Mother advanced down the path into the primeval jungle. His voice trembled. “Mom, Doug’s all right. Doug’s all right. He’s all right. Doug’s all right!”
Mother’s voice was strained, high. “He always comes through here. I tell him not to, but those darned kids, they come through here anyway. Some night he’ll come through and never come out again—”
Never come out again. That could mean anything. Tramps. Criminals. Darkness. Accident. Most of all death!
Alone in the universe.
There were a million small towns like this all over the world. Each as dark, as lonely, each as removed, as full of shuddering and wonder. The reedy playing of minor-key violins was the small towns’ music, with no lights, but many shadows. Oh, the vast swelling loneliness of them. The secret damp ravines of them. Life was a horror lived in them at night, when at all sides sanity, marriage, children, happiness, were threatened by an ogre called Death.
Mother raised her voice into the dark. “Doug! Douglas!”
Suddenly both of them realized something was wrong.
The crickets had stopped chirping. Silence was complete.
Never in his life a silence like this one. One so utterly complete. Why should the crickets cease? Why? What reason? They’d never stopped ever before. Not ever.
Unless. Unless—
Something was going to happen.
It was as if the whole ravine was tensing, bunching together its black fibers, drawing in power from sleeping countrysides all about, for miles and miles. From dew-sodden forest and dells and rolling hills where dogs tilted heads to moons, from all around the great silence was sucked into one center, and they were the core of it. In ten seconds now, something would happen, something would happen. The crickets kept their truce, the stars were so low he could almost brush the tinsel. There were swarms of them, hot and sharp.
Growing, growing, the silence. Growing, growing, the tenseness. Oh, it was so dark, so far away from everything. Oh, God!
And then, way way off across the ravine:
“Okay, Mom! Coming, Mother!”
And again: “Hi, Mom! Coming, Mom!”
And then the quick scuttering of tennis shoes padding down through the pit of the ravine as three kids came dashing, giggling. His brother Douglas, Chuck Woodman, and John Huff. Running, giggling . . .
The stars sucked up like the stung antennae of ten million snails.
The crickets sang!
The darkness pulled back, startled, shocked, angry. Pulled back, losing its appetite at being so rudely interrupted as it prepared to feed. As the dark retreated like a wave on the shore, three children piled out of it, laughing.
“Hi, Mom! Hi, Tom! Hey!”
It smelled like Douglas, all right. Sweat and grass and the odor of trees and branches and the creek about him.
“Young man, you’re going to get a licking,” declared Mother. She put away her fear instantly. Tom knew she would never tell anyone of it, ever. It would be in her heart, though, for all time, as it was in his heart for all time.
They walked home to bed in the late summer night. He was glad Douglas was alive. Very glad. For a moment there he had thought-—
Far off in the dim moonlit country, over a viaduct and down a valley, a train rushed along whistling like a lost metal thing, nameless and running. Tom went to bed shivering, beside his brother, listening to that train whistle, and thinking of a cousin who lived way out in the country where that train ran now; a cousin who died of pneumonia late at night years and years ago—
He smelled the sweat of Doug beside him. It was magic. Tom stopped trembling.
“Only two things I know for sure, Doug,” he whispered.
“What?”
“Nighttime’s awful dark—is one.”
“What’s the other?”
“The ravine at night don’t belong in Mr. Auffmann’s Happiness Machine, if he ever builds it.”
Douglas considered this awhile. “You can say that again.”
They stopped talking. Listening, suddenly they heard footsteps coming down the street, under the trees, outside the house now, on the sidewalk. From her bed Mother called quietly, “That’s your father.” It was.
Late at night on the bent parch Leo Auffmann wrote a list he could not see in the dark, exclaiming, “Ah!” or, “That’s another!” when he hit upon a fine component. Then the front-door screen made a moth sound, tapping.
“Lena?” he whispered.
She sat down next to him on the swing, in her nightgown, not slim the way girls get when they are not loved at seventeen, not fat the way women get when they are not loved at fifty, but absolutely right, a roundness, a firmness, the way women are at any age, he thought, when there is no question.
She was miraculous. Her body, like his, was always thinking for her, but in a different way, shaping the children, or moving ahead of him into any room to change the atmosphere there to fit any particular mood he was in. There seemed no long periods of thought for her; thinking and doing moved from her head to her hand and back in a natural and gentle circuiting he could not and cared not to blueprint.
“That machine,” she said at last, “. . .we don’t need it.”
“No,” he said, “but sometimes you got to build for others. I been figuring, what to put in. Motion pictures? Radios? Stereoscopic viewers? All those in one place so any man can run his hand over it and smile and say,’Yes, sir, that’s happiness. ’ II
Yes, he thought, to make a contraption that in spite of wet feet, sinus trouble, rumpled beds, and those three-in-the-morning hours when monsters ate your soul, would manufacture happiness, like that magic salt mill that, thrown in the ocean, made salt forever and turned the sea to brine. Who wouldn’t sweat his soul out through his pores to invent a machine like that? he asked the world, he asked the town, he asked his wife!
In the porch swing beside him, Lena’s uneasy silence was an opinion.
Silent now, too, head back, he listened to the elm leaves above hissing in the wind.
Don’t forget, he told himself, that sound, too, must be in the machine.
A minute later the porch swing, the porch, stood empty in the dark.
Grandfather smiled in his sleep.
Feeling the smile and wondering why it was there, he awoke. He lay quietly listening, and the smile was explained.
For he heard a sound which was far more important than birds or the rustle of new leaves. Once each year he woke this way and lay waiting for the sound which meant that summer had officially begun. And it began on a morning such as this when a boarder, a nephew, a cousin, a son or a grandson came out on the lawn below and moved in consecutively smaller quadrangles north and east and south and west with a clatter of rotating metal through the sweet summer grass. Clover blossoms, the few unharvested dandelion fires, ante, sticks, pebbles, remnants of last year’s July Fourth squibs and punks, but predominantly clear green, a fount leaped up from the chattering mower. A cool soft fount; Grandfather imagined it tickling his legs, spraying his warm face, filling his nostrils with the timeless scent of a new season begun, with the promise that, yes, we’ll all live another twelve months.
God bless the lawn mower, he thought. Who was the fool who made January first New Year’s Day No, they should set a man to watch the grasses across a million Illinois, Ohio, and Iowa lawns, and on that morning when it was long enough for cutting, instead of rachets and hems and yelling, there should be a great swelling symphony of lawn mowers reaping fresh grass upon the prairie lands. Instead of confetti and serpentine, people should throw grass spray at each other on the one day each year that really represents Beginning!
He snorted at his own lengthy discussion of the affair, went to the window and leaned out into the mellow sun shine, and sure enough, there was a boarder, a young newspaperman named Forrester, just finishing a row.
“Morning, Mr. Spaulding!”
“Give ’em hell, Bill!” cried Grandpa heartily, and soon downstairs eating Grandma’s breakfast, with the window open so the rattling buzz of the lawn mower lolled about his eating.
“It gives you confidence,” Grandpa said. “That lawn mower. Listen to it!”
“Won’t be using the lawn mower much longer.” Grandma set down a stack of wheat cakes. “They got a new kind of grass Bill Forrester’s putting in this morning, never needs cutting. Don’t know what they call it, but it just grows so long and no longer.”
Grandpa stared at the woman. “You’re finding a poor! way to joke with me.”
“Go look for yourself. Land’s sake,” said Grandma, “it was Bill Forrester’s idea. The new grass is waiting in little flats by the side of the house. You just dig small holes here and there and put the new grass in spots. By the end of the year the new grass kills off the old, and you sell your lawn mower.”
Grandpa was up from his chair, through the hall, and out the front door in ten seconds.
Bill Forrester left his machine and came over, smiling, squinting in the sun. “That’s right,” he said. “Bought the grass yesterday. Thought, while I’m on vacation I’d just plant it for you.”
“Why wasn’t I consulted about this? It’s my lawn!” cried Grandfather.
“Thought you’d appreciate it, Mr. Spaulding.”
“Well, I don’t think I do appreciate it. Let’s see this confounded grass of yours.”
They stood by the little square pads of new grass. Grandpa toed at it with one end of his shoe suspiciously. “Looks like plain old grass to me. You sure some horse trader didn’t
