The Golden Man

The salesman blinked. “Sure, buddy. Sure.” He fumbled nervously in his pocket. A quarter and a dime jangled to the floor and he hurriedly scooped them up. “No offense.”

For a moment there was silence. Then the high school boy spoke up, aware for the first time that nobody was saying anything. “I heard something,” he began eagerly, voice full importance. “Somebody said they saw something up by the Johnson farm that looked like it was one of those—”

"Shut up,” the businessman said, without turning his head.

SCARLET-FACED, the boy sagged in his seat. His voice wavered and broke off. He peered hastily down at his hands and swallowed unhappily.

The salesman paid the waitress for his coke. “What’s the quickest road to Frisco?” he began. But the waitress had already turned her back.

The people at the counter were immersed in their food. None of them looked up. They ate in frozen silence. Hostile, unfriendly faces, intent on their food.

The salesman picked up his bulging briefcase, pushed open the screen door, and stepped out into the blazing sunlight. He moved toward his battered 1978 Buick, parked a few meters up. A blue- shirted traffic cop was standing in the shade of an awning, talking languidly to a young woman in a yellow silk dress that clung moistly to her slim body.

The salesman paused a moment before he got into his car. He waved his hand and hailed the policeman. “Say, you know this town pretty good?”

The policeman eyed the salesman’s rumpled gray suit, bowtie, his sweat-stained shirt. The out-ofstate license. “What do you want?” “I’m looking for the Johnson farm,” the salesman said. “Here to see him about some litigation.” He moved toward the policeman, a small white card between his fingers. “I’m his attorney—from the New York Guild. Can you tell me how to get out there? I haven’t been through here in a couple of years.”

Nat Johnson gazed up at the noonday sun and saw that it was good. He sat sprawled out on the bottom step of the porch, a pipe between his yellowed teeth, a lithe, wiry man in red-checkered shirt and canvas jeans, powerful hands, iron-gray hair that was still thick despite sixty-five years of active life.

He was watching the children play. Jean rushed laughing in front of him, bosom heaving under her sweat shirt, black hair streaming behind her. She was sixteen, brighteyed, legs strong and straight, slim young body bent slightly forward with the weight of the two horseshoes. After her scampered Dave, fourteen, white teeth and black hair, a handsome boy, a son to be proud of. Dave caught up with his sister, passed her, and reached the far peg. He stood waiting, legs apart, hands on his hips, his two horseshoes gripped easily. Gasping, Jean hurried toward him.

“Go ahead!” Dave shouted. “You shoot first. I’m waiting for you.”

“So you can knock them away?”

“So I can knock them closer.”

Jean tossed down one horseshoe and gripped the other with both hands, eyes on the distant peg. Her lithe body bent, one leg slid back, her spine arched. She took careful aim, closed one eye, and then expertly tossed the shoe. With a clang the shoe struck the distant peg, circled briefly around it, then bounced off again and rolled to one side. A cloud of dust rolled up.

“Not bad,” Nat Johnson admitted, from his step. “Too hard, though, Take it easy.” His chest swelled with pride as the girl’s glistening, healthy body took aim and again threw. Two powerful, handsome children, almost ripe, on the verge of adulthood. Playing together in the hot sun.

And there was Cris.

Cris stood by the porch, arms folded. He wasn’t playing. He was watching. He had stood there since Dave and Jean had begun playing, the same half-intent, half-remote expression on his finely-cut face. As if he were seeing past them, beyond the two of them. Beyond the field, the barn, the creek bed, the rows of cedars.

“Come on, Cris!” Jean called, as she and Dave moved across the field to collect their horseshoes. “Don’t you want to play?”

No, Cris didn’t want to play. He never played. He was off in a world of his own, a world into which none of them could come. He never joined in anything, games or chores or family activities. He was by himself always. Remote, detached, aloof. Seeing past everyone and everything—that is, until all at once something clicked and he momentarily rephased, reentered their world briefly.

NAT JOHNSON reached out and knocked his pipe against the step. He refilled it from his leather tobacco pouch, his eyes on his eldest son. Cris was now moving into life. Heading out onto the field. He walked slowly, arms folded calmly, as if he had, for the moment descended from his own world into theirs. Jean didn’t see him; she had turned her back and

was getting ready to pitch.

“Hey,” Dave said, startled. “Here’s Cris.” ‘

Cris reached his sister, stopped, and held out his hand. A great dignified figure, calm and impassive. Uncertainly, Jean gave him one of the horseshoes. “You want this? You want to play?”

Cris said nothing. He bent slightly, a supple arc of his incredibly graceful body, then moved his arm in a blur of speed. The shoe sailed, struck the far peg, and dizzily spun around it. Ringer.

The corners of Dave’s mouth turned down. “What a lousy darn thing.”

“Cris,” Jean reproved. “You don’t play fair.”

No, Cris didn’t play fair. He had watched half an hour—then come out and thrown once. One perfect toss, one dead ringer.

“He never makes a mistake,” Dave complained.

Cris stood, face blank. A golden statue in the mid-day sun. Golden hair, skin, a light down of gold fuzz on his bare arms and legs—- Abruptly he stiffened. Nat sat up, startled. “What is it?” he barked.

Cris turned in a quick circle, magnificent body alert. “Cris!” Jean demanded. “What—”

Cris shot forward. Like a released energy beam he bounded across the field, over the fence, into the barn and out the other side. His flying figure seemed to skim over the dry grass as he descended into the barren creek-bed, between the cedars. A momentary flash of gold—and he was gone. Vanished. There was no sound. No motion. He had utterly melted into the scenery.

“What was it this time?” Jean asked wearily. She came over to her father and threw herself down in the shade. Sweat glowed on her smooth neck and upperlip; her sweat shirt was streaked and damp. “What did he see?”

“He was after something,” Dave stated, coming up.

Nat grunted. “Maybe. There’s no telling.”

“I guess I better tell mom not set a place for him,” Jean said. “He probably won’t be back.”

Anger and futility descended over Nat Johnson. No, he wouldn’t be back. Not for dinner and probably not the next day—or the one after that. He’d be gone God only knew how long. Or where. Or why. Off by himself, alone some place. “If I thought there was any use,” Nat began, “I’d send you two after him. But there’s no—”

He broke off. A car was coming up the dirt road toward the farmhouse. A dusty, battered old Buick. Behind the wheel sat a plump redfaced man in a gray suit, who waved cheerfully at them as the car sputtered to a stop and the motor died into silence.

“AFTERNOON,” the man nodded, as he climbed out of the car. He tipped his hat pleasantly. He was middle-aged, genial-look- ing, perspiring freely as he crossed the dry ground toward the porch. “Maybe you folks can help me.” “What do you want?” Nat Johnson demanded hoarsely. He was frightened. He watched the creek bed out of the corner of his eye, praying silently. God, if only he stayed away. Jean was breathing quickly, sharp little gasps. She was terrified. Dave’s face was expressionless, but all color had drained from it. “Who are you?” Nat demanded.