Gene Wolfe: Free Live Free

There was a knock at the door. The old man rose at once and went into the narrow hall, where pools of water from the fat girl’s raincoat still lingered sullenly. Behind him, the voices of Barnes and the dark woman mingled with the roaring of piston-engined aircraft.

The newcomer was a uniformed policeman, his shoulders white with snow. The old man bobbed his head and led him into the parlor.

“I’m Sergeant Proudy,” the policeman said. “Thirteenth precinct. I’m looking for Bernard Free.”

The old man nodded. “Sam’l Benjamin Free, son. That’s me. Call me Ben.”

Rising, Barnes said, “There’s no Bernard anything here Sergeant. This is Mr. Free.”

The policeman nodded and took an envelope from the inner pocket of his overcoat. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Osgood M. Barnes. I’m in sales.”

Proudy nodded. “And you, Ma’am?”

“I am Serpentina.”

“I bet you are. You a snake charmer?”

“I am a witch.”

“It’s against the law to tell fortunes in this city,” the policeman said.

“I do not tell fortunes.”

Proudy shrugged. “I don’t give a damn what you do outside this precinct, but—”

The fat girl’s voice floated down the stairwell:

“That’s Candy!” Proudy said. “Candy Garth. You know her?”

“I have sat at table while she ate,” the witch said. “That was not today.”

Barnes put in, “Madame Serpentina’s fasting.”

“Candy ought to take lessons—she’d do more business. She lives here?”

Barnes nodded. “This is a rooming house. It belongs to Mr. Free.”

Proudy turned back to Free. “You let whores stay here, sir?”

“No Horace here. You from the Building Commission, son? You can’t tear my house down—we got five people living here right now.”

Barnes said, “He doesn’t know, officer. Take it easy on him, huh?”

Proudy fingered the envelope he held, and for a moment looked tired. “Yeah,” he said. “I bet he forgets to collect his rent sometimes too.”

Free said, “They live free. I don’t charge.”

“And maybe you might lend your boarders a little something. If they told you a real good story. Old folks are like that.” He was not looking at Free, but at Barnes.

Barnes looked away. The witch said, “I do not believe he has anything to lend.”

“You ought to know.”

“You asked of Candy Garth, does she live here. She is upstairs on the left.”

“Thanks.” Proudy handed his envelope to Free. “Nobody’s going to live here a hell of a lot longer. Yeah, it’s the Building Commission, old man. You got to be out tomorrow, understand? That’s all the time you got.”

“Used to have a lot more,” Free said slowly. “All of it. I’m not going. Going to die right here.”

Barnes said, “And we’ll help you.”

“I’ll bet you will,” Proudy said.

A moment later they heard his feet on the stairs, then a hard rap and the word Police at the fat girl’s door. Barnes sat down again and looked at the flickering television, where rotary-engined fighters warmed up on the deck of a black-and-white aircraft carrier. “All the time there is. I know what you mean, Mr. Free. When I was younger I used to feel the same way. I guess for you this is practically a new show, isn’t it?”

Free shook his head. He had pushed Proudy’s envelope into his shirt pocket unopened. “Ages ago, Mr. Barnes. Whole ages.”

The fat girl’s voice came faintly from upstairs, followed by the sound of a blow. A moment later, Proudy tramped down the steps and went out into the snow, slamming the door.

“I’m hungry,” Free said suddenly. “Anything left in the kitchen?”

Barnes shook his head. “You could have some tea.” The old man fumbled in his pockets. “Not a continental dollar. Got to sell some skins tomorrow. But if somebody’s got money today, I’ll get us something.”

“I’ll have some for you Tuesday, Mr. Free. Believe me, I will. Twenty dollars, I swear.”

The witch said, “You are overgenerous with your oaths, my friend.”

Free did not seem to hear her. “No rent,” he told Barnes. “Live here free, like I said. You just help hold ’em off. I’m a mite hungry, though.”

The stair boards creaked. They heard the fat girl’s sniveling, her wheezing breath.

“She must have something,” Barnes said. “I’ll talk to her.”

“No.” The witch touched his arm. “She has nothing. She gave him what she had, and it was not enough. Here.”

As if she were alone, she pulled up her skirt and took a rolled bill from the top of her black stocking.

“Take this,” she said. “But you must go, not Mr. Free. Get fruit and bread, and if there is money remaining, whatever you like. I expect a receipt and my change.”

Stubb’s room was the smallest and least desirable in the house, the left side back. Paper peeled from its walls, and its only window faced the abandoned house next door across an areaway filled with debris. There was barely space enough to hold a dresser and a narrow bed. His trenchcoat hung on a corner of the door of the stale-smelling little closet; his damp hat slumped on the shelf inside. His shoes stood on the radiator, and his sodden socks lay flaccid beside them.

Stubb himself lay on the bed in his shorts. He was neither reading nor sleeping. Without their glasses, his eyes seemed inadequate for his face, though it was, overall, not a large one. Several hours before, he had discovered Free, Barnes, and the witch as they finished their meal. There had been little left, but he had eaten what little there was—an odd slice of bread and as much potato salad as had lodged in the corners of the carton.

Perhaps with some vague notion of pleasing the witch, Barnes had bought a can of tamales. Unobserved, Stubb had swallowed the liquid that remained and stuffed the greasy paper “corn husks” into his pocket so he might lick them clean in privacy.

Now he muttered, “Cliff, you’re a herpid motherfucker,” and put his legs over the side of the old bed. They did not quite touch the floor. He looked at his wrist, then looked away again and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

“He could,” he said. “For old times’ sake. What the hell.” He dressed again, augmenting his still-wet socks with newspaper shaped like the footprints of dance diagrams. One held Free’s ad, and Stubb paused to read it again.

FREE LIVE FREE Live w me, pay no rt.

Hlp sv hs. B Free, 808 S 38th.

Outside, snow no longer fell; an inch was turning to slush on the sidewalk. Stubb walked up the street to a diner where a plump young man sat reading a magazine behind the counter. Stubb glanced at the clock in back of him and boosted himself onto a stool. “Coffee,” he said. “Heavy cream and sugar, Murray. I like a lot of sugar.”

“I know you do, Jim,” Murray said as he put the cup on the counter. “You’ll get fat.”

“Not me.”

“You little guys eat the most. You never get fat. I don’t see how you do it. I don’t eat anything, and I’m as fat as a pig.”

Stubb lifted his coffee, holding it with both hands. The cream had cooled it, and it was syrupy with sugar.

“How the hell do you do that? Just pour it down your throat like that?”

“I guess I was thirsty,” Stubb said.

“I guess you were. How’s the op business?”

“Up and down, like any other business.”

“Coffee’s thirty-five cents.”

“Jesus, no wonder you’re fat.”

Murray looked from Stubb to a sign that read PLEASE PAY WHEN SERVED, then back to Stubb; but Stubb appeared not to see him. After a moment Murray went down the counter to refill a napkin holder, and Stubb, rising rapidly on his stool and bracing his feet on its rungs, leaned across the counter and reached beneath it for a telephone.