Jesse Ball - Samedi the Deafness

— What was it? he asked.

— Leonard, she said. Leonard Mayne. And if you want the pills, he kept them in the box under the bed. Six different kinds. A real big shot.

She spat openly on the ground.

— I'm glad he's dead, she said.

From the door, the boy had watched the whole scene. He looked at James with a kind of happy awe.

— Is he gone, is he really gone? he asked.

— Yeah, kid, he's gone, said James.

2 Verit Street, again

Once, at the zoo, when he was a small boy, James had watched his older brother torture a large monkey. The monkey, some kind of chimpanzee, had bounded around its cage squealing, as James's brother threw rocks. His brother had a good arm, and many of the rocks struck the monkey, knocking it down repeatedly. In fact, James remembered how bloody it had been. He had never seen so much blood. When his parents came, they took James and his brother away, and left the zoo immediately, without a word. The incident was never spoken of, but when James's brother was run over by a bus less than a week later, James was sure he knew why.

The system of connections between things that brought about such a reprisal seemed to James somewhat visible, though it was not ever spoken of by others. He governed his actions carefully, according to the dictates of this system, being cautious to take into account the postulated feelings even of inanimate objects and carapaced insects.

James hurried away from the building. He had feared that the first man would still be there at the foot of the stair to laugh at him, but this fear was groundless; the man was gone when he reached the door.

Prudently, he did not go to look at the scene of Mayne's death. He had, after all, stood a moment in the window and might easily be recognized.

Was Leonard Mayne the same as Estrainger? Now that he had time to think it through, he remembered that Estrainger was supposed to have been older, fifty or sixty years old. It was certainly not the same man. But now James would have to keep away from 2 Verit Street. Did he feel even a little bad about causing the man's death? No, no, thought James. The boy had been so happy. Certainly a boy could not be made happy over James having done a truly bad thing. The woman had not been happy, but she had not been sad either. Her worry was the worry of now having to decide what to do next. Ultimately, yes, James said to himself in a conciliatory fashion, you have acted well today, yes, rather well.

But he knew too that he had made an awful mess of things. Just then, he reached the station. A newspaper stand was beside the turnstile. He could make out the headline.

SECOND THREAT FROM SAMEDI

James bought the newspaper and, when the train came, got into the third subway car.

SECOND WHITE HOUSE SUICIDE DRAWS INCREASED CONCERN

Washington, September 28: A man's suicide yesterday outside the gates of the White House renewed investigations by federal authorities into the possible existence of a potentially dangerous religious cult. The demise of the man, Albrecht Moran of Bethesda, mirrors that of William Goshen, a local psychologist who slashed his own throat in the same location on Sunday.

Moran, a distinguished professor of political science and philosophy in his home country of Ireland, had recently submitted an application, pending at the time of his death, for American citizenship.

Like Goshen, Moran's body was found with a cryptic note, signed by an entity called “Samedi.”

DAY THE SECOND

MAN LIVES THE WAY HE WANTS TO LIVE. WHEN HIS WANTS CHANGE, SO TOO CHANGE HIS METHODS, SO TOO CHANGE HIS CONDITIONS. WE LIVE THUS NOT BECAUSE WE MUST, BUT BECAUSE WE HAVE LEARNED TO. BUT THERE ARE OTHER WAYS THAT CAN BE LEARNED. AN EXAMPLE IS TO BE MADE HERE. THOSE WHO HAVE BEEN DEAF SHALL BE DEAF. A PLACE SHALL BE MADE FOR THOSE WHO HAVE WAITED IN THE EAVES.

SAMEDI

A handwriting analysis confirmed that the two notes came from the same hand.

No connection has been found between the two men, apart from their high degree of education. Any threat posed by “Samedi” is currently being considered “not a high priority,” according to White House officials.

James held the Phone Book Open

and sat upon his bed. The phone book read:

Seph, Yaqin 546-445-4493 Sepwin, Russell 546-948-3321 Sepwith, Morris 492-889-0093 Sepwith, Nancy Smith 492-337-3309 Sepwith, Shep 492-349-8893 Seril, M. 492-228-3384 Seril, Theodore 393-818-0989 Seril, Wendy 492-349-2304 Sermon, Bill 492-405-4483 Sermon, Dr. L. N. Xavier 492-817-8717 Sernick, Anthony 492-576-4004 Sernick, Elinore 546-298-3038 Sernick, William 492-889-5807

Sermon , thought James to himself. That's the lead. He closed the phone book, gathered himself a moment, and called the number. It rang once, and was picked up.

— Office of Dr. Xavier Sermon. This is reception.

— Yes, I'd like to make an appointment.

— The Doctor does not take any forms of health insurance, also he insists on seeing patients only during weekday afternoons. We have a spot open tomorrow afternoon, well, let me see, three. How is three? Can you do three?

— Three is fine. The address?

— Forty-nine Octavo Place. That's at the corner of the park. We're on the third floor. What is your name?

— Caleb Morton.

— And. . phone number, in case anything changes.

— I don't have a phone. But I'll be there at that time.

— Well, actually, you should come fifteen minutes early, because the Doctor will want you to fill out a form with your previous history, etc., and a description of the present ailment.

— Then at quarter to, said James. Good-bye.

— Have a good day, Mr. Morton, said the receptionist cheerfully.

James was alone in the room again. It occurred to him that things were happening very slowly. What would Thomas McHale think, were he still alive? What had McHale's plan been, anyway? Presumably to go to the police. McHale knew all the details; he had been a conspirator; he would be believed. What did James know? Nothing. And now he certainly could not go to the police — he would have to explain the suicide of Mayne.

He picked up the newspaper again and read through the front-page article, entitled “Identity of Samedi Unknown.”

It seemed the police, the FBI, the government in general, had little to go on, and were so far unsuccessful in their hunt.

There was a short letter to the editor saying that Samedi was really no threat at all. It was the position of that writer that the newspaper should under no circumstances continue to publish the letters.

That's foolishness, thought James. The letters are clearly news, and as long as they continue to be, the newspaper will print them. He turned to the next page. It was an extensive article on the work of handwriting analysis that had been done on the notes.

A profile of Samedi followed, describing him as: an older man, highly educated, vain, used to having his own way. Certainly wealthy, perhaps born to wealth. Right-handed, or ambidextrous, with an injury to the right wrist. Exceptionally long fingers. A nonsmoker. Most likely no history of criminal involvement.

The phone rang. James picked it up.

— Excuse me, this is Dr. Sermon's office calling to confirm an appointment for tomorrow afternoon at three o'clock.

— Please do not call this number, said James. It's my work, and they're very touchy about such things.

He hung up the phone.

Immediately, he thought, I have not gone to work in two days.

Then he thought, Going to work now would be useless.

At that Moment, the Doorbell Rang