William Gresham - Nightmare Alley

Stan’s eyes misted over as if they had turned inward. His voice grew intimate. “There is someone you love very dearly. Yet there is an obstacle in the way of your love. You feel hemmed-in and trapped by it. And through it all I seem to hear a woman’s voice, a sweet voice, singing. It’s singing a beautiful old hymn. Wait a moment. It’s ‘Jesus, Savior, Pilot Me.”’

The deputy’s mouth was open, his big chest was lifting and falling with his breath.

“I see a Sunday morning in a peaceful, beautiful little church. A church into which you have put your energy and your labor. You have labored hard in the Lord’s vineyard and your labor has borne fruit in the love of a woman. But I see her eyes filled with tears and somehow your own heart is touched by them…”

Christ, how far do I dare go with this? Stan thought behind the running patter of his words.

“But I feel that all will come out well for you. Because you have strength. And you’ll get more. The Lord will give you strength. And there are malicious tongues about you, ready to do you an injury. And to do this fine woman an injury if they can. Because they are like whited sepulchers which appear beautiful outward but are full of dead men’s bones and all uncleanness and…”

The deacon’s eyes were hot again but this time not at Stan. There was a hunted look in them too as the youth bore down:

“And the spirit of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, has shined upon them but in vain, because they see as through a glass, darkly, and the darkness is nothing but a reflection of their own blackness and sin and hypocrisy and envy. But deep inside yourself you will find the power to combat them. And defeat them. And you will do it with the help of the God you believe in and worship.

“And while I feel the spirit talking to me straight out, like a father to his son, I must tell you that there’s a matter of some money coming to you that will cause you some disappointment and delay but you will get it. I can see that the people in this town have been pretty blind in the past but something in the near future will occur which will wake them up and make them realize that you are a more valuable man than they ever would admit. There’s a surprise for you-about this time next year or a little later, say around November. Something you’ve had your heart set on for a long time but it will come true if you follow the hunches you get and don’t let anybody talk you out of obeying your own good judgment which has never let you down yet -whenever you’ve given it a free rein.”

Hoately had evaporated. Stan turned and began to move slowly toward the gate. The midway outside was buzzing with little groups of talk. The entire carny had been sloughed and the deputies had chased the townies off the lot. Stan walked slowly, talking still in a soft, inward voice. The old man followed beside him, his eyes staring straight ahead.

“I’m very glad to have met you, Marshal. Because I expect to be back here again some day and I’d like to see if my Scotch blood had been telling me true, as I’m sure it has. I’m sure you don’t mind a young fellow like myself presuming to tell you these things, because, after all, I’m not pretending to advise you. I know you’ve lived a lot longer than I and have more knowledge of the ways of the world than I could ever have. But when I first set eyes on you I thought to myself, ‘Here’s a man and a servant of the law who is troubled deep in his mind,’ and then I saw that you had no reason to be because things are going to turn out just the way you want them to, only there will be a little delay…”

How the hell shall I finish this off, Stan wondered. I can talk myself right back into the soup if I don’t quit.

They reached the entrance and Stan paused. The deputy’s red, hard face turned toward him; the silence seemed to pour over Stan and smother him. This was the pay-off, and his heart sank. There was nothing more to be said now. This was where action started. Stan felt out of his depth. Then he suddenly knew the business that would work, if anything would. He turned away from the old man. Making his face look as spiritual as possible, he raised one hand and rested it easily in a gesture of peace and confidence against the looped canvas. It was a period at the end of the sentence.

The deputy let out a long, whistling breath, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and stood looking out on the darkening midway. Then he turned back to Stan and his voice was just an ordinary old man’s voice. “Young fella, I wisht I’d met you a long time ago. Tell the others to go easy in this town because we aim to keep it clean. But, by God, when-if I’m ever elected marshal you ain’t got nothing to worry about, long as you have a good, clean show. Good night, son.”

He plodded away slowly, his shoulders squared against the dark, authority slapping his thigh on a belt heavy with cartridges.

Stan’s collar was tight with the blood pounding beneath it. His head was as light as if he had a fever.

The world is mine, God damn it! The world is mine! I’ve got ’em across the barrel and I can shake them loose from whatever I want. The geek has his whisky. The rest of them drink something else: they drink promises. They drink hope. And I’ve got it to hand them. I’m running over with it. I can get anything I want. If I could hand this old fart a cold reading and get away with it I could do it to a senator! I could do it to a governor!

Then he remembered where he had told her to hide.

In the black space where the trucks were parked, Zeena’s van was behind the others, dark and silent. He opened the cab door softly and crept in, his blood hammering.

“Molly!”

“Yes, Stan.” The whisper came from the black cavern behind the seat.

“It’s okay, kid. I stalled him. He’s gone.”

“Oh, Stan, gee, you’re great. You’re great.”

Stan crawled back over the seat and his hand touched a soft, hot shoulder. It was trembling. His arm went about it. “Molly!”

Lips found his. He crushed her back on a pile of blankets.

“Stan, you won’t let anything happen to me-will you?”

“Certainly not. Nothing’s ever going to happen to you while I’m around.”

“Oh, Stan, you’re so much like my dad.”

The hooks which held the sequinned bodice came open in his shaking fingers. The girl’s high, pointed breasts were smooth under his hands, and his tongue entered her lips.

“Don’t hurt me, Stan, honey. Don’t.” His collar choked him, the blood hammering in his throat. “Oh. Stan-hurt me, hurt me, hurt me-”

who sits on Venus’ couch amid the ripening grain and rivers of the earth .

THE NIGHT was quiet at last, with only the katydids. The ferris wheel stood as gaunt as a skeleton against the stars; the cookhouse lights were lonely in the dark.

Stan stepped down into the grass beside the van and held his hand up to help Molly. Her palm was hot and damp. When she stood beside him she clung to him for a moment and pressed her forehead against his cheek. They were almost the same height. Her hair smelled sweet and tickled his lips. He shook his head impatiently.

“Stan, honey, you do love me-don’t you?”

“Sure I do, baby.”

“And you won’t tell a soul. Promise me you won’t tell. Because I never let any man do it to me before, honest.”

“Are you sure?” Stan thrilled at his power over her. He wanted to hear her voice with fear in it.

“Yes, honey. Yes. Honest. You hurt me something terrible at first. You know-”