Four Past Midnight (80 page)

“What does that mean, Earth People?” he asked her.

“People who don't have a problem with booze or pills or pot or cough medicine or any of the other things that mess up the human head,” she nearly spat. “People who can afford to moralize and make judgments.”

Ahead of them, the pick-up truck turned off onto the long, rutted driveway leading to the redemption center. Angle Street lay ahead. Sam could see something parked in front of the porch, but it wasn't a car. It was Dirty Dave's shopping-cart.

“Stop a minute,” he said.

Naomi did, but she wouldn't look at him. She stared straight ahead through the windshield. Her jaw was working. There was high color in her cheeks.

“You care about him,” he said, “and I'm glad. Do you also care about me, Sarah? Even though I'm an Earth Person?”

“You have no right to call me Sarah. I can, because it's part of my name—I was christened Naomi Sarah Higgins. And they can, because they are, in a way, closer to me than blood relatives could ever be. We are blood relatives, in fact—because there's something in us that makes us the way we are. Something in our blood. You, Sam—you have no right.”

“Maybe I do,” Sam said. “Maybe I'm one of you now. You've got booze. This Earth Person has got the Library Police.”

Now she looked at him, and her eyes were wide and wary. “Sam, I don't underst—”

“Neither do I. All I know is that I need help. I need it desperately. I borrowed two books from a library that doesn't exist anymore, and now the books don't exist, either. I lost them. Do you know where they ended up?”

She shook her head.

Sam pointed over to the left, where two men had gotten out of the pick-up's cab and were starting to unload the cartons of returnables. “There. That's where they ended up. They've been pulped. I've got until midnight, Sarah, and then the Library Police are going to pulp
me.
And I don't think they'll even leave my jacket behind.”

Sam sat in the passenger seat of Naomi Sarah Higgins's Datsun for what seemed like a long, long time. Twice his hand went to the door-handle and then fell back. She had relented ... a little.
If
Dave wanted to talk to him, and if Dave was still in any condition to talk, she would allow it. Otherwise, no soap.

At last the door of Angle Street opened. Naomi and Dave Duncan came out. She had an arm around his waist, his feet were shuffling, and Sam's heart sank. Then, as they stepped out into the sun, he saw that Dave wasn't drunk . . . or at least not necessarily. Looking at him was, in a weird way, like looking into Naomi's compact mirror all over again. Dave Duncan looked like a man trying to weather the worst shock of his life . . . and not doing a very good job of it.

Sam got out of the car and stood by the door, indecisive.

“Come up on the porch,” Naomi said. Her voice was both resigned and fearful. “I don't trust him to make it down the steps.”

Sam came up to where they stood. Dave Duncan was probably sixty years old. On Saturday he had looked seventy or seventy-five. That was the booze, Sam supposed. And now, as Iowa turned slowly on the axis of noon, he looked older than all the ages. And that, Sam knew, was his fault. It was the shock of things Dave had assumed were long buried.

I didn't know,
Sam thought, but this, however true it might be, had lost its power to comfort. Except for the burst veins in his nose and cheeks, Dave's face was the color of very old paper. His eyes were watery and stunned. His lips had a bluish tinge, and little beads of spittle pulsed in the deep pockets at the corners of his mouth.

“I didn't want him to talk to you,” Naomi said. “I wanted to take him to Dr. Melden, but he refuses to go until he talks to you.”

“Mr. Peebles,” Dave said feebly. “I'm sorry, Mr. Peebles, it's all my fault, isn't it? I—”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Sam said. “Come on over here and sit down.”

He and Naomi led Dave to a rocking chair at the corner of the porch and Dave eased himself into it. Sam and Naomi drew up chairs with sagging wicker bottoms and sat on either side of him. They sat without speaking for some little time, looking out across the railroad tracks and into the flat farm country beyond.

“She's after you, isn't she?” Dave asked. “That bitch from the far side of hell.”

“She's sicced someone on me,” Sam said. “Someone who was in one of those posters you drew. He's a ... I know this sounds crazy, but he's a Library Policeman. He came to see me this morning. He did . . .” Sam touched his hair. “He did this. And this.” He pointed to the small red dot in the center of his throat. “And he says he isn't alone.”

Dave was silent for a long time, looking out into the emptiness, looking at the flat horizon which was broken only by tall silos and, to the north, the apocalyptic shape of the Proverbia Feed Company's grain elevator. “The man you saw isn't real,” he said at last. “None of them are real. Only her. Only the devil-bitch.”

“Can you tell us, Dave?” Naomi asked gently. “If you can't, say so. But if it will make it better for you . . . easier . . . tell us.”

“Dear Sarah,” Dave said. He took her hand and smiled. “I love you—have I ever told you so?”

She shook her head, smiling back. Tears glinted in her eyes like tiny specks of mica. “No. But I'm glad, Dave.”

“I have to tell,” he said. “It isn't a question of better or easier. It can't be allowed to go on. Do you know what I remember about my first AA meeting, Sarah?”

She shook her head.

“How they said it was a program of honesty. How they said you had to tell everything, not just to God, but to God and another person. I thought, ‘If that's what it takes to live a sober life, I've had it. They'll throw me in a plot up on Wayvem Hill in that part of the boneyard they set aside for the drunks and all-time losers who never had a pot to piss in nor a window to throw it out of. Because I could never tell all the things I've seen, all the things I've done.' ”

“We all think that at first,” she said gently.

“I know. But there can't be many that've seen the things I have, or done what I have. I did the best I could, though. Little by little I did the best I could. I set my house in order. But those things I saw and did back then . . . those I never told. Not to any person, not to no man's God. I found a room in the basement of my heart, and I put those things in that room and then I locked the door.”

He looked at Sam, and Sam saw tears rolling slowly and tiredly down the deep wrinkles in Dave's blasted cheeks.

“Yes. I did. And when the door was locked, I nailed boards across it. And when the boards was nailed, I put sheet steel across the boards and riveted it tight. And when the riveting was done, I drawed a bureau up against the whole works, and before I called it good and walked away, I piled bricks on top of the bureau. And all these years since, I've spent telling myself I forgot all about Ardelia and her strange ways, about the things she wanted me to do and the things she told me and the promises she made and what she really was. I took a lot of forgetting medicine, but it never did the job. And when I got into AA, that was the one thing that always drove me back. The thing in that room, you know. That thing has a name, Mr. Peebles—its name is Ardelia Lortz. After I was sobered up awhile, I would start having bad dreams. Mostly I dreamed of the posters I did for her—the ones that scared the children so bad—but they weren't the worst dreams.”

His voice had fallen to a trembling whisper.

“They weren't the worst ones by a long chalk.”

“Maybe you better rest a little,” Sam said. He had discovered that no matter how much might depend on what Dave had to say, a part of him didn't want to hear it. A part of him was
afraid
to hear it.

“Never mind resting,” he said. “Doctor says I'm diabetic, my pancreas is a mess, and my liver is falling apart. Pretty soon I'm going on a permanent vacation. I don't know if it'll be heaven or hell for me, but I'm pretty sure the bars and package stores are closed in both places, and thank God for that. But the time for restin isn't now. If I'm ever goin to talk, it has to be now.” He looked carefully at Sam. “You know you're in trouble, don't you?”

Sam nodded.

“Yes. But you don't know just how bad your trouble is. That's why I have to talk. I think she has to ... has to lie still sometimes. But her time of bein still is over, and she has picked you, Mr. Peebles. That's why I have to talk. Not that I want to. I went out last night after Sarah was gone and bought myself a jug. I took it down to the switchin yard and sat where I've sat many times before, in the weeds and cinders and busted glass. I spun the cap off and held that jug up to my nose and smelled it. You know how that jug wine smells? To me it always smells like the wallpaper in cheap hotel rooms, or like a stream that has flowed its way through a town dump somewhere. But I have always liked that smell just the same, because it smells like sleep, too.

“And all the time I was holdin that jug up, smellin it, I could hear the bitch queen talkin from inside the room where I locked her up. From behind the bricks, the bureau, the sheet steel, the boards and locks. Talkin like someone who's been buried alive. She was a little muffled, but I could still hear her just fine. I could hear her sayin, ‘That's right, Dave, that's the answer, it's the only answer there is for folks like you, the only one that works, and it will be the only answer you need until answers don't matter anymore.'

“I tipped that jug up for a good long drink, and then at the last second it smelled like
her . . .
and I remembered her face at the end, all covered with little threads . . . and how her mouth changed . . . and I threw that jug away. Smashed it on a railroad tie. Because this shit has got to end. I won't let her take another nip out of this town!”

His voice rose to a trembling but powerful old man's shout.
“This shit has gone on long enough!”

Naomi laid a hand on Dave's arm. Her face was frightened and full of trouble. “What, Dave? What is it?”

“I want to be sure,” Dave said. “You tell me first, Mr. Peebles. Tell me everything that's been happening to you, and don't leave out nothing.”

“I will,” Sam said, “on one condition.”

Dave smiled faintly. “What condition is that?”

“You have to promise to call me Sam . . . and in return, I'll never call you Dirty Dave again.”

His smile broadened. “You got a deal there, Sam.”

“Good.” He took a deep breath. “Everything was the fault of the goddam acrobat,” he began.

It took longer than he had thought it would, but there was an inexpressible relief—a joy, almost—in telling it all, holding nothing back. He told Dave about The Amazing Joe, Craig's call for help, and Naomi's suggestion about livening up his material. He told them about how the Library had looked, and about his meeting with Ardelia Lortz. Naomi's eyes grew wider and wider as he spoke. When he got to the part about the Red Riding Hood poster on the door to the Children's Library, Dave nodded.

“That's the only one I didn't draw,” he said. “She had that one with her. I bet they never found it, either. I bet she still has that one with her. She liked mine, but that one was her favorite.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

Dave only shook his head and told Sam to go on.

He told them about the library card, the books he had borrowed, and the strange little argument they had had on Sam's way out.

“That's it,” Dave said flatly. “That's all it took. You might not believe it, but I know her. You made her mad. Goddam if you didn't. You made her mad ... and now she's set her cap for you.”

Sam finished his story as quickly as he could, but his voice slowed and nearly halted when he came to the visit from the Library Policeman in his fog-gray trenchcoat. When Sam finished, he was nearly weeping and his hands had begun to shake again.

“Could I have a glass of water?” he asked Naomi thickly.

“Of course,” she said, and got up to get it. She took two steps, then returned and kissed Sam on the cheek. Her lips were cool and soft. And before she left to get his water, she spoke three blessed words into his ear: “I believe you.”

Sam raised the glass to his lips, using both hands to be sure he wouldn't spill it, and drank half of it at a draught. When he put it down he said, “What about you, Dave? Do you believe me?”

“Yeah,” Dave said. He spoke almost absently, as if this were a foregone conclusion. Sam supposed that, to Dave, it was. After all, he had known the mysterious Ardelia Lortz firsthand, and his ravaged, too-old face suggested that theirs had not been a loving relationship.

Dave said nothing else for several moments, but a little of his color had come back. He looked out across the railroad tracks toward the fallow fields. They would be green with sprouting corn in another six or seven weeks, but now they looked barren. His eyes watched a cloud shadow flow across that Midwestern emptiness in the shape of a giant hawk.

At last he seemed to rouse himself and turned to Sam.

“My Library Policeman—the one I drew for her—didn't have no scar,” he said at last.

Sam thought of the stranger's long, white face. The scar had been there, all right—across the cheek, under the eye, over the bridge of the nose in a thin flowing line.

“So?” he asked. “What does that mean?”

“It don't mean nothing to me, but I think it must mean somethin to you, Mr.—Sam. I know about the badge ... what you called the star of many points. I found that in a book of heraldry right there in the Junction City Library. It's called a Maltese Cross. Christian knights wore them in the middle of their chests when they went into battle durin the Crusades. They were supposed to be magical. I was so taken with the shape that I put it into the picture. But . . . a scar? No. Not on
my
Library Policeman. Who was
your
Library Policeman, Sam?”