Wilson Tucker - The Long Loud Silence

Gary accompanied Hoffman late that afternoon when the farmer took his son's body to a snow-covered hill for burial. He offered to help but was politely turned down, and told the farmer he would go along anyway to keep watch — one of them should keep their eyes open that far from the house.

He said nothing more while the silent man dug the grave, knowing that his remark would take root. When the grave was completed and the body ready for burial, the remainder of the family joined the two of them on the hillside, and Hoffman opened an old family Bible. Gary stood a short distance away, his cap off, listening to the halting words and the weeping of the bereaved mother. He slowly and silently paced the hill, continually watching the fields around them and seeing to it that his watch crossed and recrossed the vision of the farmer. That too would take root.

He felt no remorse over the boy's death for the boy had meant nothing to him; his stomach was full — overly full — for the first time since he had left the fisherman's cabin on the Florida beach; and he knew a vast satisfaction and a return of his old cockiness. Completely without cynicism or qualms of conscience he was putting on an act, an act designed to win him a warm winter home. He counted on the farmer's noticing it and bringing up the matter first.

The brief service over, they returned to the house.

By the next morning he had it.

Hoffman brought it up over the breakfast table. “Sandy tells me you're a soldier? In the army?”

“I was — yes. I was attached to the Fifth Army in Chicago, before the bombing. But they wouldn't let me come across the river to rejoin them.” He reached for another helping.

“Them devils don't let nobody across. I know a couple of fellas who tried it.” He paused. “You a good shot?”

“Yes,” Gary answered frankly. “Sharpshooter. Why?”

“I want to offer you a job — I ain't forgetting what we owe you.”

Gary grinned across the table at him. “Mr. Hoffman, I told you, you don't owe me a thing. And as for the job — I've never worked on a farm in my life I can't milk a cow.”

“Wouldn't expect you to — we can take care of that. It'll be hard doing without Lee next summer, but we can take care of that. You would take care of the soldiering.”

“What?” He stopped eating.

“Be our lookout, our guard. What do they call them in the army? Sentry. We've had one blamed thief after another around here, day in and day out. They've been robbing us blind, and I can't run the place and keep chasing them too. That would be your job — keeping thieves off the place.”

“Well… I don't know what to say. I sort of figured on going down south for the winter…”

“I can't pay you nothing,” Hoffman continued. “Not in money. We ain't got none left and you couldn't spend it anyway. But we can offer you a good home and the best eating in this part of the country; my wife's a fine cook!”

Gary glanced at the woman and then the two children. “I'd certainly like to, Mr. Hoffman, but—”

“Please?” Sandy broke in.

He glanced down the table to find the girl shyly smiling at him, a pleading invitation in her eyes.

“Do you really want me to stay, Sandy?”

She nodded eagerly. “Pretty please?”

“Well…” He scratched his ragged beard, pretending to consider it. Finally his gaze swung back to Hoffman. “Oh well, all right.” And then he added quickly, “Until spring, anyway.”

“Fine! Believe me, we're glad to hear it — all of us. Now eat up. You've got to put on some weight.”

“Can I borrow a razor?” Gary asked. “And if you have a pair of scissors handy I'd like to trim off this hair. I haven't been to a barbershop in a long time.”

Staring at his newly pale image in the yellowed mirror later that morning, he winked at the lathered man in the glass. “Very neat, Corporal Gary.” The image agreed.

Gary studied the terrain about the farm buildings, conscious of the one blind approach to their defenses. Beyond the barn the ground fell away sharply, a rough pasture land that dipped down to a frozen creek nearly three-quarters of a mile away. Anyone approaching from that direction need only keep the barn between himself and the house, to be able to come very near without detection. Gary found baling wire in a machine shed and strung trippers across the slope beyond the barn, fastening a rusty cowbell to the outermost wire. The next snow would hide everything from sight.

He set up a pattern of watching at night and sleeping during the day, knowing from experience that the most dangerous marauders would approach only under cover of darkness. In his nightly prowling he looked for and expected every trick of the trade that he himself had practiced, knowing there were men out there as smart as he, and as hungry as he had been. Awake at night and sleeping during the day, but still unwilling to miss the day's hot meals, he had himself awakened for each of them. And after dusk he stalked about the deserted land, prying around the buildings, alert for sight or sound of any moving thing. The farmer's family slept soundly, trusting him.

Gary came into the house one evening just at bedtime, just as Sandy was snapping off the radio. The illumination was slowly dying behind the transparent dial and he watched it fade with startled eyes.

“That thing works! ”

“What?” Hoffman turned around. “Oh — sure it does. Didn't you know it?” The farmer shrugged. “Ain't worth a dang, though. All the time them silly comics is blabbering, and it's always selling something we can't buy.”

“But how?” Gary demanded impatiently, indicating the single, flickering kerosene lamp the farmer held in his hand. “Where do you get the electricity for a radio over here?”

“The windmill — Lee fixed it up for us last winter.”

“What about the windmill?”

“The boy fixed it, he was a mighty smart kid — knew his way around with electricity and machinery. He hooked a generator up to the windmill somehow. I don't know how he did it — if it ever goes out of whack, that'll be the end of it. Lee was a good kid. It plays all right as long as the wind holds out. Kinda fades away, sometimes.”

“A radio!” Gary was fascinated with it. “Well I'll be damned — a radio right here in the house with me and I never knew it worked.” He went over to it, caressed the cabinet with his fingers and let his nails flick the glass of the dial. “I want to play it.”

“Help yourself,” Hoffman returned. “Kinda keep it down though, will you? The wife's a light sleeper.”

“What? Oh, sure, sure.” The cabinet felt hot under his hand. “Sure.”

Hoffman turned away. “Good night.”

Gary was too entranced with the set to answer. The farmer left, carrying with him the only kerosene lamp and the room was plunged into darkness. Sandy's voice was audible for a few seconds and then the bedroom door slammed, cutting off her words and the last stray gleam of the light.

Impatiently, Gary flung back the blackout curtains at the windows, letting in the faint light of the clouded moon and reflected snow. He never used a light. The night outside was cold and quiet. He ran back to the radio, sank to his knees before it and excitedly twisted the knob which furnished electric current. The small dial gained life, bringing the imprinted numbers into sharp relief and bringing a hum to the speaker. His burning eagerness to hear stopped his fingers, made him aware of the peculiar thrill the glow and sound had given him. A year, a year and a half ago, this was nothing, but now it was everything. This was next to life itself. This was people somewhere on the other side of the river, healthy people, safe people, talking to each other and continuing their lives. This was civilization, and sanity, and warmth, and food, this was one man on friendly terms with the next. This was what he had lost a long time ago and despaired of ever having again.