A Singular Man

8

SOMETHING about the hoot of the vessel entering the river, made George Smith shiver. Two weeks of rain storm and hurricane. For three days Miss Martin could not get to work because of flooding in the subway. And suddenly it stopped. Sun up, clear sky, air fresh, all vernal on die first day of May. And arrival of a telegram.

S.S. CINATIT

MAY I

DOCK THIS MORNING BROKE DESPERATE

BONNIFACE

Miss Martin arrived whistling. Could hear her swing her little basket up on her desk. And her jaunty step to the water cooler installed during the raging hurricane. Nipping her head in the door and smiling.

"Mr. Smith, it's wonderful out."

"Good."

"Everybody's so cheerful. I walked across the park.

Just as a ship was coming in. I feel marvelous this morning. I want to sing. What's the matter, Mr. Smith."

"Any letters."

"Just one. Got my nail file. I'll open it. Here."

i Electricity Street

Rear Room

604

Dear Sir,

To hand your letter of "Turdsday" so unseemly spelled, in which you threaten us with the words "Watch out" and the postscript that you are blessed with two headlamps to focus on our medical history.

We now require by telegram that you send us something to salve the outrage caused by these recent remarks to this office.

Yours faithfully,

J J J. Jr.

"Miss Martin, did the ship this morning look cheerful."

"Funny you should ask that Mr. Smith. You know I thought it looked very strange. I don't know why but it seemed crippled in some way. And a phrase just came into my mind. Ship of shame. I had the feeling no one would want to meet that ship."

"You said a mouthful."

"What Mr. Smith."

"Nothing Miss Martin. I'll just scribble this reply to our friend, J.J J. Jr. Just mail it."

May 1st

Owl Street

J.J.J.

DearJunior,

Under separate cover and under approprkte wraps I am sending you a piece of ass.

Yours truly,

G. Smith

"On second thoughts Miss Martin. Send this letter by telegram."

"Yes Mr. Smith."

Smith taking a few moments to peruse in the mirror. View the eye balls. Father of four children. None of whom one would dare call Junior. A lonely life. Miss having a few youngsters around. Driving the breath out of me. Miss Martin in there on the phone will you ever have kinder. Some little baby all your own.

"My God, Mr. Smith."

"What is it, Miss Martin."

"O Mr. Smith."

"For Jesus sake, what is it."

Smith running in. Not far to go. Must be wary of gathering too much speed, else land in Owl Street having torpedoed the partition and another suite across the hall, the Institute Of Higher Graduation.

"Have you seen the newspaper. It's got your picture. Right on the front page."

"Great scot."

"Says full story page sixteen. Your arm is raised up. You can just see my shoulder and bit of hair."

"I want you to call a car Miss Martin. To be here right away. Pack up my papers on my desk. Put in an eraser. Have you sent off that wire."

"Yes. I just want to say something Mr. Smith."

"What Miss Martin."

"Whatever else happens I just want you to know that your self control in the mop closet was wonderful. I wanted to say that to you before."

"Then I can ask you something, Miss Martin. And I hope you'll understand."

"Of course Mr. Smith."

"Would you like to come with me to the country for a few days. Let me make it absolutely clear this is entirely up to you. And needless to say you would have your own bedroom."

"You mean at a hotel Mr. Smith. Well I'd have to tell my mother."

"Phone her. But you know how mothers are Miss Martin. It might only be politic to say you're house-partying fully chaperoned, with other young people."

"All right, Mr. Smith. But how long."

"Two, three days."

Smith returning nervously into the rear of 604, opening up the newspaper across his desk.

WATCHFUL WAITING IN OWL STREET

There was renewed buoyancy without bouncing in the financial district of this city where the spotlight has narrowed on one or two personalities today when the market appeared decidedly bullish.

It was against a background of corrective pause, which observers found no longer refreshing, when it was thought certain members of this city were taking profits home and most stocks were marked down as a result of heavy selling. Sentiment however, was strong that this selling would be short lived. Many members wanting to avoid being caught napping or short lived, lurked throughout the afternoon to get a glimpse of Mr. George Smith who was briefly seen to leave Dynamo House, Owl Street, early this afternoon.

It is not definitely known what part, if any, Mr. Smith has played in the recent holocaust although it is thought by some members that Mr. Smith might give an inkling of the future and they have been closely watching the situation.

Mr. Smith's return to Dynamo House was witnessed by a large crowd, who had gathered on the pavements from early afternoon. He was seen to enter the building wearing a red carnation followed by his secretary and he hastily attempted the steps to avoid photographers. Reporters putting questions to Mr. Smith were greeted by a rude noise, and an airy quip by Mr. Smith "Report that to the sanitation department."

Mr. Smith, a military strategist in the last conflict, has consistently refused to give interviews, however, it is known that he occupies two back rooms at Dynamo House having recently removed from an office midtown, but the true nature of his business remains unknown. It had been previously said in some quarters that Mr. Smith was of no fixed address. It is now established he keeps an apartment in Merry Mansions where many of the city's celebrities reside. It is further rumoured that Mr. Smith has been long engaged in the construction of a tomb to house his remains, reputed to be one of the most elaborate ever erected, entirely air conditioned with special foundations to protect the structure from floods and earthquake. The Renown Cemetery authorities refuse to comment on this, said to be the most costly construction to date in the Cemetery and which till now had been associated with the name of a Doctor Fear.

Smith emerging from the back room. Level lipped and grim. Phone ringing. Rapping on the door. All at once. Everything.

"I'll get the door, Miss Martin. You get the phone."

Smith opening the door. A little boy in uniform. A letter.

"Special messenger delivery."

"Thank you."

Smith slowly closing the door in which it seemed a small foot was put.

"I beg your pardon, little boy. Your foot's in the door."

"Yeah."

"Won't you take it out."

"Hey some people, I guess you don't get any appreciation."

"What are you talking about sonny."

"A tip."

"What do you mean a tip."

"Ain't you this guy with his picture in the paper this morning. Well you should give me a tip for bringing a message."

"Just hold it sonny, I'll read it."

i Electricity Street

604 Dynamo

Owl Street

Dear Sir,

How dare you attempt to mail me such a thing. Do not refer to me as Junior.

jjj.

P.S. You will hoot before long.

"Now sonny, if I ever see your face again, I'll put it through the floor. Bye bye."

One finds that the pressures in the world build up and that one unfriendly act begets another. Zoom. Suddenly all dignity is gone. People go in using blows with the shod foot. On the prone figure. Sometimes, even when interpreted as weakness, it's as well to try a certain amount of easy latitude which can lend a bit of nervous laughter to a situation. Therefore I will scribble one last response showing a vestige of faith in his sense of humour.

Dynamo House

Owl Street

Dear Fellow and Junior,

I thought the incredibility of mailing you an unsolicited piece of ass might amuse you. Toodle oo.

George Smith

P.S. I see well in the dark.

"Miss Martin just send off this last letter before packing up."

"Mr. Smith, it's the News Of The Truth asking for comments, what shall I say, about an air conditioned grave."

"Say they've got the wrong number."

"You've got the wrong number, sorry. No. Yes. Mr. Smith. Yes. Mr. Smith, they say they know it's not the wrong number."

"Tell them it will be soon."

"Mr. Smith says it will be soon."

"Now hang up, Miss Martin. Let's get cracking. Find out when passengers debark from the S.S. Gnatit. Check on the car, see it's on the way. Pack up my papers, the green files marked go and lock up the yellow files marked caution and the red marked stop. Don't forget the eraser."

"Please Mr. Smith. I'm already up to my teeth."

"What's that."

"I'm trying to do everything."

"Miss Martin we've got to scram."

"Give me a chance. One thing at a time. Mr. Smith."

"Don't be disloyal at a time like this Miss Martin."

"For God's sake Mr. Smith I'm not being disloyal. I'm going crazy. There. The phone again."

"Just say Beetroot Department."

Miss Martin closing her eyes as she picks up the phone.

These are troubled times.

"Hello, Beetroot Department. Who. No. Not here, wrong number. Mr. Smith, it's a message, from JJJ."

"What is it. Out with it."

"They're reading it."

"What, for God's sake."

"They say, all of us here have been acquainted with your kind before. And as married men with children we will not stand for this latest sauciness."

"Tell them wrong number, beet barge disposal unit for dumping in the bay."

Poor Miss Martin, delivering the message, putting down phone. Pulling out drawers. Collecting papers. Phone ringing again. Marvelous the rapidity of communication. And she says yes mom, I told you mom, chaperoned, yes, just a bunch of young kids, going to the country, games, swimming, tennis, very rich important people mom, 111 never have another chance like this one, she's going to loan me all the clothes I need, mom, please, don't worry, yes, Til ring you, you worry about nothing, you have to trust somebody, do you want me to die without any fun mom, all right, O.K. I'll phone, goodbye mom, I will, I promise, goodbye.

"Mr. Smith, guess you heard that was my mother."

"Yes, Miss Martin."

Smith retreating to rear room. Lifting the white shade a mite to peer out at the glistening tiles. For way up at the end of the shaft the sun is shining and just a ray or two is getting reflected down. I want peace. Candlelight, wine and olives. So many people feel resentment and jealousy. A whiff of spice then, in the window. Out of the warehouse a few buildings away. Cinnamon. Cloves. Bonniface at this second is flatfooting it down the pier stopping momentarily to don roller skates the quicker to nail me at Dynamo House. Ask me if he can stay in my tomb. I say, George, sport, just let me rest up in there.

"Miss Martin the car."

"Mr. Smith I told him the newspaper kiosk at the corner in five minutes."

"You genius Miss Martin. You're ready. Good gracious we've had quite a little morning of it. Don't answer that phone. Somehow I know who it is. Out now* Lock the door. Got the files."

"Yes, Mr. Smith."

"You're sure now you don't feel awkward coming with me."

"No, Mr. Smith."

"Your mother's at ease."

"No."

"That's the way with mothers, Miss Martin. They can never cut the apron strings, always afraid someone will take advantage."

"I know Mr. Smith, it's terrible. I always have to lie."

Sun pouring through the glass doors of Dynamo House. Pigeons pecking. Flow of people in and out. Newspaper said there were crowds but on that rainy day I didn't see a soul. Nor was I sporting the carnation. No one gives a damn for the facts these days. Any second Bonniface will be skidding round the corner on the roller skates.

Mr. Smith and Miss Martin, arms laden. Foolish files. All marked go and green. These two figures emerging from a side door of Dynamo House. Into the pleasure of the breeze. Past pigeon feeders with hats propped back on their heads, communicating with the fat birds. Smith taking a flash of fear up the keester. Some unidentifiable ship blasting its hooter. Denoting all tied up ready to debark the living desperate cargo. One of whom is trying to begin a new life without a bean.

So far so good. Unnoticed down the steps. Miss Martin leading. Black high heels bringing one's notice to a rather good leg. Be so nice to be out in the country. Trampling the flowers and shrubs. Between trees and over outcrops of rock. How to explain to Miss Martin the cabin in the woods. With only one bedroom. Albeit a bed either side of the fireplace in the living room. Albeit this. That word steers into my head at die least nervousness. Of course I will give Miss Martin the log cabin while I sleep out on the outcropping of rock. I don't mind the snakes. No, you take the bed Miss Martin, I.wouldn't think of it. I always sleep outside in nature. Little poison seeping into a backside never hurt me.

Newspaper kiosk. My face everywhere plastered over it. Terror of having something recognised on you wherever you go. Which you can't take off or change unless to grow a beard which would be utterly objectionable. A friendly face. The chauffeur I've had before.

"How do Mr. Smith. See you're getting well known round these parts."

"I'm afraid so. As fast as you can, Renown Cemetery first stop. O.K. Miss Martin, get in for God's sake."

"Give me a chance Mr. Smith. You're pushing*"

"Sorry. Someone's bound to spot us. This is too easy. I suspect something."

"Well please don't push, my arms are full."

Smith stony in the car. Next to Miss Martin. Neglecting to help her pull the rug up over her knees. A slight chill in the air, albeit sunny. Albeit this. My nerves. The vehicle pulling away with speed. Cruising up to the first traffic lights. Through the fish market. The dark shadows in there, the poor boxes of flounder, the big dead eyes under the ice. Don't worry I've lurked around there witnessing the wholesale death. Being also fond of the grilled fillet.

Squeal of tires. Left turn. Crosstown. The square with a statue. Miss Martin silent, won't give me any rug. All right if that's the way you want it Miss Martin. I can be silent and aloof. I may even pick up the phone and call Miss Tomson. Well hi, Sally. Gee. Gee. Mr. Smith. Gee Sally. The words I invent under stress. A few hundred cats have popped out of a few thousand bags. Run round wild trying to get them back in again.

"Miss Martin if you'd rather not come. I mean we could drop you at a subway. I mean if you'd really feel easier that way. I'm only suggesting."

"Well maybe you'd better, Mr. Smith."

Smith reaching for the microphone. How does one get out of this. Dear God don't let any subway entrances suddenly appear. Never bear being in the country utterly alone. No one to hole up with. Lock out the naughty world. Act as a buffer to the flying acorns, grapes, eggs. Miss Martin and I have been through a lot together recently. One mingle among the mops.

"You're sure Miss Martin. It's only that I feel you might not like it. Way out in the woods overlooking a river down deep in the valley. Lovely sound of the water rapids. New green buds on the trees. Dew on the fields. Nature in all her glory. It might make you unnecessarily nervous, beauty can, you know."

"Mr. Smith if I back out now, my mother will suspect something."

"I'm glad you brought up that point. I can see we're committed to our plan. Heavens. The river already."

Wind down there bending newly planted trees. Flood tide beating up foam on ships anchored midstream. Sun glinting copper on the tall buildings standing over the park. Great silver threads strung holding up the bridge ahead. And nearby here there's an institution with people playing bridge and poker showing each other their cards. No need any longer to conceal. Face other citizens with smiles, laughter, and jelly beans bouncing round in the palm of the hand. What relief to be crazy.

Black vehicle through the green golf course. Specks of players swatting their little white spheres into the green distance. The cobbled road ahead. Trolley on the tracks. Roaring north. Always wanted to ride it. And ahead the gates. And my God, a gathering. Of the press. Cameras. There has been a security leak.

"Miss Martin, Christ."

"Mr. Smith, O dear."

"Let me under the rug. On the floor. All we have to do is get in the gate."

"Mr. Smith what's my mother going to say if this gets in the papers."

Interesting that in times of terror, when die boom is to be lowered, people you hire to save you trouble and trembling, think instantly of their own skins. As things come out of the void to get you. Bullets, buses, trucks, germs. And now a group of gazeteers.

"Miss Martin behave as if you're on your way to see your dead husband. While I lie rather low under this rug."

"Mr. Smith, the cameras. They're blocking the gates."

"Driver, drive on. Beep, beep, if necessary."

The bubbling bow tied voices outside the window of the car. Come on, Mr. Smith, we know you're under that blanket, give us a flash of face. Who's the doll. Hey Mr. Smith, what do you do for a living. Come on, one picture.

Smith crouched in the woolly darkness of dust and smells. Revving of engine, trembling eight cylinders, each one doing its little job to propel this black vehicle forward. Worms and gears under the floor, meshing, spinning, pistons pumping. How's your piston. Say some women like it long and slow. Others like it short and fast. And those like Shirl who just like it. Any way at all.

Clang of gates. Smith nipping head up. Five security guards forcing the great black spokes and curlicues on the whining hinges back against the group of gazeteers. Flash bulbs popping. Shouts of outrage. Freedom of the press. Who does that guy think he is. Somebody.

Miss Martin scared. Biting her lips. Looking to George Smith crawling back to the seat on hands and knees. One green file of papers spilling out. This whole manoeuvre is a disgrace.

"Mr. Smith if my mother sees my picture."

"Be quiet."

"I will not, why didn't you let me get on the floor too."

"Can't have an empty car go through."

"They knew it was you all the time, what does it matter."

"I do not want my replica in the papers."

"You bastard."

"I beg your pardon Miss Martin. What did you say."

"You heard me."

All I need. For Miss Martin to go agley on me. Pout, stamp and generally upstage my authority. When they learn about your inner life, wham they take liberties with the outer. Until one is driven to putting on the stone face with creases downturned around the eyes and mouth. Scowl. Miss Martin's calf. Had no idea that little muscle was so nicely turned. Nicely contrasted against the car seat.

Momentarily the black car stopping at the Renown Cemetery office. A gentleman darkly clothed coming down the steps and climbing into Smith's car. Which pulls away leaving behind the big gate and the pushers on either side, as it stands shut, tall and iron between them. Thanks be to metal.

"Miss Martin this is Mr. Noble. My secretary Miss Martin. Now Mr. Noble."

"It's beyond my comprehension how this has happened Mr. Smith. Every precaution has been taken since work began. As you know we have so many contracts but we made every effort to avoid anything unseemly."

"We can only but pick up the pieces now, Mr. Noble. It's put me in rather an embarrassing position. But silence is the only answer at this stage."

"There's been this woman in black, Mr. Smith."

"I've heard."

"We just don't know if there's any connection. I mean to say Mr. Smith the cemetery management want to extend every apology and assure you that no one except our Mr. Browning knew the situation. And he, of course, is above suspicion. Will you have a cigar."

"Thank you Mr. Noble."

"May I use your telephone, Mr. Smith."

"By all means do."

"I'll get in touch with the North Gate and make sure the way is clear. Anyway Mr. Smith we've screened in the site. Like to cruise by."

Under the budding trees. The lilting tips of green. The little shrubberies. Marble steps, pillars, stones. Stained glass in spring sunlight. Wheels humming on the pebbled drives. Smith giving signals through to the driver. A gauze screen standing high and white shaking in the breeze.

"I'm glad you've done that, Mr. Noble."

"We thought it would take care of any more snoopers Mr. Smith."

Along the main avenue of Renown Cemetery and down a winding hill. An iron fence on top of a high stone wall. And beyond, the train tracks, a park and small river. Tall old elm trees. Magnolia all ready for the blossom and bud. Car slowing and stopping just past a building set in the side of a hill with two long canopies extending out to the road. Uniformed guards saluting Mr. Noble stepping out of the car. Bending over to say parting words to George Smith.

"And just for the record, Mr. Smith, on behalf of the corporation, management and myself, I extend our most sincere apologies for what has happened. You go off now Mr. Smith and forget about any more trouble with this."

"Thank you Mr. Noble. I appreciate it."

"The way is clear. Reporters think you're leaving by the West Gate Mr. Smith."

"Ah God."

"Never mind Mr. Smith everything's going to be all right."

"One parting word, Mr. Noble, hardly know how to put this, but if someone should come along, I know this sounds crazy, but should someone take up position near my site playing music on a piece of paper pressed against a comb, just ignore them."

"I'll pass that on, Mr. Smith. Anything at all. Like that cigar, did you."

"Marvelous, Mr. Noble. Bye bye, now."

"Best of good luck to you, Mr. Smith."

Gasoline station. Smith's car stopping to get filled. The windows wiped and polished. Smith sitting, one hand resting flat on the seat. And in the silence. On top of that hand, came the hand of Miss Martin. Pressing down on Smith's own flesh. Stirring his mind. Closing up the ears. Choking up the heart. For somehow one wants to cry. Salty flow to wash all the terrible misunderstanding away.

Smith's car creeping by a coal siding for freight trains. Out onto a dark road along a river and train tracks. Clicked along here in the club car, the evening with Miss Tomson. Parents dead. Miss Needles of the post office fighting a losing battle against chiselers, twisters and louts. Miss Martin trembles. Poor kid. She wants warmth and friendship. Instead of the elbow jostling everywhere. Wrap my arms around her. God give me nerve. Rest on one of her breasts. White soft comfort. All hangs on a thread. Putting her hand on mine. Chilly cold thing comes up in the mind, you think how can anyone really feel heartfelt for me. There I am in the newspaper. Had a dignified mother and father carrying their backs straight. Never hurt a soul where a lonely sea beat waves up on a shore. And two trains a day went by. Hooting. Miss Martin a little hesitant secretary. On her first day she wore a filmy scarf, so shy stumbling over her words. Now says, you bastard.

Northward through low hills and tidy white clapboard towns, neat stark and full of dreams. Country side growing green. Long narrow lanes now, between woods and then crossroads with a white church and steeple. Wide shady porches of houses tucked in under the trees. Smith telling out the turns in a low voice into the little microphone, driver raising a finger quietly shaking head as he gets the message.

The road dips down, cross a bridge over the rapids of a river far below. Over another little bridge and up between dark tall shadowy pines. Light shut out from the sky. Left turn past a farm and red barns. And two little houses sitting like children's toys on a lawn. More woods. An old clapboard house, seven kids standing on the porch and two on a swing under a big tree. The road narrowing.

"Mr. Smith, is there a hotel way out here. The road's ending. What's it called."

"Miss Martin, ahem."

"It's got a name."

"No."

"Hotel with no name. But we're at the end of the road."

"Everything's going to be all right Miss Martin. Now don't worry about a thing. Driver, take the right turning. Through the pines. It's perfectly safe, just a little bumpy. Right, here."

Miss Martin sitting straight up in her seat, staring ahead and left and right, thick pine needles on either side. Blanket of brown years of needles underneath, dark and snake forbidding. Over a little hill in the road.

"Mr. Smith, no car's been down here for months it's nearly grown over. Where are we going."

"Miss Martin. This is not exactly a hotel"

"What is it."

"A moment Miss Martin, little trouble ahead with these branches. Driver, just proceed — I'm responsible for any scratches on the car."

Car squeezing between the low branches and new green leaves of maple trees. Down a little hill and ahead a clearing and the brown faint shingled roof of a log cabin. Stone chimney peeking out of the greenery. Driver turning round smiling through emerald tinted glass. In sight of shore.

"I'm not getting out Mr. Smith."

'We're here Miss Martin."

"I'm not getting out."

"Don't be silly. The driver is waiting."

"I'm not getting out."

"Why."

"I'm not getting out."

"Miss Martin, that's the northern office I've spoken about."

"You've never said a word to me about a northern office. This is utter isolation."

"There's a telephone in there Miss Martin. A bath room, kitchen, fireplace, fifty wave radio, which sends, receives and even dances when no one's looking."

"Don't try to be funny."

Smith with one hand on the handle of the door. Driver out. So discreet. Sensing the fly in the recent ointment. Don't try to be funny. Never been so distant from a laugh. Or hearing this kind of common chat. Such a big world with different kinds of personalities everywhere. A slaughter house.

"Very well Miss Martin, suit yourself. I'll get this stuff out. And the driver will take you home. Hand me that file please. And my gloves. My stick. I'm sorry there's been this misunderstanding between us. I know this outpost seems unused to you."

"You said a hotel Mr. Smith. I thought it was The Goose Goes Inn, you had some notepaper from there, that's what I thought. You never said anything about this place. It's all so uninhabited. I'm scared to be way out here."

"Chauffeur's walking around enjoying it. Hear the rapids down there, the Worrisome River."

Miss Martin primly sitting. Hands on her knees. Keep an eye on the fingers to see what they're doing. Don't let the golden moment go. Show her the long door back to town at the mercy of the chauffeur. He might look back through the green tinted glass, grinning. How would you like that Miss Martin. Here, you just retire to your little bedroom and I lie out in the big drawing room with the embers of the fire on my face. And sweet dreams. In your little beddy bo you will be comfy save for the giant spiders. Harmless creatures though huge. And when you scream running into me in your nightgown. Of course I'll save and protect you.

"Mr. Smith what are you thinking."

"I was thinking, Miss Martin, such a pity for you to go back to town. You do need a rest so. Few days in the fresh air. Away from the grime, dust and dirt of the city. You look tired. But I don't want to distress you. If you feel being out here will in some way make you unhappy. I wouldn't want that."

"God."

"What, Miss Martin."

"My mother will kill me. She'll ask me the name of the people. Then she'll look them up in the phone book. Then she'll telephone them and ask if I maybe left my gloves there or something. Mr. Smith, I'm scared."

"Now now."

"I am."

"Vouchsafe."

"What do you mean."

"I don't know myself Miss Martin. I'm just saying the first thing that comes into my head. What can one say."

"I don't know I feel you're an operator."

"I beg your pardon."

"That there's been a whole string of girls up here, or something like that."

"What are you saying, Miss Martin. You've seen the entrance. Overgrown. Besides I think that's a little uncalled for."

"Don't send me back with this chauffeur."

Miss Martin sitting. A frozen silence. Her eye lids go up. And I think I just catch her teeth pressing secretly into the lower lip. But by God I am dying to protect her. Save her from harm and loneliness. From fear of the future. That she should ever want or need. Or go without shoes. Butter or wholesome bread. Lies often have beauty.

"Miss Martin give me your hand."

Smith patting the sad metacarpals. Giving them back, gathered as they are in their white softness of flesh, a tender blue vein to keep them all alive. Smile. Help her out of the car. Herbert popping back from the woods to carry items to the cabin. Can't beat Herbert.

Under the low leaves. Smith struggling with the stiff lock on the door. Finally putting shoulder to it and smashing it open. Herbert and Miss Martin amazed at this casual display of forcefulness from the slender Smith.

All shifted. All unpacked. Herbert saluting. One smile followed with a little bow. Car roaring, then purring quietly. Disappearing out under the awning of new maple leaves, crackling tiny dead branches on the road. Sun high up. Dancing on top of the green.

In the log cabin. On the brown mat on the entrance floor. Next to the little pantry full of dishes, and tin cans of food. Lay a white envelope. Smith putting his armful of files on the stove. Miss Martin pushing past, stepping over it. Smith picking it up with the tweezering fingers. Ripping it open. One look. Ah Jesus, it was a sad day some fuckpig picked up a twig and made a sign in the sand.

We reiterate that

a sufficiency

is enough under

this heading.

George Smith

The Cabin (Log)

The Open Woods.

Dear Sir,

We know you are dying to know how we know you are here.

Yours truly,

J. J.J. (Rural)

P.S. Just wait till the full history is told.

"Mr. Smith, you mustn't get upset."

"Miss Martin. Ah Jesus."

"Come sit on the chair."

"Get your pencil poised, Miss Martin. Got to rattle something back. Attach it to a tortoise and send it on its way. Ready."

"Yes Mr. Smith."

"Dear Sir and rural Junior. Your fly is open. Yours sincerely, George Smith. Urban. P.S. Is your real name Wang."

Miss Martin pressing her pencil on the white porcelain kitchen stove. Writing with her upsidedown left hand. Looks up. A smile at the deflated Smith legs akimbo on the kitchen chair. Head lolling on chest.

"Mr. Smith."

"I'm all right, Miss Martin. Just assuming this attitude for a few moments. I'll rear up once again I assure you. For a minute it's just nice to sit here, slain in battle, as the heart beats its last, pluck one final arrow out of whatever they keep them in, and twang, let it loose to find its way to the heart of the enemy."

"You speak so beautifully at times, Mr. Smith."

Smith smiles. And stood up. Says this way Miss Martin. This way. Come, let me show you. And by the elbow, steering this left hander into the drawing room. The boulder fireplace. A big round stove. Screens on the windows. Beams across the ceiling. The monstrous radio. A bathroom, small but working. Twist the faucet and rusty water pours forth. Black telephone in the corner. Which bounces when it rings. And I know from experience you can pick it up and talk to the most strange people all dotted on the map in the miles and miles of these woods.

"And, Miss Martin, last but, ahem, not least. Your bedroom."

"O Mr. Smith it's lovely."

Smith providing one surprise after another. And the maple table for the repast. A bookcase. As Smith opens up the binding and displays the long line of distilled spirits. And wines. Not to mention some unheard of aperitifs.

"A drink, Miss Martin."

"I don't know."

"Have one."

"I really shouldn't."

"Bust out."

"Gee."

"Full bodied sherry. A round madeira. Iced muscatel."

Smith at the bottles. The long necks, the litde, the fat. Green, brown, two red and twenty deep dark green. All gently cared for through the cold winter, sealed off safely in their temperate darkness.

"I'd like a whisky and soda, Mr. Smith."

"Fine and we'll make a little fire."

"I had no idea, Mr. Smith. What a place. That where you sleep there."

"And the embers at night, Miss Martin. Glow. The firelight licks across the ceiling. Like being ushered somewhere precious to sleep."

"I like the way you speak now, Mr. Smith. Gee, it's nice."

Smith ladling out the whisky. Into glasses filled with ice. Armloads of logs fetched. Miss Martin opening the can of pressed ham. Corn. Peas. Pans bouncing on the red hot rings of the electric stove. Sun lowering in the sky. Shifting in under the newly born leaves. Miss Martin pausing at the front open screen door. Saw a deer. She sneezed. And it ran.

Little flowered mats on the table. Steel eating instruments. A vase on the window sill full of wax spring flowers. Which poor Smith would never dare pick from the snake lurking shadows. But Miss Martin went out with nary a thought for the rural dangers. There were daisies. Pick them and wet the bed at night. The afternoon is dying. Sun nearly set. Leaves flutter. Smell of corn. Woodchucks out there. And hear a black snake moving over the leaves.

Smith doing his little bit. Polishing the glass. Rinsing the dusty plates. Miss Martin opens and closes her mouth as she cooks. Raising her eyebrows. Seams of her stockings dividing each leg neatly in half. Somehow in the skidding about in deals, one never lets the mind rest enough to catch sight of the neat shape of Miss Martin's calf. Out here in the country peace. My God it looks good.

"Miss Martin this is a nice little morsel you have dished up."

Smith across the maple from Miss Martin. Thank God he made that tree. Her hands so delicate. A marvel. She twists a spoon so certainly. Puts out the peas steaming on this ornate clay plate. Only need now fresh butter, fresh lemon. Goodness me, there is beastly craving again. Never satisfied. Always want more.

"Miss Martin you have excelled yourself. You really have."

"I like cooking. Salt, Mr. Smith."

"Ah, please. I have always fancied peas. Defenceless little green spheres somehow they don't stand a chance between the choppers. So sad."

"You seem a different person in the country, Mr. Smith."

"Shall we have music Miss Martin. Tune in to some wavelength."

"That would be nice."

"Do you fancy light, jazz or the serious kind."

"I like serious, Mr. Smith."

"Splendid. Fits the sadness of the peas."

"I never knew you felt that way about peas Mr. Smith. I'd bring some to Dynamo House, could cook them on the burner,"

Violins came out of the big radio. With some other instruments. A flute. A horn. Smith sat. Looking across the table. Smiled. Behind Miss Martin the screen front door. Two steps down to the ground, and the gathering green darkness down the steep hill to the bubbling, roaring of Worrisome River.

"Mr. Smith. I'd like to ask you something."

"Yes."

"You won't mind."

"Not at all."

"What do you want to be. I mean not that you're not something, you know what I mean. Sounds as if I don't think you're important but I do. But is there something you would like to be."

"A great criminal."

"Ha ha, Mr. Smith. Really what would you like to be."

"That's it Miss Martin."

"But you're crooked already."

Smith's steely asian eyes. Muscles dropping on his face. General rigidity. Bleak silence.

"I don't mean that. Now I've ruined everything. I put words into my mouth I don't mean. You're not crooked. No. Mr. Smith I swear you're not crooked."

"Thanks."

"You're not,"

"I'm glad you think that."

"Gee. I don't know why I said it."

"Pass me the corn Miss Martin. When one proceeds straight in life there is always an obstruction."

"You're an honest and good person. Mr. Smith."

"This is great corn."

"Mr. Smith pass me the peas."

"Certainly."

"I didn't mean what I first said."

"It's all right, Miss Martin."

"Gee you're so different in the country."

Smith ladling up the yellow kernels. Outside a breeze in the leaves. Yellow light flooding out the door. Music featuring a variety of horns. Lifts the spirit. Suddenly one can look at Miss Martin and see her in all her glory as a cook. Out here with all this good loneliness. Wafts away that feeling of the haunted hunted dog. Until the telephone rings. That black thing. Bouncing in the corner. Of this primeval forest.

"Let it ring, Miss Martin."

Little jangling bell. Phone tilts to the side. Bounces. Trembling to the edge of the shelf rigged to the corner of the wall. And falls on the floor. Talking handle sliding across the maple.

"Ah Jesus."

"Mr. Smith."

"Shush Miss Martin. We're trapped. Put your hand over the speaker."

Miss Martin picking up the phone. Putting the part to the ear. Frowning.

"Mr. Smith. It's someone saying what the hell is the matter with you George."

"Nothing is the matter with me."

"Shall I hang up Mr. Smith."

Smith rotating his hands. Looking across the room at Miss Martin as she stands both hands gripped over the talking instrument. Times in one's life when you think there is good news. And you listen.

"Mr. Smith. He says he's catching the train. That he has little or no money. And is presently trying to sell his shoes to pay for the ticket. And four embroidered handkerchiefs which he sold this morning for the price of a glass of ersatz orange juice. He says he just wants to talk. And why, O dear, he just said an awful word, the hell are you behaving in this extraordinary matter. Why are you trying to hide. Is there something the matter. I must say something, Mr. Smith."

"Tell him I've shifted further north."

"I can't do that, Mr. Smith. He's a cultivated gentleman on the phone."

"Do as I say."

"I will not. He's saying, why are you listening and saying nothing. I've got to say something, Mr. Smith, he says he is in an unbelievable nightmare. That all he wants is just a few hours away from it all."

"All right. Miss Martin. Tell him I'll meet him tomorrow morning. An eleven o'clock train comes from the coast. Tell him alight at Cinder Village."

"Hello. Yes. Yes. Mr. Smith says he will meet you on the eleven o'clock train tomorrow morning at Cinder Village. Yes. Mr. Smith is all right. He's here. It's only that he's not available at the moment. I'm sorry you've had to sell your shoes. Yes. Certainly. God's goodly wishes to you too. Goodbye."

"God."

"Mr. Smith he sounds like a real gentleman."

Smith with sad reflective eyes. Outside the bark of a fox in the wood. Miss Martin picking up the dishes. Brings them to the sink in the kitchen. Runs the water. Break her long fingernails. Peace. Dark. An evening chill. Another log on the fire. Smell the orange glow and woody fume.

"Miss Martin, let me help with the dishes."

"No Mr. Smith. Just sit and be comfortable."

Smith reclining. Placing the wicker chair near the fire. Reaching behind the bottles. Taking a long cigar from the humidor. Lighting up. Blow a cloud of whiteness out. Flick off the electric light. Moths from everywhere. Bumping the screens. Light is hope. And everyone is after hope. And away from the sad desperation. To become grasping hearts after emoluments. Riches, trusting nothing else. Bonnif ace sold his shoes.

Bedtime hour. In the woods. Miss Martin came shyly out of the kitchen. Paused looking over the reflective Smith puffing on his cigar. Smith rising.

"Miss Martin, do sit"

"It's late, Mr. Smith, isn't it. Perhaps I'd better make up the beds. Are there sheets/'

"In the bathroom cupboard. But you shouldn't. I'll do that."

"No Mr. Smith I'll do it. I'd like to."

Smith took a little smoke down into the lungs. Let it pause there a few seconds. Purifies the blood. The trembletude and strain sleeping alone. Need something to hold on to. A life preserver in this big sea. Two white breasts. Miss Tomson, I thought of you yesterday. That you were stepping from one nightspot to another. In giant strides. With a group of friends.

At George Smith's shoulder. The bent figure of Miss Martin making the bed. Tucking in the sheets tightly. Popping on the clean pillow cases. When she bends over. Calm these hairy hands. Please glow little light of hope. Everyone is trying to blow you out. Save Miss Martin. Might blow you out myself. Walking down the street smoking a cigar of dynamite.

Smith looking over his shoulder at the backside of Miss Martin. Puffs out a cloud of smoke, descending in a ring round her bottom. Target of two globes. Wave the smoke away. Miss Martin straightening and turning around. Looks at Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith nods. Smiles.

"Don't want to smell you up with smoke Miss Martin."

Miss Martin standing still in the shadows. Fire light across her face. Lashes close once over her eyes. God gave her good lips. Upper resting quietly on the lower. Freckles. Friendly one on the tip of the nose. Fox bark. Little tremor of Miss Martin's.

"Can I get you anything, Mr. Smith."

"No thank you Miss Martin. I'll just sit by the fire here and finish my smoke."

"Well I guess I better-"

"Miss Martin."

"Yes."

"Miss Martin I don't want you to feel uncomfortable."

"I'm really fine Mr. Smith. I have to get used to the silence. And sound of I guess animals out in the dark."

"Thank you for washing the dishes."

"Goodnight, Mr. Smith."

"Goodnight, Miss Martin. Sleep tight/'

Smith crossing legs. Taking in a deep breath of air. Quietly stirring up to the book cabinet. Ladling out a glass of brandy. Back to the chair. Cross the legs. Taste the tobacco leaves and the sweet stinging grape. Miss Martin's door closes. Hear her light switch on. Bonni-face tomorrow on the train. Some terrible tale. Disaster on the high seas. Blows on the back of the neck suffered abroad. Escape to the land of opportunity. I met Bonni-f ace. First one night in a suburb of the university town. Where he resided with his pregnant wife with large beautiful teeth in a big beautiful mouth. We had spinach and poached egg. Toast and tea. His landlords were gentle people who showered their tenant with turf fires, much hot water for baths and first use of the daily newspaper. Bonniface was a stickler for justice and fair play. And he raised his rent accordingly as the landlords heaped presents and services upon him. I tripped down the front stairs that first evening and was laid out on the couch in the landlords' parlour. Coming to, I viewed the strange smiling face of Bonniface looking down. God forgive those incorrigibly strange of spirit.

George Smith. Chin on chest. Eyes sad. Night chilly. Low moon making shadows in the trees. Hoot of owls. Out here the black snakes. And the tan and red and poisonous land. Ready to slide over the pillow and wrap round the neck. Come up from under the house. Miss Martin to bed without a qualm. In that licking lashing fire flame. Miss Tomson. That great lollypop of a girl. Bite her, wherever she is, with a friendly pair of steak hardened jaws.

Smith locking latches on doors and windows. Turning off the faint music on the vast radio. The light out under Miss Martin's door. Sitting on the edge of the bunk, unlace the shoes, tug off the black socks. Miss Martin won't mind if I sleep without a garment. Be up before her in the morning. Thrill her with the smell of coffee. Tomorrow newborn. Leave today behind. And my footprints in blood. From Owl Street to this cabin far away. Running Without underwear Hiding without Shame.Rich Without reason Rotten without Rhyme.

The country darkness. The quiet azure peace. Smith putting his head on the pillow of lavender scented linen. Shutting the eyes. An elbow up over the ears. Digging the ankle and toes down slowly to the bottom to feel it free of animals. Miss Martin knows now in her own bed I only wanted company. Longer lived than shenanigans. Although when the smoke ring settled over that part of her it became a desperate moment. The look in her eyes when she looked, so silent and still. All the cash registers of the world ringing at once.

Eyelids down. Heart gently ticking over. Night marauders moving over leaves. Dream of a snowy tundra. Over which a man approaches speaking one hundred and five languages. He said the last five were nearly impossible to master. Then a nun ice skated by. ShirL Taken up the religious life. Miss Tomson stood, a big stately bitch. And said as she held out each ripe breast, you want a nice delicious peach buster. And laughed, her great white teeth breaking out just like sun after rain. I said hush they'll hear. She said when will we ever be on farting terms together Smith. My name echoed all over the valley. Turning into screams. A bang of a door. The pound of bare feet across the floor.

"Mr. Smith, O God, Mr. Smith."

Smith rearing up out of a dream of many hands of personal oppressors pulling on the hair as one attempted to dig up stakes to take off for the tundra. Miss Martin center cabin floor, wrapped and twisting in the trailing bedspread, shoulders atremble staring down round her in the dimness.

"Mr. Smith it dropped off the ceiling. Right on me. I felt it. A spider. It's stuck to the bedspread. O God get it away. Big horrible thing."

Fieldmarshal Smith up out of the covers. Naked to the rescue. Spider a great hairy thick legged thing on the floor. Big as a hand. Rearing back on the hind legs. Two front claws held up.

"Kill it for God's sake Mr. Smith kill it."

"I'll get a shovel."

"Don't leave me here with it."

"Easy now, Miss Martin."

"O God God."

"Throw the bedspread over it."

"I've nothing on."

"You must. It's our only hope."

Spider retreating back into a dappled ray of moonlight as George approached holding up the bedspread. Miss Martin huddled bending, arms over breasts and pubes in the shadows. Smith, private parts jangling, in this present rodeo. Rolling up the spider in the cloth. Sneaking a gentlemanly look at the figure of Miss Martin. Taking this insectivore to the door. Throwing the lot out into the night. Miss Martin shyly trembling by the telephone. Smith locking the screen.

"This is most awkward Miss Martin."

"Mr. Smith I'm terrified to go back into that bedroom."

George advancing upon Miss Martin. As she stood naked and alone. In need of comfort. Shook out of her wits by the hairy ten legged crawling creature. Feet bottoms dusty. If the phone rings now, one rip and it's out of the house altogether. Bump bump bump, hearts thumping. Droplet of sweat on the brow. Comes dripping off the tip of the nose. Lick it in between the lips. Touch of a hand on Miss Martin's shoulder. This is no mop closet.

Tears in Miss Martin's eyes. Better than terror. Flap of wings somewhere out in the trees. And she puts her arms around George Smith. And her head and hair on his chest. His arms around her shoulders.

"I don't know what to do George."

Smith mumchance, picking up Miss Martin. Carrying her across the room to the bunk. Lay her there. Unless one strains irrevocably with this display of strength. Long tiring day. One short circuit after another in Dynamo House. Provide for that spider and its heirs in my will. Her spine. Mouth. Teeth. Her hair. Which while in Golf Street she rinsed in blond tint. To cloak the mouse brown. After all the months of repression. Of tight lipped orders. Type this type that. Send this send that. Now take this. Tickle. And taste. As you said you cried. When I stood on top of the hill and the white river flowed by.

"George."

Smith, one ear on Miss Martin's breast. Her lips and mouth on the back of his neck. She raised her legs in the air, curling up her toes like fists. Shook them. Display of abandoned agility. Thank you spider.

"George."

Soft pressure on the face. Miss Martin I have something to tell you. It's brief. Just to say. Hello. Soft between your legs. Narrow niceness round your waist. Little belly over your crinkling hairs. You'll never forgive me because I can't remember your name. Got crushed out of my mind in the excitement. Get my mouth on yours and shut us both up. Among the molars. All the internal beauty. Nature gives love without warning. As well as this ass. O my God as I put it in you Miss Martin, the battle of control over. The upper lip curling, trembling, doing anything. Arms squeezing feeling tearing. Locked round it. You so graciously are. Strange to hear you groan, twist and gyrate, can hardly hold you on the bunk. You morsel. I might say so long tempting. Sniff under this arm. Honest sweat of fear. Green lawns. Where tennis is played. Remarkable backhanded volleys. After the match the losers' jamboree. For one tight minute I felt it would not fit. I pushed. Miss Martin pushed. We pushed together. In. With one long chested groan. All so friendly. Hold her by the wrists. She says a lovely pain. O my God Miss Martin, any minute now. Give me back that breast that elusive nipple. Give me that ear. Tart taste. And your hair, you wore it up and down. And folded round. Stuck with bobby pins. Came to Golf Street, in grey, in green, across the plenty troublesome months. A godsend. Up out of the subway, through the narrow financial gloomy streets. As the other thousands sit down to desks, light lights, shuffle the papers, fill the files, take the particulars and it was all so much easier years ago to take the fish out of the sea and sell it so much a fresh pound. Till a hundred college graduates stepped between. To freeze the poor fish while they mark up a profit for the boss. And in the door you came of 604 while I got up drafty off the wretched couch. Must ask you to hold my legs sometime out the air shaft window to peek at the sky. I'm going to explode, Miss Martin. Right into you. Tremble and clutch with more behind me in life now than there is in front. Dear God do you have any old friends who sing operas. Or who travel the seas ban-jaxed. Or go to their head doctor on Wednesdays, Herr Shrinker I was smashed off the tit at ten. Presto, bravo, Herr Patient. You mean Herr Shrinker I have had an insight. You said it, Herr Patient. Why do you laugh and chuckle so, Herr Shrinker. Ha ha, Herr Patient, you are too inquisitive, but perhaps I am amused by your little stories. Miss Martin you rear up so, dying ember light on your torso. How could I have ever realised what you were each long office day, tired over deals, trembling over contracts, cowering from letters. World like a lot of falling steps. Everything going into you, great cascade of white river while you stood that day the bottom of the hill the nasty old gossip women wailing and wracked. These two breasts your secrets. Pinker than I ever thought. Sharper and tilted Lily white. Sixty miles back to town. Four thousand to the north pole. Shirl will sue me. Bonniface will make me skip in fear. And you will tell me to do my own typing. Mr. Stone will lurk to catch me sneaking out the service entrance of Merry Mansions. All too unlovely for words. I charged at you Miss Martin, weapon raised. I was amazed. Having measured it recently. Now bigger than ever recorded. A fountain for a white river. Sprinkled like stars. Vanishing away when the morning comes. Leaving the litde light left.To glow And grow Inside You Thank You Spider.