William Gresham - Nightmare Alley

Cautiously he crossed the road, calling Gyp to him to keep him from rustling through the brush. He held the dog’s collar and went on, taking care not to tread on any dead twigs. The Glade had to be approached with the reverence of silence. He climbed the last bank on his hands and knees and then on looking over the crest he froze.

Voices were coming from the Glade.

He peered further over. Two people were lying on an Indian blanket and with a hot rush Stan knew that one was a man and the other was a woman and this was what men and women did secretly together that everybody stopped talking about when he came around, only some grownups never talked about it at all. Curiosity leaped inside of him at the thought of spying on them when they didn’t know he was there. He was seeing it all-all of it-the thing that made babies grow inside of women. He could hardly breathe.

The woman’s face was hidden by the man’s shoulder, and only her hands could be seen pressing against his back. After a while they were still. Stan wondered if they were dead-if they ever died doing it and if it hurt them but they had to do it even so.

At last they stirred and the man rolled over on his back. The woman sat up, holding her hands to her hair. Her laughter rang up the side of the Glade, a little harsh but still silvery.

Stan’s fingers tightened on the grass hummock under his hand. Then he spun around, dragging Gyp by the collar, and stumbled, sliding and bumping, down the slope to the road. He ran with his breath scorching his throat, his eyes burning with tears. He ran all the way back and then went up in the attic and lay on the iron bed and tried to cry, but then he couldn’t.

He heard Mother come in after a while. The light outside began to darken and shadows got longer.

Then he heard the car drive up. Dad got out. Stan could tell by the way he slammed the car door that he was mad. Downstairs he heard his father’s voice, rasping through the floors, and his mother’s raised, the way she spoke when she was exasperated.

Stan came downstairs, one step at a time, listening.

His father’s voice came from the living room. “… I don’t care for any more of your lies. I tell you, Mrs. Carpenter saw the two of you turning up the road into Mills’ Woods. She recognized you and she saw Mark and she recognized the car.”

Mother’s tone was brittle. “Charles, I should think you would have a little more- pride , shall we say?-than to take the word of anyone as malicious and as common as your friend , Mrs. Carpenter.”

Dad was hammering on the mantelpiece with his fist; Stan could hear the metal thing that covered the fireplace rattle. “New York hats! A nigger to clean up the house! Washing machines! Music lessons! After all I’ve given you, you turn around and hand me something like this. You! I ought to horsewhip that snake-in-the-grass within an inch of his life!”

Mother spoke slowly. “I rather think Mark Humphries can take care of himself. In fact, I should dearly love to see you walk right up to him on the street and tell him the things you’ve been saying to me. Because he would tell you that you are a liar. And you would get just what you’re asking for; just what you’re asking for. Besides that, Charles, you have a filthy mind. You mustn’t judge others by yourself, dear. After all, it is quite possible for a person with some breeding to enjoy an hour’s motoring in friendship and nothing more. But I realize that if you and-Clara Carpenter, shall we say?…”

Dad let out a noise that was something like a roar and something like a sob. “By the Eternal, I’ve sworn never to take the Lord’s name in vain, but you’re enough to try the patience of a saint. God damn you! D’you hear? God damn you and all -”

Stan had reached the ground floor and stood with his fingers running up and down the newel post of the stairs, looking in through the wide double doors of the living room. Mother was sitting very straight on the sofa without leaning back. Dad was standing by the mantel, one hand in his pocket and the other beating against the wood. When he looked up and saw Stan he stopped short.

Stan wanted to turn and run out the front door but his father’s eyes kept him fastened to the floor. Mother turned her head and saw him and smiled.

The telephone rang then.

Dad started and plunged down the hall to answer it, his savage “Hello!” bursting like a firecracker in the narrow hallway.

Stan moved painfully, like walking through molasses. He crossed the room and came near his mother whose smile had hardened and grown sick-looking. She whispered, “Stan, Dad is upset because I went riding with Mr. Humphries. We wanted to take you riding with us but Jennie said you weren’t here. But -Stan-let’s make believe you did go with us. You’ll go next time. I think it would make Dad feel better if he thought you were along.”

From the hall his father’s voice thundered, “By the Eternal, why did the fool have to be told in the first place? I was against telling him. It’s the Council’s business to vote on the committee’s recommendation. We had it in the bag, sewed up tight. Now every idiot in town will know just where the streets will be cut and that property will shoot sky-high by tomorrow morning…”

As Mother leaned close to Stan he smelled the perfume she had on her hair. She always put it on when she went downtown to take her singing lesson. Stan felt cold inside and empty. Even when she kissed him. “Whose boy are you, Stan? You’re Mother’s boy, aren’t you, dear?”

He nodded and walked clumsily to the double doors. Dad was coming back. He took Stan roughly by the shoulder and shoved him toward the front door. “Run along, now. Your mother and I are talking.”

Mother was beside them. “Let him stay, Charles. Why don’t you ask Stanton what-what he did this afternoon?”

Dad stood looking at her with his mouth shut tight. He still had Stan by the shoulder. Slowly he turned his head. “Stan, what’s your mother talking about?”

Stan swallowed. He hated that slack mouth and the stubble of pale yellow on the chin that came out when Dad hadn’t shaved for several hours. Mark Humphries did a trick with four little wads of newspaper and a hat and had showed Stan how to do it. And he used to ask riddles.

Stan said, “We went riding with Mr. Humphries in his automobile.” Over his father’s arm, still holding him, Stan saw Mother’s face make a little motion at him as if she were kissing the air.

Dad went on, his voice quiet and dangerous. “Where did you go with Mr. Humphries, son?”

Stan’s tongue felt thick. Mother’s face had gotten white, even her mouth. “We-we went out where we had the picnic that time.”

Dad’s fingers loosened and Stan turned and ran out into the falling dusk. He heard the front door close behind him.

Someone switched on the living-room lamp. After a while Dad came out, got in his car and went downtown. Mother had left some cold meat and bread and butter on the kitchen table and Stan ate it alone, reading the catalog. Only it had lost its flavor and there seemed to be something terribly sad about the blue willow-pattern plate and the old knife and fork. Gyp whined under the table. Stan handed him all his own meat and got some jelly and ate it on the bread. Mother was upstairs in the spare bedroom with the door locked.

The next day Mother got breakfast for him. He said nothing and neither did she. But she wasn’t a grownup any more. Or he wasn’t a kid any more. There were no more grownups. They lied when they got scared, just like anybody. Everybody was alike only some were bigger. He ate very little and wiped his mouth and said, “Excuse me,” politely. Mother didn’t ask him to do any jobs. She didn’t say anything at all.