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 goody 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, his 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 jellyfish and screamed. It was not so bad, finding an intact, gelatin-skinned jellyfish in one’s living room. One could step back from it.
It was when the jellyfish 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 as it does when you see a preserved 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. Tent-peggers 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.
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; his eyes were puzzled, admiring, wondering.
Someone walked in the shadows behind him, small beside Charlie’s gaunt tallness. “Oh,” said the shadow, coming into the light-bulb glare. “You still here, bud?”
“Yeah,” said Charlie, like a man in his sleep.
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, counting 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 carnyboss 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 folks 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 that damn thing around, anyway. Don’t thank me. Lately I been thinking things about it, funny things–but, hell, 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. There was just Charlie, the horse timing his gray hoofs, and the crickets.
And the jar behind the high seat.
It sloshed back and forth, back and forth. Sloshed wet. And the cold gray thing drowsily slumped against the glass, looking out, looking out, but seeing nothing, nothing.
Charlie leaned back to pet the lid. Smelling of strange liquor his hand returned, changed and cold and trembling, excited. Yes, sir! he thought to himself, Yes, sir!
Slosh, slosh, slosh. . . .
In the Hollow, numerous grass-green and blood-red lanterns tossed dusty light over men huddled, murmuring, spitting, sitting on General Store property.
They knew the creak-bumble of Charlie’s wagon and did not shift their raw, drab-haired skulls as he rocked to a halt. Their cigars were glowworms, their voices were frog mutterings on summer nights.
Charlie leaned down eagerly. “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 lamplight, 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 the 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 to see, baby-doll.”
Charlie made a fist and looked at it. “Somethin’ in a jar,” he went on. “Looks kine a like a brain, kine a like a pickled jellyfish, kine a like–well, come see yourself!”
Someone snicked a cigar into a fall of pink ash and ambled over to look. Charlie grandly elevated the jar lid, and in the uncertain lantern light the man’s face changed. “Hey, now, what in hell is this–?”
It was the first thaw of the evening. Others shifted lazily upright, leaned forward; gravity pulled them into walking. They made no effort, except to put one shoe before the other to keep from collapsing upon their unusual faces. They circled the jar and contents. And Charlie, for the first time in his life, seized on some hidden strategy and crashed the glass lid shut.
“You want to see more, drop aroun’ my house! It’ll be there,” he declared, generously.
Tom Carmody spat from out his porch eyrie. “Ha!”
“Lemme see that again!” cried Gramps Medknowe. “Is it a octopus?”
Charlie flapped the reins; the horse stumbled into action.
“Come on aroun’! You’re welcome!”
“What’ll your wife say?”
“She’ll kick the tar off’n our heels!”
But Charlie and wagon were gone over the hill. The men stood, all of them, chewing their tongues, squinting up the road in the dark. Tom Carmody swore softly from the porch. . . .
Charlie climbed the steps of his shack and carried the jar to its throne in the living room, thinking that from now on this lean-to would be a palace, with an “emperor”–that was the word! “emperor”–all cold and white and quiet drifting in his private pool, raised, elevated upon a shelf over a ramshackle table.
The jar, as he watched, burnt off the cold mist that hung over this place on the rim of the swamp.
“What you got there?”
Thedy’s thin soprano turned him from his awe. She stood in the bedroom door glaring out, her thin body clothed in faded blue gingham, her hair drawn to a drab knot behind red ears. Her eyes were faded like the gingham. “Well,” she repeated. “What is it?”
“What’s it look like to you, Thedy?”
She took a thin step forward, making a slow, indolent pendulum of hips, her eyes intent upon the jar, her lips drawn back to show feline milk teeth.
The dead pale thing hung in its serum.
Thedy snapped a dull-blue glance at Charlie, then back to the jar, once more at Charlie, once more to the jar, then she whirled quickly.
“It–it looks–looks just like you, Charlie!” she cried.
The bedroom door slammed.
The reverberation did not disturb the jar’s contents. But Charlie stood there, longing after his wife, heart pounding frantically. Much later, when his heart slowed, he talked to the thing in the jar.
“I work the bottom land to the butt-bone every year, and she grabs the money and runs off down home visitin’ her folks nine weeks at a stretch. I can’t keep hold of her. Her and the men from the store, they make fun of me. I can’t help it if I don’t know a way to hold onto her! Damn, but I try!”
Philosophically, the contents of the jar gave no advice.
“Charlie?”
Someone stood in the front-yard door.
Charlie turned, startled, then broke out a grin.
It was some of the men from the General Store.
“Uh–Charlie—we–we thought–well–we came up to have a look at that–stuff–you got in that there jar–“
July passed warm and it was August.
For the first time in years, Charlie was happy as tall corn growing after a drought. It was gratifying of an evening to hear boots shushing through the tall grass, the sound of men spitting into the ditch
