George Mills Part 14

They had nothing to say. The physical and supernatural planes might be synchronous and contiguous, but the dead, by dying, had created a breach which could not be mended, only smoothed over there in the semidark, glossed by politeness and the trivial courtesies. They were like people lined up to talk to each other over the long-distance telephone on the occasion of national feast days or the junctures and set pieces of private commemorative.

"How are you, son?"

"Fine. I'm fine."

"We miss you."

"I miss you, too."

"Mother couldn't come with me."

"How is Mother?"

"Not real well. She still can't get over that you were taken from us. She sorrows so."

"Tell Mother not to sorrow."

He didn't even need the coaching and background information Kinsley had supplied him with, pa.s.sing the time of day with these people as he had with dozens of strangers. Indeed, the aloofness and love which dovetailed nicely on their synchronous and contiguous planes seemed precisely the tone to take by survivor and ghost alike.

Sometimes-this happened less frequently than he would have thought-a client was dissatisfied with his generalities and tried to get him to be more specific, even to trap him.

"Bob, is that you?"

"Yes," George said.

"What was the name of that cat you found?"

"I don't recall."

"You don't recall? You paid more attention to that cat than you did to your brothers and sisters."

"I don't remember any cat. It was too long ago."

"Too long ago? It was only last year."

"It was when I was alive. I don't remember any cat."

Then they both cried.

It was the same even when his mother called on him. He gave her no more than he had given the others. Evidently it was enough. Only for George it was not enough. One night he volunteered information, then asked his question.

"I met someone you know. Bennett Prettyman?"

"It was very sad about Bennett."

"He thinks you're lovely. He says you're very beautiful. He wanted you to stop by with George and see his show. I think he was sweet on you, Mother."

"Poor Bennett," his mother said.

"Were you sweet on him, too?" George asked.

"Of course not, Janet," his mother said.

"Sometimes," George said, "I don't know how I think up what to say."

"It's because you're inspired," Kinsley told him. "You're a true vehicle, George. It's no fake. You have real powers. The spirits guide you. They wouldn't let you misrepresent them."

He told Reverend Wickland what Kinsley had said. (He was still seeing Wickland, spilling the beans.) "He thinks it's real," George told him, "that I'm not even faking when I say I'm their wife or daughter or fiancee killed in the war."

"Let's have a seance," Wickland said.

"I'm working tonight."

"Not tonight, now."

"It's not even dark in here."

"Not here, outside. In the air. On the bench. I'm going to show you your sister."

They went to the small square where George had stood with his parents over two years earlier. The palm might have been a statue of itself, a memorial like a doughboy or Civil War cannon. No longer strange nor quite yet familiar, George suspected it had the ability to proclaim the seasons, something shifted in the configuration of its pods or missing from its leaves, its long bark wrappings, its careful shadow legible as a sun dial. He regretted that he had not observed it more closely.

Wickland was seated on the little bench.

"You don't play here much," he said.

"No," George said, his back to the reverend. He was browsing the h.o.a.rding.

"No. Who would there be to play with?"

The boy wheeled about swiftly. "Is my--?" Wickland was alone on the bench. "Oh."

"No, not yet," he said. "By and by. There's got to be a buildup. Didn't those other swamis tease you a bit before the main event? Let's just chat."

"We've already chatted," George said.

"Anyone would think you'd been close to your sister," Wickland said.

"I just want to see if you can do it."

Wickland shrugged. "Jack Sunshine may be a little miffed you didn't throw in with him when you turned professional. He puts it out you're a midget."

George laughed. "He thinks about midgets a lot."

"His father was one."

"Really?" George said. "No kidding."

"Jack was born in Ca.s.sadaga," Wickland said.

"He did what I I do!" George said suddenly. do!" George said suddenly.

"Jack? I don't think so. For a while, I suppose, he may have a.s.sisted, but-"

"No," George said impatiently, "not him, not Jack, the father. He was a control. He did what I do!"

"Larry?"

"Right. Larry. He was a control. He was with the circus. Then he came here to Ca.s.sadaga. He met the mother here. I don't know how he managed the courting. He did what I I do. I mean I guess it would be pretty tough if you're supposed to be this disembodied control and then you fall in love with one of your customers and you have to explain that the next time she sees you you'll be just like everyone else, only shorter. But he must have figured out something to tell her, because they were married and had Jack!" do. I mean I guess it would be pretty tough if you're supposed to be this disembodied control and then you fall in love with one of your customers and you have to explain that the next time she sees you you'll be just like everyone else, only shorter. But he must have figured out something to tell her, because they were married and had Jack!"

"You see it very clearly," Wickland said.

Yes, he thought. He'd told Wickland what he'd told Kinsley, that he didn't know how he thought up what to say. Calling him Jack like that. The other stuff. Kinsley said he was inspired, that spirits guided him, that he was a true vehicle, that he had powers. Yes, he thought. Yes.

"I do," he said, "yes. Once you told me his father was a midget then that explained why--"

"Why?"

"It explains why he's so sour on--Wait. I did see it clearly. Only I didn't see all of it. What could could he say? I mean if she was here to get comforted by visiting some dead person, then it would be pretty hard to take that the fellow who was tricking you one minute was in love with you the next. So she couldn't have known he was a control. She didn't do business with him. She just thought he was--She thought he was just-- he say? I mean if she was here to get comforted by visiting some dead person, then it would be pretty hard to take that the fellow who was tricking you one minute was in love with you the next. So she couldn't have known he was a control. She didn't do business with him. She just thought he was--She thought he was just-- "Maybe he'd seen her around town, maybe sitting right here on this bench, and he told her that that was why he was here himself, that he'd lost someone very dear to him too, and still wasn't over it, but almost was, nearly was, and just wanted to get in contact one last time to say good-by because the departed may have died suddenly or gone out of town and there'd been no real chance to say farewell by the book, which is what Kinsley says is all a lot of them really want. Sure," George said, "and I know from other stuff he's told me that there used to be more repeat trade than there is today. Probably the roads weren't as good, the distance to De Land would have been greater back then, so they had to have somewhere to stay, to put up." He indicated the little neighborhood of a town. "Wait. I know. Some of these places must have been boarding houses before they ever got to be haunted houses, and he knew, Jack's father did, that she'd be around for a while and they started seeing each other, but only during the daylight hours because he couldn't let her know that he was in the business. Not after what he'd told her he couldn't. So then maybe he told her he'd seen whoever it was that he'd come to see because she still couldn't tell him. him. Not if she liked him she couldn't, because then she wouldn't have any excuse to stay on, and if he told Not if she liked him she couldn't, because then she wouldn't have any excuse to stay on, and if he told her her first that was the equal of saying he liked her without really saying it. Because he was, you know, shy, being so little and all, and would naturally be afraid of saying it straight out. So that was the way they courted, asking each other if they'd seen the spook yet, and Larry, Jack's father, gradually working up his nerve to tell her well, yes, as a matter of fact he had, needing the nerve because he was afraid she'd say 'Well, aren't you the lucky little man?' or something even meaner. first that was the equal of saying he liked her without really saying it. Because he was, you know, shy, being so little and all, and would naturally be afraid of saying it straight out. So that was the way they courted, asking each other if they'd seen the spook yet, and Larry, Jack's father, gradually working up his nerve to tell her well, yes, as a matter of fact he had, needing the nerve because he was afraid she'd say 'Well, aren't you the lucky little man?' or something even meaner.

"But one day he just did. He said it. And she said 'I did too, Larry,' and that was that."

"Was it?" Wickland said.

"Well sure," George said. "Oh, you mean what would he do now? I mean about telling her he was in the business. He'd still have to tell her. You're right, she'd have to know. He had to come up with something fast because he had to go to work that night. He didn't have the excuse anymore that he was just going around the corner to the seance, and she'd be free, too, of course, so whatever he told her he'd have to tell her right off. Yes, I see. But he couldn't. He'd just told her he'd said good-by to the specter. There wasn't anything he could say that could put all those lies he'd told her in a good light. I mean he was so small. small. He was already at all the disadvantage he could afford. There was nothing he could say. Unless..." Yes, he thought again. I He was already at all the disadvantage he could afford. There was nothing he could say. Unless..." Yes, he thought again. I do do have powers. It's all these psychics. Maybe they're carriers. "Unless she already knew. Sure," George said, "she knew. But not that he was a control. These were the olden days. Controls were lowered on ropes from the ceilings or rose from the cellars like organs in theaters. That was the old style. They didn't have sound effects or trick lighting. They didn't sit up on chairs like I do. So she already knew. But he have powers. It's all these psychics. Maybe they're carriers. "Unless she already knew. Sure," George said, "she knew. But not that he was a control. These were the olden days. Controls were lowered on ropes from the ceilings or rose from the cellars like organs in theaters. That was the old style. They didn't have sound effects or trick lighting. They didn't sit up on chairs like I do. So she already knew. But he wasn't wasn't a control. He was the medium. And she wasn't a customer. You don't fall in love with the customers. Most of the time you don't even respect them. You certainly don't let them know you're human!" a control. He was the medium. And she wasn't a customer. You don't fall in love with the customers. Most of the time you don't even respect them. You certainly don't let them know you're human!"

Even to himself he didn't sound like any kid who'd ever lived. He'd picked up their lingo, the conversational Urgent they spoke. He used to be the only kid in Ca.s.sadaga. Now there were none.

"Why couldn't they already have been married?" Wickland asked.

"That's so," George said angrily, "they could." He kicked at one of the fallen palm pods. "d.a.m.n," he said, "they could." And he wondered what he was going to say next, then he was saying it, his voice raised in that High Urgent that had no proper names in it, the trees and people and animals p.r.o.noun'd and anonymated into the clairvoyant's confrontational style. "No," he said, "no they couldn't. You said he was born here. She was pregnant. You don't make a big move like that until after the baby is born. They weren't married when they came. When they came they--They? There wasn't any they to it. There wasn't any they to it. They They didn't come. didn't come. He He did, the midget. Because he did, the midget. Because he was was a midget. A midget and a medium both. Where else could he go? a midget. A midget and a medium both. Where else could he go? He He came! She was already here! Or in De Land! came! She was already here! Or in De Land!

"He said he had letters. She must have saved them. Of course. She would would have had letters and some would even have been marked have had letters and some would even have been marked Personal, Personal, because people who are upset want to make sure that their mail gets through and probably they figure that if they've put down because people who are upset want to make sure that their mail gets through and probably they figure that if they've put down Personal Personal and drawn a line under it they've warned the authorities and the busybodies at the circus that they mean business. Maybe they even think there's something official about it, that it's an actual aid in sorting the mail and seeing that it goes where it's directed, like sticking on the extra postage that buys special handling. So that wasn't why she saved it. If all she wanted was letters that said and drawn a line under it they've warned the authorities and the busybodies at the circus that they mean business. Maybe they even think there's something official about it, that it's an actual aid in sorting the mail and seeing that it goes where it's directed, like sticking on the extra postage that buys special handling. So that wasn't why she saved it. If all she wanted was letters that said Personal Personal on the envelope she could have had a hope chest full of them. Haven't I read enough mail down here in Ca.s.sadaga to know that people will say anything if they've pencil and paper and a few cents for stamps? That they address letters to the dead or particular saints or even to G.o.d Himself because they've heard and even believe that we're this clearing house for the extraordinary? It wasn't the on the envelope she could have had a hope chest full of them. Haven't I read enough mail down here in Ca.s.sadaga to know that people will say anything if they've pencil and paper and a few cents for stamps? That they address letters to the dead or particular saints or even to G.o.d Himself because they've heard and even believe that we're this clearing house for the extraordinary? It wasn't the Personal Personal that made her keep this one out of all the crazy correspondence that had come her way. It was what was inside. Not the expression of sympathy, because every last letter she ever got would have started with that. That would have been as regulation as the salutation. Even the madmen who wished her an even worse life than the one which had already been visited upon her would first have showered her with their declarations of pity, waiting until all that was out of the way before ever taking up the matter of reproach, blasting her with what would not even occur to them was ill-nature and ill will and citing her 'condition' as evidence that a retributive Lord not only existed but was at all times on His toes, no procrastinative, Second Coming Lord who put off till tomorrow what could just as easily be done today, but an eager beaver early bird G.o.d who didn't care to wait till even today, who did His stuff retroactively, smiting you if He had a mind to in the cradle, in the womb. So it wasn't the sympathy. Maybe she even skipped that part. Probably she wasn't interested until she came to the stuff about the writer's credentials, and maybe she was relieved when she saw that it wasn't a doctor this time because she'd heard from the doctors before, so interested in her 'case,' so sure a particular pill or course of some special serum or amazing, recently discovered diet was just the thing to fix her up. Doctors were quacks, and reverends were worse, because when all was said and done the reverends were usually on the same side as the madmen and believed that the Lord had made her what she was, and that rather than flaunt it she would do better either to hide it away or send it on tour as a warning to others. Proceeds to charity." that made her keep this one out of all the crazy correspondence that had come her way. It was what was inside. Not the expression of sympathy, because every last letter she ever got would have started with that. That would have been as regulation as the salutation. Even the madmen who wished her an even worse life than the one which had already been visited upon her would first have showered her with their declarations of pity, waiting until all that was out of the way before ever taking up the matter of reproach, blasting her with what would not even occur to them was ill-nature and ill will and citing her 'condition' as evidence that a retributive Lord not only existed but was at all times on His toes, no procrastinative, Second Coming Lord who put off till tomorrow what could just as easily be done today, but an eager beaver early bird G.o.d who didn't care to wait till even today, who did His stuff retroactively, smiting you if He had a mind to in the cradle, in the womb. So it wasn't the sympathy. Maybe she even skipped that part. Probably she wasn't interested until she came to the stuff about the writer's credentials, and maybe she was relieved when she saw that it wasn't a doctor this time because she'd heard from the doctors before, so interested in her 'case,' so sure a particular pill or course of some special serum or amazing, recently discovered diet was just the thing to fix her up. Doctors were quacks, and reverends were worse, because when all was said and done the reverends were usually on the same side as the madmen and believed that the Lord had made her what she was, and that rather than flaunt it she would do better either to hide it away or send it on tour as a warning to others. Proceeds to charity."

"Yes," Wickland said. "Proceeds to charity is a good touch."

"But a professor, professor," George said, "a professor was different. She had never even seen seen a professor. She knew about them though. They were the ones who followed truth as if it was a river in New Guinea, who looked for it to come out only where the river itself comes out." He's making me say these things, Mills thought. He puts these words in my mouth. "And this one was going to get to the bottom of things. Or no, if all he had promised was just to get to the bottom of things, she'd probably have disposed of this letter as she'd disposed of the others. What he really said was that a professor. She knew about them though. They were the ones who followed truth as if it was a river in New Guinea, who looked for it to come out only where the river itself comes out." He's making me say these things, Mills thought. He puts these words in my mouth. "And this one was going to get to the bottom of things. Or no, if all he had promised was just to get to the bottom of things, she'd probably have disposed of this letter as she'd disposed of the others. What he really said was that together together they would get to the bottom of things. He needed her help. Which already was not only twice as much as what the others had asked for but something she could actually give. they would get to the bottom of things. He needed her help. Which already was not only twice as much as what the others had asked for but something she could actually give.

"But I don't think that even then she would have taken it upon herself to write back 'Sure, come on down.' She would have wanted certain things cleared up first, certain nagging doubts put to rest that this time had nothing whatever to do with the age-old question 'Why me?' For one thing, she'd have wanted to know what a lusus naturae lusus naturae was before they went any further. was before they went any further.

" 'My dear lady, lusus naturae lusus naturae is Latin for freak. I myself am a is Latin for freak. I myself am a lusus naturae. lusus naturae.'

"So," George said, "not only a professor but a fellow lusus naturae lusus naturae as well! And one, furthermore-though she'd noted this before it still touched her-who signed his name to his mail and provided a return address. What could she as well! And one, furthermore-though she'd noted this before it still touched her-who signed his name to his mail and provided a return address. What could she do do but write back? but write back?

" 'What sort of lusus naturae? lusus naturae?'

" 'I am a tiny fellow, dear lady, a midget.'

"So not only a professor and fellow lusus naturae lusus naturae but a but a lusus naturae lusus naturae who for all his smallness stood at the upper levels and very heights of who for all his smallness stood at the upper levels and very heights of lusus naturae lusus naturae respectability. respectability.

"Until the letters-sure he has letters, of course he has letters-made quite a tidy correspondence, thick as a book perhaps, or a packet of love letters. Which is what they were. Probably she never even got the chance to write the one that said 'Sure, come on down.' Or their letters crossed in the mail, his, the one that said he was on his way, the one in which he proposed. They might even have been married by the time hers had been returned to sender.

"I don't know if she ever worked with him as a control or not. All I know is that 'the young fourteen-year-old girl with the gray hair and withered body of an old woman' must have been the one who gave Jack Sunshine his height!"

"Is that what you see?" Wickland asked.

"Boy oh boy," George said. "I do. I really enjoyed our chat."

He was pleased with himself. He had raised the dead, momentarily held them aloft on the energy of concentration, argument and the polar shifts of alternative. He was convinced and wondered if he had convinced Wickland. But Wickland knew knew what had happened and was beyond his arguments. And suddenly, simply by knowing something George didn't, the reverend seemed smug, and George began to understand something about the nature of the place he had lived in for over two years now. Nowhere he would ever live would be so what had happened and was beyond his arguments. And suddenly, simply by knowing something George didn't, the reverend seemed smug, and George began to understand something about the nature of the place he had lived in for over two years now. Nowhere he would ever live would be so theoretical. theoretical. Ca.s.sadaga was a sort of stump, a kind of congress. It was somewhere one could orate, a neighborhood of debate. (Perhaps that was why there were no stores or restaurants, no schools or hotels, only this little square of the civic.) All, all longed to be heroes of life, even Wickland, even himself. Now the reverend would show him his sister. She would go up like fireworks and now he'd be wowed. It was simple, really. One lived by sequence, by a sort of Ca.s.sadaga was a sort of stump, a kind of congress. It was somewhere one could orate, a neighborhood of debate. (Perhaps that was why there were no stores or restaurants, no schools or hotels, only this little square of the civic.) All, all longed to be heroes of life, even Wickland, even himself. Now the reverend would show him his sister. She would go up like fireworks and now he'd be wowed. It was simple, really. One lived by sequence, by a sort of Roberts' Rules of Order. Roberts' Rules of Order. Ca.s.sadaga was only a kind of conversation. Ca.s.sadaga was only a kind of conversation.

"Your mother," Wickland began, "is very nice."

"Yes."

"I wonder why she's so quiet though."

"She talks."

"She's most polite."

"What's wrong with that?"

"She is not wild, wild, George." George."

"I don't want a wild mother."

"Isn't it interesting that she is not interesting?"

"Sunshine's mother was interesting," George said. "My mother is good."

"I gather from what you've told me that all the women in your family have been good."

"I never told you about all the women in my family. I hope they've been good."

"Otherwise we should have heard," Wickland said slyly. "Don't be defensive, George. I'm not going to insult your mother. I'm not going to call you a son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"Hey," George said.