‘Come in!’ he tried to gasp it out. ‘Come in, for God’s sake!’
M. Munigant came in. Thank God the door had been unlocked.
Oh, but Mr. Harris looked terrible. M. Munigant stood in the centre of the living-room, small and dark. Harris nodded at him. The pains rushed through him, hitting him with large iron hammers and hooks. M. Munigant’s eyes glittered as he saw Harris’s protuberant bones.
Ah, he saw that Mr. Harris was now psychologically prepared for aid. Was it not so? Harris nodded again, feebly, sobbing. M. Munigant still whistled when he talked; something about his tongue and the whistling. No matter. Through his shimmering eyes Harris seemed to see M. Munigant shrink, get smaller.
Imagination, of course. Harris sobbed out his story of the Phoenix trip. M. Munigant sympathized. This skeleton was a — a traitor! They would fix him for once and for all! ‘Mr. Munigant,’ sighed Harris, faintly. ‘I — I never noticed before. You have such an odd, odd tongue. Round. Tube-like. Hollow? Guess it’s my eyes. Don’t mind me. Delirious. I’m ready. What do I do?’
M. Munigant whistled softly, appreciatively, coming closer. If Mr. Harris would relax in his chair, and open his mouth? The lights were switched off. M. Munigant peered into Harris’s dropped jaw. Wider, please? It had been so hard, that first visit, to help Harris, with both body and bone in rebellion. Now, he had co-operation from the flesh of the man anyway, even if the skeleton was acting up somewhat. In the darkness, M. Munigant’s voice got small, small, tiny, tiny. The whistling became high and shrill. Now. Relax. Mr. Harris. NOW!
Harris felt his jaw pressed violently in all directions, his tongue depressed as with a spoon, his throat clogged. He gasped for breath. Whistle. He couldn’t breathe! He was corked. Something squirmed, cork-screwed his cheeks out, bursting his jaws. Like a hot water douche, something squirted into his sinuses, his ears clanged! ‘Ahhh!’ shrieked Harris, gagging. His head, its carapaces riven, shattered, hung loose. Agony shot into his lungs, around.
Harris could breathe again, momentarily. His watery eyes sprang wide. He shouted. His ribs, like sticks picked up and bundled, were loosened in him. Pain! He fell to the floor, rocking, rolling, wheezing out his hot breath.
Lights flickered in his senseless eyeballs, he felt his limbs swiftly cast loose and free, expertly. Through streaming eyes he saw the parlour.
The room was empty.
‘M. Munigant? Where are you? In God’s name, where are you, M. Munigant? Come help me!’
M. Munigant was gone.
‘Help!’
Then he heard it.
Deep down in the subterranean fissures of his bodily well, he heard the minute, unbelievable noises; little smackings and twistings and little dry chippings and grindings and nuzzling sounds — like a tiny hungry mouse down in the red-blooded dimness, gnawing ever so earnestly and expertly at what may have been, but was not, a submerged timber. . .!
Clarisse, walking along the sidewalk, held her head high and marched straight towards her house on Saint James Place. She was thinking of the Red Cross and a thousand other things as she turned the corner and almost ran into this little dark man who smelled of iodine.
Clarisse would have ignored him if it were not for the fact that as she passed he took something long, white and oddly familiar from his coat and proceeded to chew on it, as on a peppermint stick. Its end devoured, his extraordinary tongue darted within the white confection, sucking out the filling, making contented noises. He was still crunching his goodie as she proceeded up the sidewalk to her house, turned the doorknob and walked in.
‘Darling?’ she called, smiling around. ‘Darling, where are you?’
She shut the door, walked down the hall and into the living-room.
‘Darling. . .’
She stared at the floor for twenty seconds, trying to understand.
She screamed.
Outside in the sycamore darkness, the little man pierced a long white stick with intermittent holes; then, softly, sighing, lips puckered, played a little sad tune upon the improvised instrument to accompany the shrill and awful singing of Clarisse’s voice as she stood in the living-room.
Many times as a little girl Clarisse had run on the beach sands, stepped on a jelly fish and screamed. It was not so bad, finding an intact, gelatine-skinned jelly-fish in one’s living-room. One could step back from it.
It was when the jelly-fish called you by name. . .
The Jar
IT was one of those things they keep in a jar in the tent of a sideshow on the outskirts of a little, drowsy town. One of those pale things drifting in alcohol plasma, forever dreaming and circling, with its peeled dead eyes staring out at you and never seeing you. It went with the noiselessness of late night, and only the crickets chirping, the frogs sobbing off in the moist swampland. One of those things in a big jar that makes your stomach jump like it does when you see an amputated arm in a laboratory vat.
Charlie stared back at it for a long time.
A long time, his big raw hands, hairy on the roofs of them, clenching the rope that kept back curious people. He had paid his dime and now he stared.
It was getting late. The merry-go-round drowsed down to a lazy mechanical tinkle. Tentpeggers back of a canvas smoked and cursed over a poker game. Lights switched out, putting a summer gloom over the carnival. People streamed homeward in cliques and queues. Somewhere, a radio flared up, then cut, leaving Louisiana sky wide and silent with stars peppering it.
There was nothing in the world for Charlie but that pale thing sealed in its universe of serum. Charlie’s loose mouth hung open in a pink weal, teeth showing, eyes puzzled, admiring, wondering.
Someone walked in the shadows behind him, small beside Charlie’s giant tallness. ‘Oh,’ said the shadow, coming into the light-bulb glare. ‘You still here, bud?’
‘Yeah,’ said Charlie, irritated his thoughts were touched.
The carny-boss appreciated Charlie’s curiosity. He nodded at his old acquaintance in the jar. ‘Everybody likes it; in a peculiar kinda way, I mean.’
Charlie rubbed his long jaw-bone. ‘You — uh — ever consider selling it?’
The carny-boss’s eyes dilated, then closed. He snorted. ‘Naw. It brings customers. They like seeing stuff like that. Sure.’
Charlie made a disappointed, ‘Oh.’
‘Well,’ considered the carny-boss, ‘if a guy had money, maybe — ‘
‘How much money?’
‘If a guy had — ‘ the carny-boss estimated, squinting eyes, counting on fingers, watching Charlie as he tacked it out one finger after another. ‘If a guy had three, four, say, maybe seven or eight — ‘
Charlie nodded with each motion, expectantly. Seeing this, the carny-boss raised his total, ‘ — maybe ten dollars, or maybe fifteen — ‘
Charlie scowled, worried. The carny-boss retreated. ‘Say a guy has twelve dollars — ‘ Charlie grinned. ‘Why he could buy that thing in that jar,’ concluded the carny-boss.
‘Funny thing,’ said Charlie, ‘I got just twelve bucks in my denims. And I been reckoning how looked up to I’d be back down at Wilder’s Hollow if I brung home something like this to set on my shelf over the table. The guys would sure look up to me then, I bet.’
‘Well, now, listen here — ‘ said the carny-boss.
The sale was completed with the jar put on the back seat of Charlie’s wagon. The horse skittered his hoofs when he saw the jar, and whinnied.
The carny-boss glanced up with an expression of, almost, relief. ‘I was tired of seeing the damn thing around, anyway. Don’t thank me. Lately I been thinking things about it, funny things — but, don’t mind me, I’m a big-mouthed so-and-so. S’long, farmer!’
Charlie drove off. The naked blue light bulbs withdrew like dying stars, the open dark country night of Louisiana swept in around wagon and horse. The brass merry-go-round clanking faded. There was just Charlie, the horse, timing his grey hoofs, and the crickets.
And the jar behind the high seat.
It sloshed back and forth, back and forth. Sloshed wet. And the cold grey thing drowsily slumped against the glass, looking out, looking out, but seeing nothing, nothing, nothing.
Charlie leaned back to pet the lid. Smelling of strange liquor his hand returned, changed and cold and trembling, excited. He was bright scarlet happy about this. Yes, sir!
Slosh, slosh, slosh. . .
In the Hollow numerous grass-green and blood-red lanterns tossed dusty light over men huddled, chanting, spitting, sitting on General Store property.
They knew the creak-bumble of Charlie’s vehicle and did not shift their raw, drab-haired skulls as he rocked to a halt. Their cigars were nicotine glow-worms, their voices were frog mutterings in summer nights.
Charlie leaned down at an eager angle. ‘Hi, Clem! Hi, Milt!’
‘Lo, Charlie. Lo, Charlie,’ they murmured. The political conflict continued. Charlie cut it down the seam:
‘I got somethin’ here. I got somethin’ you might wanna see!’
Tom Carmody’s eyes glinted, green in the lamp-light, from the General Store porch. It seemed to Charlie that Tom Carmody was forever installed under porches in shadow, or under trees in shadow, or if in a room then in the farthest niche shining his eyes out at you from his dark. You never knew what his face was doing, and his eyes were always funning you. And every time they looked at you they laughed a different way:
‘You ain’t got nothin’ we wants ta see, you dumb sheebaw!’
Charlie made a fist with a blunt knuckle fringe. ‘Somethin’ in a jar,’ he went on. ‘Looks kine a like a brain, kine a like
