The October Country

now. I hope I haven't bothered you too much, Herb.'

'You haven't bothered anyone, damn it. Call me back.'

'I'll try…'

Herb Thompson went back to the card game. His wife glared at him. 'How's Allin, your friend?' she asked, 'Is he sober?'

'He's never taken a drink in his life,' said Thompson, sullenly, sitting down. 'I should have gone out there hours ago.'

'But he's called every night for six weeks and you've been out there at least ten nights to stay with him and nothing was wrong.'

'He needs help. He might hurt himself.'

'You were just out there, two nights ago, you can't always be running after him.'

'First thing in the morning I'll move him into a sanatorium. Didn't want to. He seems so reasonable otherwise.'

At ten-thirty coffee was served. Herb Thompson drank his slowly, looking at the phone. I wonder if he's in the cellar now, he thought.

Herb Thompson walked to the phone, called long-distance, gave the number.

'I'm sorry,' said the operator. 'The lines are down in that district. When the lines are repaired, we will put your call through.'

'Then the telephone lines are down!' cried Thompson. He let the phone drop. Turning, he slammed open the closet door, pulled out his coat. 'Oh Lord,' he said. 'Oh, Lord, Lord,' he said, to his amazed guests and his wife with the coffee urn in her hand. 'Herb!' she cried. 'I've got to get out there!' he said, slipping into his coat.

There was a soft, faint stirring at the door.

Everybody in the room tensed and straightened up.

'Who could that be?' asked his wife.

The soft stirring was repeated, very quietly.

Thompson hurried down the hall where he stopped, alert.

Outside, faintly, he heard laughter.

'I'll be damned,' said Thompson. He put his hand on the doorknob, pleasantly shocked and relieved. 'I'd know that laugh anywhere. It's Allin. He came on over in his car, after all. Couldn't wait until morning to tell me his confounded stories.' Thompson smiled weakly. 'Probably brought some friends with him. Sounds like a lot of other…'

He opened the front door.

The porch was empty.

Thompson showed no surprise; his face grew amused and sly. He laughed. 'Allin? None of your tricks now! Come on.' He switched on the porch-light and peered out and around. 'Where are you, Allin? Come on, now.'

A breeze blew into his face.

Thompson waited a moment, suddenly chilled to his marrow. He stepped out on the porch and looked uneasily, and very carefully, about.

A sudden wind caught and whipped his coat flaps, disheveled his hair. He thought he heard laughter again. The wind rounded the house and was a pressure everywhere at once, and then, storming for a full minute, passed on.

The wind died down, sad, mourning in the high trees, passing away; going back out to the sea, to the Celebes, to the Ivory Coast, to Sumatra and Cape Horn, to Cornwall and the Philippines. Fading, fading, fading.

Thompson stood there, cold. He went in and closed the door and leaned against it, and didn't move, eyes closed.

'What's wrong…?' asked his wife.

The Man Upstairs

He remembered how carefully and expertly Grandmother would fondle the cold cut guts of the chicken and withdraw the marvels therein; the wet shining loops of meat- smelling intestine, the muscled lump of heart, the gizzard with the collection of seeds in it. How neatly and nicely Grandma would slit the chicken and push her fat little hand in to deprive it of its medals. These would be segregated, some in pans of water, others in paper to be thrown to the dog later, perhaps. And then the ritual of taxidermy, stuffing the bird with watered, seasoned bread, and performing surgery with a swift, bright needle, stitch after pulled-tight stitch.

This was one of the prime thrills of Douglas 's eleven-year-old life span.

Altogether, he counted twenty knives in the various squeaking drawers of the magic kitchen table from which Grandma, a kindly, gentle-faced, white-haired old witch, drew paraphernalia for her miracles.

Douglas was to be quiet. He could stand across the table from Grandmama, his freckled nose tucked over the edge, watching, hut any loose boy-talk might interfere with the spell. It was a wonder when Grandma brandished silver shakers over the bird, supposedly sprinkling showers of mummy-dust and pulverized Indian bones, muttering mystical verses under her toothless breath.

'Grammy,' said Douglas at last, breaking the silence. 'Am I like that inside?' He pointed at the chicken.

'Yes,' said Grandma. 'A little more orderly and presentable, but just about the same…'

'And more of it!' added Douglas, proud of his guts.

'Yes,' said Grandma. 'More of it.'

'Grandpa has lots more'n me. His sticks out in front so he can rest his elbows on it.'

Grandma laughed and shook her head.

Douglas said, 'And Lucie Williams, down the street, she…'

'Hush, child!' cried Grandma.

'But she's got…'

'Never you mind what she's got! That's different.'

'But why is she different?'

'A darning-needle dragon-fly is coming by some day and sew up your mouth,' said Grandma firmly.

Douglas waited, then asked, 'How do you know I've got insides like that, Grandma?'

'Oh, go 'way, now!'

The front doorbell rang.

Through the front-door glass as he ran down the hall, Douglas saw a straw hat. The bell jangled again and again. Douglas opened the door.

'Good morning, child, is the landlady at home?'

Cold gray eyes in a long, smooth, walnut-colored face gazed upon Douglas. The man was tall, thin, and carried a suitcase, a briefcase, an umbrella under one bent arm, gloves rich and thick and gray on his thin fingers, and wore a horribly new straw hat.

Douglas backed up. 'She's busy.'

'I wish to rent her upstairs room, as advertised.'

'We've got ten boarders, and it's already rented; go away!'

' Douglas!' Grandma was behind him suddenly. 'How do you do?' she said to the stranger. 'Never mind this child.'

Unsmiling, the man stepped stiffly in. Douglas watched them ascend out of sight up the stairs, heard Grandma detailing the conveniences of the upstairs room. Soon she hurried down to pile linens from the linen closet on Douglas and send him scooting up with them.

Douglas paused at the room's threshold. The room was changed oddly, simply because the stranger had been in it a moment. The straw hat lay brittle and terrible upon the bed, the umbrella leaned stiff against one wall like a dead bat with dark wings folded.

Douglas blinked at the umbrella.

The stranger stood in the center of the changed room, tall, tall.