Peter Straub - If You Could See Me Now

For days I did nothing but work; and I worked undisturbed, for it seemed that no one would talk to me. Apart from her morning demonstrations of how much noise she could produce, Tuta Sunderson was silent; Duane kept away, even turning his head so he would not have to look at me on the infrequent times he passed the old farmhouse. His; daughter, presumably beaten or warned off in a less physical manner, also avoided me. Sometimes, from my bedroom window I could see her criss-crossing the path to go to the equipment barn or the granary, her body looking rushed and inexpressive, but she never appeared downstairs in the kitchen or on the porch, chewing something from my larder. At night, I was of awakened from dozing at my desk, the martini glass beside me and the pencil still in my hand, by the sound of Zack’s motorcycle cutting off when it came parallel to me. I wrote. I dozed. I drank. I accumulated guilt. I hoped that soon the Michalskis would get a postcard from their vanished daughter. I hoped that Polar Bears was right, and that it would soon be over. I often wanted to leave.

At night, I experienced fear.

Rinn had given up answering her telephone, and I kept telling myself that I would visit her tomorrow. But that too I feared. The anonymous calls ceased, both from Onion Breath and from the — whatever the other thing was. Perhaps there was a fault in the old telephone.

I received no more blank letters, and only one more bit of fan mail. It was printed on lined paper with torn perforations along one side, and it read WE’LL GET YOU KILLER. I put it in an envelope and mailed it with a note to Polar Bears.

It seemed to me that I had died.

Many times, I thought: you were wrong, back at the quarry. That he had Coke bottles in his truck is no proof; the doorknob taken from wherever I had put it is no proof. And then I thought of him slicing open his hand.

I said: it is not your problem. And then thought of his dedicating a record “to the lost ones.”

And thought of Alison Greening coming toward me, a creature of sewn leaves and bark. But the thoughts which followed this could not be true.

It was impossible to talk with Polar Bears. He did not respond to my note or to the printed threat.

When the telephone finally rang on a Monday afternoon, I thought it would be Hovre, but when I was greeted by another voice pronouncing my name, I thought of a bent hungry man with tight curling black hair and aging face. “Miles,” he said. “You told me to call you if I ever wanted help.” His voice was dry and papery.

“Yes.”

“I have to get out of here. I’m out of food. I lied to you that day — I said I went out, but I hadn’t in a long time.”

“I know.”

“Who told you?” Fear made his voice trill.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“No. No, it probably doesn’t. But I can’t stay in town any more. I think they’re going to do something. Now even more of them are watching my house, and sometimes I see them talking, planning. I think they’re planning to break in. I’m afraid they’ll kill me. And I haven’t had anything to eat for two days. If — if I can get away can I come there?”

“Of course. You can stay here. I can get a gun.”

“They all have guns, guns are no use… I just have to get away from them.” During the pauses I could hear him gasping.

“Your car doesn’t work. How can you get here?”

“I’ll walk. I’ll hide in the ditches or the fields if I see anyone. Tonight.”

“It’s ten miles!”

“It’s the only way I can do it.” Then, with that ghastly wanness, that dead humor in his voice, “I don’t think anyone will give me a ride.”

About nine-thirty, when the light began to fail, I started to expect him, though I knew that he could not possibly arrive for many hours. I walked around the old house, peering from the upstairs windows for the sight of him working his way across the fields. At , when it was fully dark, I turned on only one light — in my study — so that he would not be seen crossing the lawn. Then I sat on the porch swing and waited.

It took him four hours. At two o’clock I heard something rustle in the ditch behind the walnut tress, and my head jerked up and I saw him moving across the ripped lawn. “I’m on the porch,” I whispered, and opened the door for him.

Even in the darkness, I could see that he was exhausted. “Stay away from the windows,” I said, and led him into the kitchen. I turned on the light. He was slumped at the table, panting, his clothing covered with smears of dirt and bits of adhering straw. “Did anyone see you?” He shook his head. “Let me get you some food.”

“Please,” he whispered.

While I fried bacon and eggs, he stayed in that bea position, his eyes fluttering, his back bent and his knees splayed out. I gave him a glass of water. “My feet hurt so much,” he said. “And my side. I fell into a rock.”

“Did anyone see you leave?”

“I wouldn’t be here if they did.”

I let him recover while the eggs fried.

“Do you have any cigarettes? I ran out six days ago.”

I tossed in my pack. “Jesus, Miles…“he said, and could go no further. “Jesus…”

“Save it,” I said. “Your food’s about ready. Eat some bread in the meantime.” He had been too tired to notice the loaf set squarely in the middle of the table. “Jesus…” he repeated, and began to tear at the loaf. When I put the food down before him, he ate greedily, silently, like an escaped convict.

When he had finished I turned off the light and we went into the living room and felt our way to chairs. I could see the tip of his cigarette burning in the dark room, tilting back and forth as he moved in the rocker. “Do you have anything to drink? Excuse me, Miles. You’re saving my life.” I think he began to cry, and I was glad the lights were off. I went back to the kitchen and returned with a bottle and two glasses.

“That’s good,” he said when he had taken his. “What is it?”

“Gin.”

“I never had it before. My mother wouldn’t let alcohol in the house, and I never wanted to go to the bars. We never had anything stronger than beer. And that was only once or twice. She died of lung cancer. She was a chainsmoker. Like me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“What are you going to do now, Paul?”

“I don’t know. Go somewhere. Hide. Try to get to a city somewhere. Come back when it’s over.” Cigarette glowing with his inhalations, dipping forward and back as he rocked. “There was another one, another girl. She disappeared.”

“I know.”

“That’s why they were going to come for me. She’s been missing more than a week. I heard about it. on the radio.”

“Michael Moose.”

“That’s it.” He gave a crackly humorless laugh. “You probably don’t know Michael Moose. He’s about three hundred and fifty pounds and he chews peppermints. He’s grotesque. He’s got flat slicked-down hair and pig’s eyes and a little moustache like Oliver Hardy’s. He’s right out of Babbitt , He imitates Walter Cronkite’s voice, and he’d never get a job anywhere but Arden, and kids laugh at him on the street, but he’s better than I am. To Arden. They think he’s funny-looking, and they make jokes about him, but they respect him too. Maybe that’s too strong. What it is, they take him as one of them. And do you know why that is?”

“Why?”

His voice was flat and bitter. “Because when he was growing up they knew he went out on dates, they know the girls, and because he got married. Because they know, or say, that he’s got a woman over in Blundell who’s a telephone operator. Red hair.” The cigarette waved in the air, and I could dimly see Paul Kant raising the glass of gin to his lips. “That’s it. He’s one of them. You know what my crime is?” I held my breath. “I never had a date. I never had a girl. I never told a dirty joke. I never even had a dead girl, like you, Miles. So they thought I was — what they thought. Different. Not like them. Like something bad they knew about.”