The Old World and Other Stories Read online

  Snatching up the receiver, I check for the dial tone. Yes, it’s there. I put it down again.

  Ten minutes crawl by. A half hour. And then it is almost noon. A disaster! I fold my arms and lay my head down on them.

  A rap on the door frame causes me to jerk up again. It is the colonel. I stand and salute.

  “Not sleeping, are you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I trust you received the call?”

  “The call, sir?”

  “Yes, the call that was to come at ten thirty.”

  “Of course. Of course I did. I received it precisely on time as expected.”

  “And?”

  I look at the colonel, at his small blue eyes and shining pate. “May I ask, sir, if you know the nature of the call?”

  “Not precisely.”

  “Well, rest assured, Colonel, that everything is taken care of. No need to trouble yourself at all.”

  The colonel smiled. “Excellent. To be honest, that’s something of a relief. Once more you’ve done first-rate work.” He turns to go, stops, and half turns back. “And you’ve got the invitation to our little soiree?”

  “I certainly do!”

  “Now, if anyone is looking for me, I’ve gone to the club for lunch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I salute once more as the colonel leaves. I feel my heart smacking my ribs. With the tips of my fingers I touch my own face. Yes, I am still here. Calm down, I tell myself. I sit again and, opening my briefcase, take out the paper-bag lunch prepared by Anna. I open the bag and lay out a napkin and, on top of it, a devilled egg, a small glass jar of herring, a package of crisps. I begin to eat. And when I am done I put the remains back into the paper bag and the bag into my briefcase.

  I look at the letter on my desk.

  From another desk drawer I take a sheet of paper. I pick up my pen.

  Dear Father, I begin.

  FORTUNE

  There wasn’t much luck in my life. Twenty-two years old, living in the same room I’d been born in, eating my mother’s cooking (stew on Monday, corn fritters on Tuesday, fish casserole on Wednesday), working behind the counter at Podnacks’ Pharmacy making Coke floats and vanilla shakes and egg creams for the kids crowding in when the high school let out, the same as I myself was doing a few years before. Mr. Podnacks was fair enough but he was a stern s.o.b. Always the professional with his white smock and the pens clipped in his pocket and the precise movements of his fat little hands. His kingdom was among the powders and other hocus-pocus behind the pharmacy counter, and God forbid I should ever set foot back there.

  Then there was Mrs. Podnacks, who sat at the cash register filing her nails or reading a magazine from the rack. She was a good fifteen years younger than Mr. Podnacks, whose first wife had claimed he was trying to poison her and ended up in the state institution. The new Mrs. Podnacks was always showing off her gams and then giving me a look if she saw me glance her way. And there was Ralph who made the deliveries, showing off on his bicycle around town, always taking his sweet time to get back. So there’s me, who dreamed of seeing the world, stuck forever in this two-bit town, and everyone else happy for me to remain here until they put me in the ground. Made me choke so that I couldn’t breathe.

  So that’s why I made my plan to leave. I didn’t have much money saved, having to pay my father for my room and board, but I got an old duffle bag to hold my clothes and a new chipboard case for my guitar. And because I had to tell somebody, I let my little brother Kyle in on it. We shared a room anyway and as we lay in bed I told him how I would hop a freight train and work my way west, where the weather was fine and you could pick a new life as easily as an orange from a tree. How I would have adventures and make my fortune. Of course I’d have to make some money along the way, picking up a day’s work here and there. Mostly I hoped to earn my keep with my voice and my guitar. I could find a restaurant or bar that would hire me, maybe even one of those radio shows, and if worst came to worst I could stand on a street corner and open my case.

  Kyle listened to me practice: Carter Family and Jimmy Rogers and especially Frank Hutchison, with his fine guitar-picking on “Worried Blues” and “The Train that Carried the Girl from Town.” Kyle sometimes even sang harmony with me. He had an angelic voice. He said with my talent I was sure to make out good, and even though he was just a kid I was glad to hear it.

  Even once I’d decided, I stayed around, for much as I burned for a different life, I was afraid, too. But then one night something happened. It was after dinner and Ralph came by on his bicycle to tell me that I was wanted in the store to help with the inventory. I walked over and found the pharmacy dark but the front door open. I heard a voice call my name and walked to the back of the store, past the counter, where I’d never set foot before. There were shelves of pills and bottles and a small work table with a mortar and pestle, and also a cot in the corner. Mrs. Podnacks was sitting on the cot, long legs crossed, two buttons of her blouse undone, and as I came in she raised her eyes and gave me that look of hers.

  Maybe she meant something, maybe she meant nothing. Maybe she was as bored as I was. But I turned around and ran. Ran all the way home, and that night I packed my duffle and shut the guitar in its case and got into bed with my clothes on. I told Kyle that I’d send him a postcard when I could. He got all teary while I lay staring up at the low ceiling trying to imagine what lay ahead. Finally I fell asleep, only to wake up a few hours later. I looked at my watch, but it was cheap and I didn’t trust it. I grabbed my stuff and climbed out the window.

  It was eerie walking through the silent town and then past the train station to a stand of birch trees where I hid. There were already a couple of men waiting there in the dark, hungry eyed and with patched clothes, but not unfriendly. The 705 chugged into the station, stopped about three minutes to unload the mail-order, and then slowly pulled out again. The other men waited for a car with an open door and then they were running. They hopped up easily and called for me to hurry. I handed one my gear and the other pulled me in as the train picked up speed. They patted me on the back and one of the men took a flat bottle out of his jacket and said we should make a toast to the “first-timer.”

  This was the sort of camaraderie I had hoped to find on the road. I had taken some food from the kitchen, slices of cooked ham and half a loaf of bread and some peaches, and now I shared it around. We began feeling pretty content with our bellies full and the soothing rattle of the train. The man with the bottle asked if I’d take out my guitar and grace them with a song. I was only too happy to oblige.

  I unlatched the case and opened it up and found inside nothing but a towel wrapped around a couple of stones.

  We hadn’t even passed the first town yet and already I was robbed, already I was ruined. And in that instant I knew. My little brother Kyle. That little shit had taken it out while I was sleeping. He’d always envied that guitar and sometimes I’d caught him sitting on my bed with it, working out the chords. No doubt he would soon be singing “Little Darling Pal of Mine” while I hurtled toward God knows where.

  WE HAVE TO BE CAREFUL

  Excuse me, buddy, you work here?

  Certainly, sir. What can I do for you?

  I saw the sign in the window.

  Of course. You’re interested in blankets, then? We have some beautiful models. Naturally there are the classic wool blankets, very traditional, just two pastel stripes, warm as anything. Some people do find wool a little itchy, but with a nice cotton top sheet . . .

  I didn’t say nothing about sheets.

  No, that’s very true. We also have our new line of synthetic blankets, made of Norcron. Have you heard of it?

  Can’t say I have.

  Wonderful space-age stuff. Light and silky, but also warm. And all kinds of patterns — stars, squares, even teddy bears and trains for the kids. Here, just feel this — soft
, yes?

  I’ll say.

  Comes in eight colours, a decorator’s dream. Of course some people always prefer what’s traditional, and we certainly do have cold winters here. But personally I’m gung ho for the new synthetics. I don’t like the weight on my feet. Believe me, it won’t be long before your neighbours have them.

  I ain’t planning on sleeping in my neighbour’s bed.

  No, certainly, ha ha, I didn’t mean to suggest you were.

  Tell me about the lay-a-way. It’s like paying on the instalment plan, right?

  Not exactly. You give us a deposit — even five dollars is enough — and we will reserve the item or items you want. You make regular payments until the full amount is reached, and then you take your purchase home. It’s interest free, and you don’t end up in debt. For example, if you change your mind we’ll return all the money you’ve deposited with us to date.

  Deposited? You sound like a friggin’ bank.

  Well, at Gates we believe that we’re just as reliable.

  It’s a funny-sounding term, don’t you think?

  I don’t follow.

  Say it over fast. Layaway, layaway, layaway.

  Perhaps you’d like to browse a while and I can come back to you.

  You got any other layaway plans at the moment? Any other items, I mean.

  Not that I am aware of.

  You sure about that? Because I heard otherwise. I heard tell of making a deposit on a person. And then you add to it every week until that person comes home with you.

  We don’t sell people at Gates, sir. Now if you’ll excuse me —

  But I know for a fact you do.

  I’m sure I have no idea what you mean. Please let go of my jacket. I really will have to call security.

  I’ve got a friend, he bought himself a twelve-year-old boy here just last week. Took him almost eight months to make the payments. Now he’s got that kid shovelling coal from a truck.

  This really isn’t funny. You’re making me very uneasy. My advice is that you leave right now.

  And a woman who’s on my bowling team. She bought herself an old fellow to read to her at night. He didn’t cost so much, on account of him having only a few good years left.

  Now sir, I am asking you once and only once. What is it you want?

  I want a layaway person, that’s all.

  You aren’t the police?

  Do I look like it?

  May I see some identification, please.

  Here’s my wallet.

  We have to be careful. Yes, this looks in order. Please follow me to the back.

  Not a lot of shoppers today, by the looks of it.

  Mondays are slow. Just through this door and down the corridor.

  Lead the way.

  Here we are. Watch it, this door’s heavy. After you.

  Well, I’ll be. You’d never suspect if you didn’t know. How many you got here? Thirty?

  Thirty-six. It fluctuates, of course. Some are returned, others go out. At one point last year we fell to seven. Problem with supply. There’s no coercion, you see. You can’t just scoop people up.

  They look comfortable enough here, playing cards and so forth. Is that a buffet table?

  We have regular meals, of course, but yes, the buffet is constantly replenished.

  What’s behind the glass door?

  A swimming pool and gymnasium. And there’s a stairway to the roof garden. But if we can get down to business, what — or should I say who — are you looking for?

  I need a woman about my age or a little younger. She don’t have to be beautiful but pleasant-looking would be nice. Easy with the small talk, for parties and such. With some class, is what I’m saying. You see, I’m getting pressure at work, not being married, and I need somebody to step out with. There are a lot of social occasions for my work, out-of-town customers, cocktails, a few formal affairs. I got a small house with an extra bedroom set up. Other than the social events, she can pretty much do what she likes, although if she enjoys cooking that would be a bonus. I wouldn’t mind company once in a while in front of the TV or even a game of Scrabble.

  Yes, yes, good, not excessively demanding. You have been admirably precise, which makes my job much easier. I’ll just consult the register. Hmm. We have two who would fit the bill. One — she’s at the organ in the corner — is a little more because of her musical ability. You can see the amount here. The other — she’s the redhead laughing at the card table — is just a little older but with a warm personality. She does have a limp. You can see the amount is a good twenty percent less.

  I’m partial to redheads. And the limp is a bonus — it’ll bring out a sympathetic feeling in people. They’ll think well of me.

  You are just the sort of customer we like, someone who understands the value of our service.

  I’ll take her.

  Excellent. What can you put down?

  I’ve got fifty dollars.

  That’s fine. And remember, you can come in and make a payment any time. If you’re careful she can be on your arm at one of those social occasions before you know it.

  While we’re at it, I could use a new set of blankets for her bed. Let’s do a layaway on that, too.

  Even better. What do you think, wool or synthetic?

  How about we ask her. After all, she’ll be sleeping under them.

  Very thoughtful, sir. Very thoughtful.

  JUMP

  “Don’t you worry. Prince is as gentle as a lamb.”

  He tapped his cigarette on his heel. I knew he was trying to make me look like the lesser man. I had never ridden in my life and he knew it. And either way he would win. I could refuse and look pathetic or I could accept and be thrown to the ground and probably get my head cracked open. Why he had it out for me was pretty obvious. Maureen.

  The horse stamped its foot. “Prince is wanting a little exercise. He hasn’t had a rider in two days. I already put a new blanket and saddle on him. What do you say?”

  Maureen put her hand on my arm. She knew very well what her touch did to me. “You don’t have to.” She might as well have said, I understand if you’re a coward who chooses to be humiliated. She gave me her charmingly ironic smile.

  I was a city boy and had never liked climbing, rowing, or games of any sort. But it wasn’t a particularly big horse, and it was rather handsome, with a dark, contemplative eye. Of course I’d read a lot of books in which men rode horses. They threw themselves on, grabbed the reins, yelled “Giddy-up!” and hit the spurs. For them it was always a piece of cake. I took a step toward the horse.

  “So what’s her name again?”

  He chuckled knowingly. “She’s a he. Prince.”

  I took another step. “Good boy, Prince.”

  “You put your foot in the stirrup,” Maureen said helpfully.

  “Right.” I raised my foot, trying not to lose my balance, and got it hooked in.

  “Your other foot,” she said. “Unless you want to ride facing backwards.”

  I struggled to get free and then put my other foot in. I grasped the leather horn on the saddle and jerked myself up. The horse swayed a bit and shook his head. The saddle felt all right under me, warm and smooth.

  He tossed me the reins.

  “Hold them like this,” he said, shortening them up.

  “You look good up there,” Maureen said.

  Her words made my fear almost worth it. I gave her a comical smile and a little wave. If only somebody would lead me around, like a kid on a pony ride, I might enjoy myself.

  “Just stay on the track,” Maureen said. “Once or twice around.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, touching an invisible stetson. I looked straight ahead and shook the reins.

  The horse didn’t move.

  “Come on, little dogie,�
� I said, giving a kick with my heels.

  “Dogies are cows,” he said. “Why don’t I get you started.”

  “No, that’s all right, I’m sure I’ll get —”

  Prince took off.

  I was thrown backwards so hard it felt like whiplash. I had to grab hold of the horn, which meant letting go of the reins. The horse thundered along the path that led to the track. His hooves pounded on the packed ground. I bumped painfully up and down, sure I’d be flung off. The track curved around but the horse kept going straight, heading straight up the hill instead. Maureen yelled something. The hill slowed him a little, which allowed me to lean forward and fish for the flapping reins, but then he was on the other side and speeding up again.

  And then I saw the fence.

  It was a classic white farm fence with a gate, which was closed. On the other side several cows stopped grazing to look up at us. Don’t jump, please don’t jump. But the gate was coming up fast and there was no way to stop and so instead I yelled “Jump!” just in case Prince obeyed verbal commands like a circus animal.

  It wasn’t that he obeyed me; he just didn’t want to hit the fence, either. His ears flattened and we rose into the air. My heart jammed up in my throat. We soared over and came down to earth on the other side with such a thud that I slid sideways, just managing to hold on and pull myself back up.

  The cows scattered, bellowing mournfully as we passed. Why wouldn’t the damn horse slow down? For one thing, he seemed to like running on the short grass. It was hard for me to look far ahead and so I didn’t see the other fence until we were almost on it. I had a split second to embrace the terror before we were in the air again.

  Prince’s back hoof clanged on the top rail. It felt like an electric jolt running up my spine. He galloped on steadily, finding his stride again. Leaning forward the way I’d seen jockeys do, I heard the rhythmic and powerful huff from his wide nostrils. “Okay, that’s a good horse,” I said in a voice more strained than soothing. Now the ground was scrubby, with rocks or gravel strewn about. I made myself look up and saw trees rising. I remembered Maureen talking about the large forest that spread north.