Whispering.
He hoped the neighbours hadn’t heard him shrieking like a fool.
A faint whispering.
Now, about silences. . . The best silence was one conceived in every aspect by an individual, himself, so that there could be no bursting of crystal bonds, no electric-insect hummings; the human mind could cope with each sound, each emergency, until such a complete silence was achieved that one could hear one’s cells adjust in one’s hand.
A whispering.
He shook his head. There was no whispering. There could be none in his house. Sweat began to seep down his body, his jaw loosened, his eyes were turned free in their sockets.
Whisperings. Low rumours of talk.
‘I tell you I’m getting married,’ he said, weakly, loosely.
‘You’re lying,’ said the whispers.
His head fell forward on its neck as if hung, chin on chest.
‘Her name is Alice Jane — ‘ he mouthed it between soft, wet lips and the words were formless. One of his eyes began to jitter its lid up and down as if blinking out a code to some unseen guest. ‘You can’t stop me from loving her. I love her — ‘
Whispering.
He took a blind step forward.
The cuff of his pants leg quivered as he reached the floor grille of the ventilator. A hot rise of air hollowed his cuffs. Whispering.
The furnace.
He was on his way downstairs when someone knocked on the front door.
He leaned against it. ‘Who is it?’
‘Mr. Greppin?’
Greppin drew in his breath. ‘Yes?’
‘Will you let us in, please?’
‘Who is it?’
‘The police,’ said the man outside.
‘What do you want? I’m just sitting down to supper!’
‘Just want a talk with you. The neighbours phoned. Said they hadn’t seen your aunt and uncle for two weeks. Heard a noise a while ago — ‘
‘I assure you everything is all right.’ He forced a laugh.
‘Well, then,’ continued the voice outside, ‘we can talk it over in friendly style if you’ll only open the door.’
‘I’m sorry,’ insisted Greppin. ‘I’m tired and hungry, come back tomorrow. I’ll talk to you then, if you want.’
‘I’ll have to insist, Mr. Greppin.’
They began to beat against the door.
Grippin turned automatically, stiffly, walked down the hall past the cold clock, into the dining-room, without a word. He seated himself without looking at any one in particular and then he began to talk, slowly at first, then more rapidly.
‘Some pests at the door. You’ll talk to them, won’t you, Aunt Rose? You’ll tell them to go away, won’t you, we’re eating supper? Everyone else go on eating and look pleasant and they’ll go away, if they do come in. Aunt Rose, you will talk to them, won’t you? And now that things are happening I have something to tell you.’ A few hot tears fell for no reason. He looked at them as they soaked and spread in the white linen, vanishing.
‘I don’t know anyone named Alice Jane Bellerd. I never knew anyone named Alice Jane Bellerd! It was all — all — I don’t know. I said I loved her and wanted to marry her to get around somehow to make you smile. Yes, I said it because I planned to make you smile, that was the only reason. I’m never going to have a woman, I always knew for years I never would have. Will you please pass the potatoes, Aunt Rose?’
The front door splintered and fell. A heavy, softened rushing filled the hall. Men broke into the dining-room.
A hesitation.
The police inspector hastily removed his hat.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ he apologized. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude upon your supper, I — ‘
The sudden halting of the police was such that their movement shook the room. The movement catapulted the bodies of Aunt Rose and Uncle Dimity straight away to the carpet, where they lay, their throats severed in a half-moon from ear to ear — which caused them, like the children seated at the table, to have what was the horrid illusion of a smile under their chins; ragged smiles that welcomed in the late arrivals and told them everything with a simple grimace. . .
The Emissary
HE knew it was autumn again, because Torry came romping into the house bringing the windy crisp cold smell of autumn with him. In every black curl of his dog-hair he carried autumn. Leaf flakes tangled in his dark ears and muzzle, dropping from his white vest, and off his flourished tail. The dog smelled just like autumn.
Martin Christie sat up in bed and reached down with one pale small hand. Torry barked and displayed a generous length of pink, rippling tongue, which he passed over and along the back of Martin’s hand. Torry licked him like a lollypop. ‘Because of the salt,’ declared Martin, as Torry leaped upon the bed.
‘Get down,’ warned Martin. ‘Mom doesn’t like you up here.’ Torry flattened his ears. ‘Well. . .’ Martin relented. ‘Just for a while, then.’
Torry warmed Martin’s thin body with his dog warmness. Martin relished the clean dog smell and the litter of fallen leaves on the quilt. He didn’t care if Mom scolded. After all, Torry was new-born. Right out of the stomach of autumn Torry came, reborn in the firm sharp cold.
‘What’s it like outside, Torry? Tell me.’
Lying there, Torry would tell him. Lying there, Martin would know what autumn was like; like in the old days before sickness had put him to bed. His only contact with autumn now was this brief chill, this leaf-flaked fur; the compact canine representation of summer gone — this autumn-by-proxy.
‘Where’d you go today, Torry?’
But Torry didn’t have to tell him. He knew. Over a fall-burdened hill, leaving a pad-pattern in the brilliantly piled leaves, down to where the kids ran shouting on bikes and roller skates and wagons at Barstow’s Park, that’s where Torry ran, barking out his canine delight. And down into the town where rain had fallen dark, earlier; and mud furrowed under car wheels, down between the feet of week-end shoppers. That’s where Torry went.
And wherever Torry went, then Martin could go; because Torry would always tell him by the touch, feel, consistency, the wet, dry, or crispness of his coat. And, lying there holding Torry, Martin would send his mind out to retrace each step of Torry’s way through fields, over the shallow glitter of the ravine creek, darting across the marbled spread of the graveyard, into the wood, over the meadows; where all the wild, laughing autumn sports went on, Martin could go now through his emissary.
Mother’s voice sounded downstairs, angrily.
Her short angry walking came up the hall steps.
Martin pushed. ‘Down, Torry!’
Torry vanished under the bed just before the bedroom door opened and Mom looked in, blue eyes snapping. She carried a tray of salad and fruit juices, firmly.
‘Is Torry here?’ she demanded.
Torry gave himself away with a few rumps of his tail against the floor.
Mom set the tray down impatiently. ‘That dog is more trouble. Always upsetting things and digging places. He was in Miss Tarkins’s garden this morning, and dug a big hole. Miss Tarkins is mad.’
‘Oh.’ Martin held his breath. There was silence under the bed. Torry knew when to keep quiet.
‘And it’s not the only time,’ said Mom. ‘This is the third hole he’s dug this week!’
‘Maybe he’s looking for something.’
‘Something fiddlesticks! He’s just a curious nuisance. He can’t keep that black nose out of anything. Always curious!’
There was a hairy pizzicato of tail under the bed. Mom couldn’t help smiling.
‘Well,’ she ended, ‘if he doesn’t stop digging in yards, I’ll have to keep him in and not let him run.’
Martin opened his mouth wide. ‘Oh, no, Mom! Don’t do that! Then I wouldn’t know — anything. He tells me.’
Mom’s voice softened. ‘Does he, son?’
‘Sure. He goes around and comes back and tells what happens, tells everything!’
Mom’s hand was spun glass touching his head. ‘I’m glad he tells you. I’m glad you’ve got him.’
They both sat a moment, considering how worthless the last year would’ve been without Torry. Only two more months, thought Martin, of being in bed, like the doctor said, and he’d be up and around.
‘Here, Torry!’
Jangling, Martin locked the special collar attachment around Torry’s neck. It was a note, painted on a tin square:
‘MY NAME IS TORRY. WILL YOU VISIT MY MASTER, WHO IS SICK? FOLLOW ME!’
It worked. Torry carried it out into the world every day.
‘Will you let him out, Mom?’
‘Yes, if he’s good and stops his digging!’
‘He’ll stop; won’t you, Torry?’
The dog barked.
You could hear the dog yipping far down the street and away, going to fetch visitors. Martin was feverish and his eyes stood out in his head as he sat, propped up, listening, sending his mind rushing along with the dog, faster, faster. Yesterday Torry had brought Mrs. Holloway from Elm Avenue, with a story book for a present; the day before Torry had sat up, begged at Mr. Jacobs, the jeweller. Mr. Jacobs had bent and near-sightedly deciphered the tag message and, sure enough, had come shuffling and waddling to pay Martin a little how-do-you-do.
Now, Martin heard the dog returning through the smoky afternoon, barking, running, barking again.
Footsteps came lightly after the dog. Somebody rang the downstairs bell, softly. Mom answered the door. Voices
