William Gresham - Nightmare Alley

His father had slid one heavily veined hand over his eyes.

“He who watches the sparrow’s fall will hold us in the hollow of his hand to the end of our days, on earth and beyond.”

Clara was frowning in bewilderment or worrying about the chicken getting cold.

“… in the name of thy son, our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, we ask it. Amen.”

The old man said “Amen” and then grinned weakly at his wife. “No matter what denomination, Clara, it’s a proud day when we can have a son saying grace and him a preacher. Pass Stan the rice.”

Clara was not one to eat in silence. She began a brief history of the community during the past sixteen years, full of hot summers, hard winters, deaths, births, weddings, and disasters.

Stan ate quickly and took a second helping of everything. At last he slid his plate away from him and lit a cigarette. He looked at Clara Carpenter Carlisle for a long minute; the penetrating blue glance made her conscious of the old apron over her good dress.

“My dear friend, have you ever thought that these persons whom you have mourned as dead will never die?”

Under that brilliant stare she began to simper and found it difficult to control her hands. “Why, Stan, I-I’ve always believed . But I think it’s one of those things you just have to feel. I never paid much attention. I took it for granted, about heaven.”

The Rev. Carlisle wiped his lips with his napkin and took a swallow of water. “I have seen magnificent proofs that the spirit does not lie fallow until the Day of Judgment. The spirits of the liberated are around us every moment. How often have we said, in anguish, ‘If only I could speak to him again. And feel the touch of his hand.’ ”

Both the older Carlisles looked embarrassed, eyed one another and then each took a sip of coffee.

Stan’s mellow voice rolled on. “Yes. And the glorious truth is that it can be done. The spirits of the liberated are around us even now, as we speak.” His eyes were still on Clara; he dropped his voice. “I feel one presence beside me now, distinctly. Insistently. Trying to get through.”

On his father’s face was the suggestion of a sly grin.

“It is one who loved me in its earth existence. But it is not human.”

They stared at him.

“A small spirit, a humble presence. But brimming with devotion and loyalty. I believe it is the spirit of my old dog, Gyp.” Charles Carlisle had slumped forward, his arms before him on the tablecloth, but now he sat up straighter, the bitter lines around his mouth deeper and more biting.

“Son, you don’t believe that! That’s blasphemous! You can’t mean it-about a dog having a soul same as a man.”

Stan smiled. “As I said before, I shall not try to convert you, Dad. Only the ones who have passed over into spirit life can do that. But I have communicated with Gyp-not in words, naturally, since Gyp did not speak in words. Yet this house is full of his presence. He has spoken to me, trying to tell me something.” Watching his father keenly, Stan noticed a little flash of alarm on the wrecked face. He covered his eyes with his hand, watching his father’s hands on the cloth before him, and bore in:

“Something about his last day on earth. I remember you told me, when I came home from school, that you had had a veterinary chloroform Gyp. But there’s some contradiction, here. I get another impression…”

A pulse was beginning to pound in the shrunken wrist.

“Gyp has been trying to tell me something… wait a minute… the garage!”

His father’s hands clenched into fists and then released the tablecloth, which they had seized.

“That’s it… I see it clearly before me. Gyp is tied to the leg of the workbench in the garage. I see something rising and falling… in anger… faster and faster.”

The clatter of a fork on the floor made Stan look up. The old man’s face was ashy; he kept shaking his head, trying to speak. “No. No, son. Don’t.”

“That was the day-the day Mother left. With Mark Humphries. You came home and found her note. Gyp got in your way-you had to vent your temper on something. If I’d been home you’d have licked me. But Gyp got it. He died.”

Old Carlisle had heaved to his feet, one hand clawing at his shirt collar. Stan turned, swaying a little, and walked stiffly through the doors into the living room, across it to the hall. When he took down his hat and coat his arms felt numb and heavy. One last glimpse of Clara shaking capsules from a bottle and holding a glass of water; the old man swallowing painfully.

The moon brightened concrete steps leading down the terrace where the grass was ragged. Stan’s legs felt stiff as he descended to the street where the arching maples closed over him, moonlight showering through their leaves now black with night. A sound came from the house he had left, an old man weakly crying.

In a patch of silver the Rev. Carlisle stopped and raised his face to the full moon, where it hung desolately, agonizingly bright-a dead thing, watching the dying earth.

They stand between the Eden trees; winged Love hovers overhead while Knowledge lies in serpent coils upon the ground .

WHEN Molly woke up the third time, Stan was dressing. She looked at the clock: four-thirty. “Where you going?”

“Out.”

She didn’t question him, but lay awake watching. His movements were so jumpy lately you didn’t dare speak to him for fear he would bite your head off. Lately he had been sleeping worse and worse, and Molly worried about him taking so many sleeping pills all the time. They didn’t have any more effect on him, it seemed, and his temper got worse and he looked like hell. She began to cry softly and Stan stopped in the middle of buttoning his shirt and came over.

“Now what?”

“Nothing. Nothing. I’m all right.”

“What’s eating you, kid?”

“Stan-” Molly sat up, holding the covers in front of her for warmth. “Stan, let’s quit and go back to the old act.”

He went on buttoning. “Where we going to book it? On street corners? Vaudeville’s a dead pigeon. I know what I’m doing. One live John and we’re set.”

She drew the covers up tighter. “Honey, you look like hell. Why don’t you go see a doctor? I-I mean give you something for your nerves or something. Honest, I’m worried sick you’re going to have a nervous breakdown or something.”

He rubbed his eyes. “I’m going out for a walk.”

“It’s snowing.”

“I’ve got to get out, do you hear? I’m going down to the church and look over the props. I’ve got an idea I want to try out. Go back to sleep.”

It was no use. He would just keep going until he dropped and Molly prayed it wouldn’t happen some time in the middle of a reading-or of a séance, where it would blow up the whole works. If anybody made trouble the cops would nail her along with Stan and in the shape Stan was in he couldn’t talk his way out of a jam no matter how bad it was. Molly was worried sick and took half a sleeping pill herself when he had gone.

It was too early to go out and get a racing form, and all the magazines were old, and nothing was on the radio except platter programs, and they made her feel so lonesome-records being dedicated to the boys in Ed’s Diner out on the turnpike. She wished she was in the diner with the truck drivers having a few laughs.

Stan let himself into the old Peabody house. He was glad he had banked the furnace the night before; down in the cellar he threw in more coal. Soon the fire was roaring and he stood with the heat on his face, watching blue flames feel their way up through the black coal.