me. There, just ahead, was the village swimming hole, and below it the
stretch of shallows where I’d netted suckers in the spring.
Around the river’s bend was the place we had held our picnics. We had
built a fire to roast the wieners and to toast the marshmallows and we had
sat and watched the evening steal in among the trees and across the meadows.
After a time the moon would rise, making the place a magic place, painted by
the lattice of shadow and of moonlight. Then we talked in whispers and we
willed that time should move at a slower pace so we might hold the magic
longer. But for all our willing, it had never come to pass, for time, even
then, was something that could not be slowed or stopped.
There had been Nancy and myself and Ed Adler and Priscilla Gordon, and
at times Alf Peterson had come with us as well, but as I remembered it he
had seldom brought the same girl twice.
I stood for a moment in the path and tried to bring it back, the glow
of moonlight and the glimmer of the dying fire, the soft girl voices and the
soft girl-flesh, the engulfing tenderness of that youthful miracle, the
tingle and excitement and the thankfulness. I sought the enchanted darkness
and the golden happiness, or at least the ghosts of them; all that I could
find was the intellectual knowledge of them, that they once had been and
were not any more.
So I stood, with the edge worn off a tarnished memory, and a business
failure. I think I faced it squarely then, the first time that I’d faced it.
What would I do next?
Perhaps, I thought, I should have stayed in the greenhouse business,
but it was a foolish thought and a piece of wishfulness, for after Dad had
died it had been, in every way, a losing proposition. When he had been
alive, we had done all right, but then there’d been the three of us to work,
and Dad had been the kind of man who had an understanding with all growing
things. They grew and flourished under his care and he seemed to know
exactly what to do to keep them green and healthy. Somehow or other, I
didn’t have the knack. With me the plants were poor and puny at the best,
and there were always pests and parasites and all sorts of plant diseases.
Suddenly, as I stood there, the river and the path and trees became
ancient, alien things. As if I were a stranger in this place, as if I had
wandered into an area of time and space where I had no business being. And
more terrifying than if it had been a place I’d never seen before because I
knew in a chill, far corner of my mind that here was a place that held a
part of me.
I turned around and started up the path and back of me was a fear and
panic that made me want to run. But I didn’t run. I went even slower than I
ordinarily would have, for this was a victory that I needed and was
determined I would have any sort of little futile victory, like walking very
slowly when there was the urge to run.
Back on the street again, away from the deep shadow of the trees, the
warmth and brilliance of the sunlight set things right again. Not entirely
right, perhaps, but as they had been before. The street was the same as
ever. There were a few more cars and the dog had disappeared and Stiffy
Grant had changed his loafing place. Instead of propping up the Happy Hollow
tavern, he was propping up my office.
Or at least what had been my office. For now I knew that there was no
point in waiting. I might as well go in right now and clean out my desk and
lock the door behind me and take the key down to the bank. Daniel Willoughby
would be fairly frosty, but I was beyond all caring about Daniel Willoughby.
Sure, I owed him rent that I couldn’t pay and he probably would resent it,
but there were a lot of other people in the village who owed Daniel
Willoughby without much prospect of paying. That was the way he’d worked it
and that was the way he had it and that was why he resented everyone. I’d
rather be like myself, I thought, than like Dan Willoughby, who walked the
streets each day, chewed by contempt and hatred of everyone he met.
Under other circumstances I would have been glad to have stopped and
talked a while with Stiffy Grant. He might be the village bum, but he was a
friend of mine. He was always ready to go fishing and he knew all the likely
places and his talk was far more interesting than you might imagine. But
right now I didn’t care to talk with anyone.
‘Hi, there, Brad,’ said Stiffy, as I came up to him. ‘You wouldn’t
happen, would you, to have a dollar on you?
It had been a long time since Stiffy had put the bite on me and I was
surprised that he should do it now. For whatever else Stiffy Grant might be,
he was a gentleman and most considerate. He never tapped anyone for money
unless they could afford it. Stiffy had a ready genius for knowing exactly
when and how he could safely make a touch.
I dipped into my pocket and there was a small wad of bills and a little
silver. I hauled out the little wad and peeled off a bill for him.
‘Thank you, Brad,’ he said. ‘I ain’t had a drink all day.’
He tucked the dollar into the pocket of a patched and flapping vest and
hobbled swiftly up the street, heading for the tavern.
I opened the office door and stepped inside and as I shut the door
behind me, the phone began to ring.
I stood there, like a fool, rooted to the floor, staring at the phone.
It kept on ringing, so I went and answered it.
‘Mr Bradshaw Carter?’ asked the sweetest voice I have ever heard.
‘This is he,’ I said. ‘What can I do for you?
I knew that it was no one in the village, for they would have called me
Brad. And, besides, there was no one I knew who had that kind of voice. It
had the persuasive purr of a TV glamour girl selling soap or beauty aids,
and it had, as well, that dear, bright timbre one would expect when a fairy
princess spoke.
‘You, perhaps, are the Mr Bradshaw Carter whose father ran a
greenhouse?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ I said.
‘You, yourself, no longer run the greenhouse?
‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t.’
And then the voice changed. Up till now it had been sweet and very
feminine, but now it was male and businesslike. As if one person had been
talking, then had gotten up and gone and an entirely different person had
picked up the phone. And yet, for some crazy reason, I had the distinct
impression that there had been no change of person, but just a change of
voice.
‘We understand,’ this new voice said, ‘that you might be free to do
some work for us.’
Why, yes, I would,’ I said. ‘But what is going on? Why did your voice
change? Who am I talking with?’
And it was a silly thing to ask, for no matter what my impression might
have been, no human voice could have changed so completely and abruptly. It
had to be two persons.
But the question wasn’t answered.
We have hopes,’ the voice said, ‘that you can represent us. You have
been highly recommended.’
‘In what capacity?’ I asked.
‘Diplomatically,’ said the voice. ‘I think that is the proper…’
‘But I’m no diplomat. I have no…’
‘You mistake us, Mr Carter. You do not understand. Perhaps I should
explain a little. We have contact with many of your people. They serve us in
many ways. For example, we have a group of readers…’
‘Readers?’
‘That is what I said. Ones who read to us. They read many different
things, you see. Things of many interests. The Encyclopaedia Britannica and
the Oxford dictionary and many different textbooks. Literature and history.
Philosophy and economics. And it’s all so interesting.’
‘But you could read these things yourself. There is no need of readers.
All you need to do is to get some books…’
The voice sighed resignedly. ‘You do not understand. You are springing
at conclusions.’
‘All right, then,’ I said, ‘I do not understand. We’ll let it go at
that. What do you want of me? Remembering that I’m a lousy reader.’
‘We want you to represent us. We would like first to talk with you, so
that you may give us your appraisal of the situation, and from there we