Stephen Jones - The Mammoth Book of Terror

Well, thought Victor, maybe I was wrong. Look at the big guy now. He can’t run away from it, either. But it could be he doesn’t want to. He’s got them, and they’ll stick by him no matter what. Lucky, I guess. What’s his secret?

Out on the sidewalk passers-by hurried on their way, a look of expectation and dread glazing their eyes. Victor picked up his coffee. It was almost hot enough to taste.

There was another burst of ringing.

He braced himself, not knowing what to expect. He scanned the doorway.

But this time it was not a customer. It was the telephone.

Jolene reached across the counter, pushing dirty dishes out of the way. One of the milkshake glasses teetered and smashed to the floor. At the end of the counter, the pensioner jumped as though the spirit of Christmas past had just lain its withered fingers on the back of his neck.

“What?” Jolene balanced the receiver. “I’m sorry, there’s so much – yes. I said yes. Hold on.” She passed the phone to Victor. “It’s for you,” she said.

“It is?”

“Sure is,” she said. “I can’t tell if it’s a—”

“Yes?”

“Victor?”

“Yeah?”

“Vic!” said the reedy voice on the line.“Great to get ahold of you, finally! This is Rex. Rex Christian!”

“Really?” said Victor, stunned.

“Yup. Look, I’ll be passing through your town in about, oh, say an hour. I was just wondering. Are you free tonight, by any chance?”

“Uh, sure, Re . . .”

“Don’t say my name!”

“Okay,” said Victor.

“I’m on my way from a meeting in San Francisco. Traveling incognito, you might say. You don’t know how people can be if the word gets out. So I’d appreciate it if, you know, you don’t let on who you’re talking to. Understand?”

“I understand.” It must be hard, he thought, being a celebrity.

“I knew you would.”

Victor cupped his hand around the mouthpiece. The old man from the end of the counter fumbled money from his coin purse and staggered out. Victor tried to say the right things. He wasn’t ready. However, he remembered how to get to his own house. He gave directions from Highway 1, speaking as clearly and calmly as he could.

“Who was that?” asked Jolene when he had hung up.

“Nobody,” said Victor.

“What?”

“A friend, I mean. He . . .”

“He what?”

“I’ve got to . . . meet him. I forgot.”

Her expression, held together until now by nervous anticipation, wilted before his eyes. The tension left her; her posture sagged. Suddenly she looked older, overweight, lumpen. He did not know what to say.

He grabbed his gloves and made ready to leave. She smoothed her apron, head down, hiding a tic, and then made a great effort to face him. The smile was right but the lines were deeper than ever before.

“Call me?” she said. “If you want to. It’s up to you. I don’t care.”

“Jolene . . .”

“No, really! I couldn’t take the cold tonight, anyway. I – I hope you have a nice meeting. I can tell it’s important.”

“Business,” he said. “You know.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

She forced a laugh. “What on earth for? Don’t you worry.”

He nodded, embarrassed.

“Take care of yourself,” she said.

You deserve better, he thought, than me, Jolene.

“You, too,” he said. “I didn’t plan it this way. Please believe . . .”

“I believe you. Now get going or you’ll be late.”

He felt relieved. He felt awful. He felt woefully unprepared. But at least he felt something.

All the way home the hidden river ran at his side, muffled by the reeds but no longer distant. This time he noticed that there were secret voices in the waters, talking to themselves and to each other, to the night with the tongues of wild children on their way back to the sea.

Now he considered the possibility that they might be talking to him.

Victor unlocked the old house and fired up the heater. He had little chance to clean. By the time he heard the car he was covered with a cold sweat, and his stomach, which he had neglected to feed, constricted in a hopeless panic.

He parted the bathroom curtains.

The car below was long and sleek. A limousine? No, but it was a late-model sedan, a full-size Detroit tank with foglights.

A man climbed out, lugging a briefcase, and made for the front of the house.

Victor ran downstairs and flung open the door.

He saw a child approaching in the moonlight. It was the same person he had seen leave the shadow of the car. From the upstairs window the figure had appeared deceptively foreshortened.

The boy came into the circle of the porchlight, sticking his chin out and grinning rows of pearly teeth.

“Vic?”

Victor was confused.

Then he saw.

It was not a child, after all.

“I’m Rex Christian,” said the dwarf, extending a stubby hand. “Glad to meet you!”

The hand felt cold and compressed as a rubber ball in Victor’s grip. He released it with an involuntary shudder. He cleared his throat.

“Come on in. I . . . I’ve been expecting you.”

The visitor wobbled to an overstuffed chair and bounced up onto the cushion. His round-toed shoes jutted out in front of him.

“So! This is where one of my biggest fans lives!”

“I guess so,” said Victor. “This is it.”

“Great! It’s perfect!”

On the stained wall, a grandfather clock sliced at the thick air.

“Can I get you something?” Victor’s own voice sounded hollow in his ears. “Like something to drink?”

“I’d settle for a beer. Just one, though. I want to keep a clear head.”

Beer, thought Victor. Let me see . . . He couldn’t think. He looked away. The small face, the monkey mouth were too much for him. He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

“You owe me, remember?”

“What?”

“The beer. In your letter you said—”

“Oh. Oh, yeah. Just a minute.”

Victor went to the kitchen. By the time he returned he had replayed his visitor’s words in his mind until he recognized the rhythm. Everything the dwarf – midget, whatever he was – had said so far fit the style. There was no doubt about it. For better or worse, the person in the other room was in fact Rex Christian. The enormity of the occasion finally hit him. Setting the bottles on the coffee table between them, he almost knocked one over.

My time has come, he thought. My problems are about to be over. My prayers have been answered.

“This must be pretty far out of the way for you,” Victor said.

“Not at all! Thanks for the invitation.”

“Yeah,” said Victor. “I mean, no. I mean . . .”

And in that instant he saw himself, this house, his life as it really was for the first time. He was overwhelmed with self-consciousness and shame.

“Did . . . did you have any trouble finding the place?”

“Nope. Followed your directions. Perfect!”

Victor studied the virgules in the carpet, trying to find his next words there.

Rex Christian leaned forward in his chair. The effort nearly doubled him over.

“Look, I know what it’s like for you.”

“You do?”

“Believe me, I do. That’s my business, isn’t it? I’ve seen it all before.”

Rex sat back and took a long pull from the tall bottle. His Adam’s apple rolled like a ball bearing in his throat.

“You must know a lot about people,” said Victor.

“Never enough. That’swhy I take a trip like this, at least once a year.” He chortled. “I rent a car, visit folks like you all over the country. It’s a way of paying them back. Plus it helps me with my research.”

“I see.” There was an awkward pause. “You . . . you said you were in San Francisco. On business. Was that part of this year’s trip?”