He thought: This man doesn’t look exactly real. He looks like a character out of a novel by William Faulkner.
This was of no help in resolving the situation, but it was undeniably true. The man who had rung Rainey’s doorbell out here in the western Maine version of nowhere looked about forty-five. He was very thin. His face was calm, almost serene, but carved with deep lines. They moved horizontally across his high brow in regular waves, cut vertically downward from the ends of his thin lips to his jawline, and radiated outward in tiny sprays from the corners of his eyes. The eyes were bright, unfaded blue. Rainey couldn’t tell what color his hair was; he wore a large black hat with a round crown planted squarely on his head. The underside of the brim touched the tops of his ears. It looked like the sort of hat Quakers wore. He had no sideburns, either, and for all Morton Rainey knew, he might be as bald as Telly Savalas under that round-crowned felt hat.
He was wearing a blue work-shirt. It was buttoned neatly all the way to the loose, razor-reddened flesh of his neck, although he wore no tie. The bottom of the shirt disappeared into a pair of blue-jeans that looked a little too big for the man who was wearing them. They ended in cuffs which lay neatly on a pair of faded yellow work-shoes which looked made for walking in a furrow of played-out earth about three and a half feet behind a mule’s ass.
‘Well?’ he asked when Rainey continued to say nothing.
‘I don’t know you,’ Rainey said finally. It was the first thing he’d said since he’d gotten up off the couch and come to answer the door, and it sounded sublimely stupid in his own cars.
‘I know that,’ said the man. ‘That doesn’t matter. I know you, Mr Rainey. That’s what matters.’ And then he reiterated: ‘You stole my story.’
He held out his hand, and for the first time Rainey saw that he had something in it. It was a sheaf of paper.
But not just any old sheaf of paper; it was a manuscript. After you’ve been in the business awhile, he thought, you always recognized the look of a manuscript. Especially an unsolicited one.
And. belatedly, he thought: Good thing for you it wasn’t a gun, Mort old kid. You would have been in hell before you knew you were dead.
And even more belatedly, he realized that he was probably dealing with one of the Crazy Folks. It was long overdue, of course; although his last three books had been best-sellers, this was his first visit from one of
that fabled tribe. He felt a mixture of fear and chagrin, and his thoughts narrowed to a single point: how to get rid of the guy as fast as possible, and with as little unpleasantness as possible.
‘I don’t read manuscripts – ‘ he began.
‘You read this one already,’ the man with the hard-working sharecropper’s face said evenly. ‘You stole it.’
He spoke as if stating a simple fact. like a man noting that the sun was out and it was a pleasant fall day.
All of Mort’s thoughts were belated this afternoon, it seemed; he now realized for the first time how alone he was out here. He had come to the house in Tashmore Glen in early October, after two miserable months in New York; his divorce had become final just last week.
It was a big house, but it was a summer place, and Tashmore Glen was a summer town. There were maybe twenty cottages on this particular road running along the north bay of Tashmore Lake, and in July or August there would be people staying in most or all of them . . . but this wasn’t July or August. It was late October. The sound of a gunshot, he realized, would probably drift away unheard. If it was heard, the hearers would simply assume someone was shooting at quail or pheasant – it was the season.
‘I can assure you – ‘
‘I know you can.’ the man in the black hat said with that same unearthly patience. ‘I know that.’
Behind him, Mort could see the car the man had come in. It was an old station wagon which looked as if it had seen a great many miles, very few of them on good roads. He could see that the plate on it wasn’t from the State of Maine, but couldn’t tell what state it was from; he’d known for some time now that he needed to go to the optometrist and have his glasses changed, had even planned early last summer to do that little chore, but then Henry Young had called him one day in April, asking who the fellow was he’d seen Amy with at the mall – some relative, maybe? – and the suspicions which had culminated in the eerily quick and quiet no-fault divorce had begun, the shitstorm which had taken up all his time and energy these last few months. During that time he had been doing well if he remembered to change his underwear, let alone handle more esoteric things like optometrist appointments.
‘If you want to talk to someone about some grievance you feel you have,’ Mort began uncertainly, hating the pompous, talking-boilerplate sound of his own voice but not knowing how else to reply, ‘you could talk to my ag -‘
‘This is between you and me,’ the man on the doorstep said patiently. Bump, Mort’s tomcat, had been curled up on the low cabinet built into the side of the house – you had to store your garbage in a closed compartment or the racoons came in the night and pulled it all over hell – and now he jumped down and twined his way sinuously between the stranger’s legs. The stranger’s bright-blue eyes never left Rainey’s face. ‘We don’t need any outsiders, Mr Rainey. It is strictly between you and me.’
‘I don’t like being accused of plagiarism, if that’s what you’re doing,’ Mort said. At the same time, part of his mind was cautioning him that you had to be very careful when dealing with people of the Crazy Folks tribe.
Humor them? Yes. But this man didn’t seem to have a gun, and Mort outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. I’ve also got five or ten years on him, by the look, he thought. He had read that a bonafide Crazy Guy could muster abnormal strength, but he was damned if he was simply going to stand here and let this man he had never seen before go on saying that he, Morton Rainey, had stolen his story. Not without some kind of rebuttal.
‘I don’t blame you for not liking it,’ the man in the black hat said. He spoke in the same patient and serene way. He spoke, Mort thought, like a therapist whose work is teaching small children who are retarded in some mild way. ‘But you did it. You stole my story.’
‘You’ll have to leave,’ Mort said. He was fully awake now, and he no longer felt so bewildered, at such a disadvantage. ‘I have nothing to say to you.’
‘Yes, I’ll go,’ the man said. ‘We’ll talk more later.’ He held out the sheaf of manuscript, and Mort actually found himself reaching for it. He put his hand back down to his side just before his uninvited and unwanted guest could slip the manuscript into it, like a process server finally slipping a subpoena to a man who has been ducking it for months.
‘I’m not taking that,’ Mort said, and part of him was marvelling at what a really accommodating beast a man was: when someone held something out to you, your first instinct was to take it. No matter if it was a check for a thousand dollars or a stick of dynamite with a lit and fizzing fuse, your first instinct was to take it.
‘Won’t do you any good to play games with me, Mr Rainey,’ the man said mildly. ‘This has got to be settled.’
‘So far as I’m concerned, it is,’ Mort said, and closed the door on that lined, used, and somehow timeless face.
He had only felt a moment or two of fear, and those had come when he first realized, in a disoriented and sleep-befogged way, what this man was saying. Then it had been swallowed by anger – anger at being bothered during his nap, and more anger at the realization that he was being bothered by a representative of the Crazy Folks.
Once the door was closed, the fear returned. He pressed his lips together and waited for the man to start pounding on it. And when that didn’t come, he became convinced that the man was just standing out there, still as a stone and as patient as same, waiting for him to reopen the door … as he would have to do, sooner or later.