clearing and the brown faint s.h.i.+ngled roof of a log cabin. Stone chimney peeking out of the greenery. Driver turning round smiling through emerald tinted gla.s.s. In sight of sh.o.r.e.

"I'm not getting out Mr. Smith."

'We're here Miss Martin."

"I'm not getting out."

"Don't be silly. The driver is waiting."

"I'm not getting out."

"Why."

"I'm not getting out."

"Miss Martin, that's the northern office I've spoken about."

"You've never said a word to me about a northern office. This is utter isolation."

"There's a telephone in there Miss Martin. A bath room, kitchen, fireplace, fifty wave radio, which sends, receives and even dances when no one's looking."

"Don't try to be funny."

Smith with one hand on the handle of the door. Driver out. So discreet. Sensing the fly in the recent ointment. Don't try to be funny. Never been so distant from a laugh. Or hearing this kind of common chat. Such a big world with different kinds of personalities everywhere. A slaughter house.

"Very well Miss Martin, suit yourself. I'll get this stuff out. And the driver will take you home. Hand me that file please. And my gloves. My stick. I'm sorry there's been this misunderstanding between us. I know this outpost seems unused to you."

"You said a hotel Mr. Smith. I thought it was The Goose Goes Inn, you had some notepaper from there, that's what I thought. You never said anything about this place. It's all so uninhabited. I'm scared to be way out here."

"Chauffeur's walking around enjoying it. Hear the rapids down there, the Worrisome River."

Miss Martin primly sitting. Hands on her knees. Keep an eye on the fingers to see what they're doing. Don't let the golden moment go. Show her the long door back to town at the mercy of the chauffeur. He might look back through the green tinted gla.s.s, grinning. How would you like that Miss Martin. Here, you just retire to your little bedroom and I lie out in the big drawing room with the embers of the fire on my face. And sweet dreams. In your little beddy bo you will be comfy save for the giant spiders. Harmless creatures though huge. And when you scream running into me in your nightgown. Of course I'll save and protect you.

"Mr. Smith what are you thinking."

"I was thinking, Miss Martin, such a pity for you to go back to town. You do need a rest so. Few days in the fresh air. Away from the grime, dust and dirt of the city. You look tired. But I don't want to distress you. If you feel being out here will in some way make you unhappy. I wouldn't want that."

"G.o.d."

"What, Miss Martin."

"My mother will kill me. She'll ask me the name of the people. Then she'll look them up in the phone book. Then she'll telephone them and ask if I maybe left my gloves there or something. Mr. Smith, I'm scared."

"Now now."

"I am."

"Vouchsafe."

"What do you mean."

"I don't know myself Miss Martin. I'm just saying the first thing that comes into my head. What can one say."

"I don't know I feel you're an operator."

"I beg your pardon."

"That there's been a whole string of girls up here, or something like that."

"What are you saying, Miss Martin. You've seen the entrance. Overgrown. Besides I think that's a little uncalled for."

"Don't send me back with this chauffeur."

Miss Martin sitting. A frozen silence. Her eye lids go up. And I think I just catch her teeth pressing secretly into the lower lip. But by G.o.d I am dying to protect her. Save her from harm and loneliness. From fear of the future. That she should ever want or need. Or go without shoes. b.u.t.ter or wholesome bread. Lies often have beauty.

"Miss Martin give me your hand."

Smith patting the sad metacarpals. Giving them back, gathered as they are in their white softness of flesh, a tender blue vein to keep them all alive. Smile. Help her out of the car. Herbert popping back from the woods to carry items to the cabin. Can't beat Herbert.

Under the low leaves. Smith struggling with the stiff lock on the door. Finally putting shoulder to it and smas.h.i.+ng it open. Herbert and Miss Martin amazed at this casual display of forcefulness from the slender Smith.

All s.h.i.+fted. All unpacked. Herbert saluting. One smile followed with a little bow. Car roaring, then purring quietly. Disappearing out under the awning of new maple leaves, crackling tiny dead branches on the road. Sun high up. Dancing on top of the green.

In the log cabin. On the brown mat on the entrance floor. Next to the little pantry full of dishes, and tin cans of food. Lay a white envelope. Smith putting his armful of files on the stove. Miss Martin pus.h.i.+ng past, stepping over it. Smith picking it up with the tweezering fingers. Ripping it open. One look. Ah Jesus, it was a sad day some f.u.c.kpig picked up a twig and made a sign in the sand.

We reiterate that a sufficiency is enough under this heading.

George Smith The Cabin (Log) The Open Woods.

Dear Sir, We know you are dying to know how we know you are here.

Yours truly, J. J.J. (Rural) P.S. Just wait till the full history is told.

"Mr. Smith, you mustn't get upset."

"Miss Martin. Ah Jesus."

"Come sit on the chair."

"Get your pencil poised, Miss Martin. Got to rattle something back. Attach it to a tortoise and send it on its way. Ready."

"Yes Mr. Smith."

"Dear Sir and rural Junior. Your fly is open. Yours sincerely, George Smith. Urban. P.S. Is your real name w.a.n.g."

Miss Martin pressing her pencil on the white porcelain kitchen stove. Writing with her upsidedown left hand. Looks up. A smile at the deflated Smith legs akimbo on the kitchen chair. Head lolling on chest.

"Mr. Smith."

"I'm all right, Miss Martin. Just a.s.suming this att.i.tude for a few moments. I'll rear up once again I a.s.sure you. For a minute it's just nice to sit here, slain in battle, as the heart beats its last, pluck one final arrow out of whatever they keep them in, and tw.a.n.g, let it loose to find its way to the heart of the enemy."

"You speak so beautifully at times, Mr. Smith."

Smith smiles. And stood up. Says this way Miss Martin. This way. Come, let me show you. And by the elbow, steering this left hander into the drawing room. The boulder fireplace. A big round stove. Screens on the windows. Beams across the ceiling. The monstrous radio. A bathroom, small but working. Twist the faucet and rusty water pours forth. Black telephone in the corner. Which bounces when it rings. And I know from experience you can pick it up and talk to the most strange people all dotted on the map in the miles and miles of these woods.

"And, Miss Martin, last but, ahem, not least. Your bedroom."

"O Mr. Smith it's lovely."

Smith providing one surprise after another. And the maple table for the repast. A bookcase. As Smith opens up the binding and displays the long line of distilled spirits. And wines. Not to mention some unheard of aperitifs.

"A drink, Miss Martin."

"I don't know."

"Have one."

"I really shouldn't."

"Bust out."

"Gee."

"Full bodied sherry. A round madeira. Iced muscatel."

Smith at the bottles. The long necks, the litde, the fat. Green, brown, two red and twenty deep dark green. All gently cared for through the cold winter, sealed off safely in their temperate darkness.

"I'd like a whisky and soda, Mr. Smith."

"Fine and we'll make a little fire."

"I had no idea, Mr. Smith. What a place. That where you sleep there."

"And the embers at night, Miss Martin. Glow. The firelight licks across the ceiling. Like being ushered somewhere precious to sleep."

"I like the way you speak now, Mr. Smith. Gee, it's nice."