Nightmare at 20,000 Feet

Five times Theodore stood between them. It wasn’t until Jefferson had, accidentally, struck him on the nose that tension faded. Curtly, Jefferson apologized; then, with a murderous look at Putnam, left.

“Sorry he hit you,” Putnam sympathized. “Damned nigger.”

“Oh, surely you’re mistaken,” Theodore said, daubing at his nostrils. “Mr. Jefferson told me how afraid he was of people believing this talk. Because of the value of his two houses, you know.”

“Two?” asked Putnam.

“Yes, he owns the vacant house next door to his,” said Theodore. “I assumed you knew.”

“No,” said Putnam warily.

“Well, you see,” said Theodore, “if people think Mr. Jefferson is a Negro, the value of his houses will go down.”

“So will the values of all of them,” said Putnam, glaring across the street. “That dirty, son-of-a—”

Theodore patted his shoulder. “How are your wife’s parents enjoying their stay in New York?” he asked as if changing the subject.

“They’re on their way back,” said Putnam.

“Good,” said Theodore.

He went home and read the funny papers for an hour. Then he went out.

It was a florid faced Eleanor Gorse who opened to his knock. Her bathrobe was disarrayed, her dark eyes feverish.

“May I get my dish?” asked Theodore politely.

She grunted, stepping back jerkily. His hand, in passing, brushed on hers. She twitched away as if he’d stabbed her.

“Ah, you’ve eaten it all,” said Theodore, noticing the tiny residue of powder on the bottom of the dish. He turned. “When will your father return?” he asked.

Her body seemed to tense. “After midnight,” she muttered.

Theodore stepped to the wall switch and cut off the light. He heard her gasp in the darkness. “No,” she muttered.

“Is this what you want, Eleanor?” he asked, grabbing harshly.

Her embrace was a mindless, fiery swallow. There was nothing but ovening flesh beneath her robe.

Later, when she lay snoring satedly on the kitchen floor, Theodore retrieved the camera he’d left outside the door.

Drawing down the shades, he arranged Eleanor’s limbs and took twelve exposures. Then he went home and washed the dish.

Before retiring, he dialled the phone.

“Western Union,” he said. “I have a message for Mrs. Irma Putnam of 12070 Sylmar Street.”

“That’s me,” she said.

“Both parents killed in auto collision this afternoon,” said Theodore. “Await word regarding disposition of bodies. Chief of Police, Tulsa, Okla—”

At the other end of the line there was a strangled gasp, a thud; then Henry Putnam’s cry of “Irma!” Theodore hung up.

After the ambulance had come and gone, he went outside and tore up thirty-five of Joseph Alston’s ivy plants. He left, in the debris, another matchbook reading Putnam’s Wines and Liquors.

September 28

In the morning, when Donald Gorse had gone to work, Theodore went over. Eleanor tried to shut the door on him but he pushed in.

“I want money,” he said. “These are my collateral.” He threw down copies of the photographs and Eleanor recoiled, gagging. “Your father will receive a set of these tonight,” he said, “unless I get two hundred dollars.”

“But I—!”

“Tonight.”

He left and drove downtown to the Jeremiah Osborne Realty office where he signed over, to Mr. George Jackson, the vacant house at 12069 Sylmar Street. He shook Mr. Jackson’s hand.

“Don’t you worry now,” he comforted. “The people next door are black too.”

When he returned home, there was a police car in front of the Backus house.

“What happened?” he asked Joseph Alston who was sitting quietly on his porch.

“Mrs. Backus,” said the old man lifelessly. “She tried to kill Mrs. Ferrel.”

“Is that right?” said Theodore.

That night, in his office, he made his entries on page 700 of the book.

Mrs. Ferrel dying of knife wounds in local hospital. Mrs. Backus in jail; suspects husband of adultery. J. Alston accused of dog poisoning, probably more. Putnam boys accused of shooting Alston’s dog, ruining his lawn. Mrs. Putnam dead of heart attack. Mr. Putnam being sued for property destruction. Jeffersons thought to be black. McCanns and Mortons deadly enemies. Katherine McCann believed to have had relations with Walter Morton, Jr. Morton, Jr. being sent to school in Washington. Eleanor Gorse has hanged herself Job completed.

Time to move.

17 – CRICKETS

After supper, they walked down to the lake and looked at its moon-reflecting surface.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” she said.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“It’s been a nice vacation.”

“Yes, it has,” he said.

Behind them, the screen door on the hotel porch opened and shut. Someone started down the gravel, path towards the lake. Jean glanced over her shoulder.

“Who is it?” asked Hal without turning.

“That man we saw in the dining room,” she said.

In a few moments, the man stood nearby on the shoreline. He didn’t speak or look at them. He stared across the lake at the distant woods.

“Should we talk to him?” whispered Jean.

“I don’t know,” he whispered back.

They looked at the lake again and Hal’s arm slipped around her waist.

Suddenly the man asked:

“Do you hear them?”

“Sir?” said Hal.

The small man turned and looked at them. His eyes appeared to glitter in the moonlight.

“I asked if you heard them,” he said.

There was a brief pause before Hal asked, “Who?”

“The crickets.”

The two of them stood quietly. Then Jean cleared her throat. “Yes, they’re nice,” she said.

“Nice?” The man turned away. After a moment, he turned back and came walking over to them.

“My name is John Morgan,” he said.

“Hal and Jean Galloway,” Hal told him and then there was an awkward silence.

“It’s a lovely night,” Jean offered.