Part 21 (1/2)
”Miss Elva, this is Miss Finch.”
Her eyes closed and breath fluttered through her lips. ”Yes?” she said.
”About those calls you say you've been receiving.”
”Yes?” In her mind, Miss Finch's words cutting-”those calls you say say you've been receiving.” you've been receiving.”
”We sent a man out to trace them,” continued Miss Finch. ”I have his report here.”
Miss Keene caught her breath. ”Yes?”
”He couldn't find anything.”
Elva Keene didn't speak. Her gray head lay motionless on the pillow, the receiver pressed to her ear.
”He says he traced the-the difficulty to a fallen wire on the edge of town.”
”Fallen-wire?”
”Yes, Miss Elva.” Miss Finch did not sound happy.
”You're telling me I didn't hear anything?”
Miss Finch's voice was firm. ”There's no way anyone could have phoned you from that location,” she said.
”I tell you a man man called me!” called me!”
Miss Finch was silent and Miss Keene's fingers tightened convulsively on the receiver.
”There must be a phone there,” she insisted. ”There must be some some way that man was able to call me!” way that man was able to call me!”
”Miss Elva, there's no one out there.”
”Out where, where where?”
The operator said, ”Miss Elva, it's the cemetery.”
In the black silence of her bedroom, a crippled maiden lady lay waiting. Her nurse would not remain for the night; her nurse had patted her and scolded her and ignored her.
She was waiting for a telephone call.
She could have disconnected the phone, but she had not the will. She lay there waiting, waiting, thinking.
Of the silence-of ears that had not heard, seeking to hear again. Of sounds bubbling and muttering-the first stumbling attempts at speech by one who had not spoken-how long? Of-h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo?-first greeting by one long silent. Of-where are you? Of (that which made her lie so rigidly) the clicking and the operator speaking her address. Of- Of (that which made her lie so rigidly) the clicking and the operator speaking her address. Of- The telephone ringing.
A pause. Ringing. The rustle of a nightgown in the dark.
The ringing stopped.
Listening.
And the telephone slipping from white fingers, the eyes staring, the thin heartbeats slowly pulsing.
Outside, the cricket-rattling night.
Inside, the words still sounding in her brain-giving terrible meaning to the heavy, choking silence.
”h.e.l.lo, Miss Elva. I'll be right over.”
CHARLES BEAUMONT.
Charles Beaumont-the pseudonym, and later the legally adopted name, of Charles Leroy Nutt-was born in Chicago in 1929. A high-school dropout, he served briefly in the U.S. Army before taking up a career in writing in the early 1950s. It was just at this time that the pulp magazines were dying out, and supernatural fiction-often disguised as mystery or suspense fiction-had to appear in the science fiction digest magazines or in mainstream magazines. Beaumont published widely in such digests as Infinity Science Fiction Infinity Science Fiction and such men's magazines as and such men's magazines as Playboy Playboy and and Rogue. Rogue. His first story collection, His first story collection, The Hunger and Other Stories, The Hunger and Other Stories, appeared in 1957, and several others- appeared in 1957, and several others-Yonder: Stories of Fantasy and Science Fiction (1958), (1958), Night Ride and Other Journeys Night Ride and Other Journeys (1960), (1960), The Magic Man The Magic Man (1965), and (1965), and The Edge The Edge (1966)-appeared in rapid succession. Many of Beaumont's stories present a fusion of science fiction, fantasy, mystery, suspense, and the supernatural, so that genre cla.s.sification of his work becomes difficult. Of his two novels, (1966)-appeared in rapid succession. Many of Beaumont's stories present a fusion of science fiction, fantasy, mystery, suspense, and the supernatural, so that genre cla.s.sification of his work becomes difficult. Of his two novels, Run from the Hunter Run from the Hunter (1957; with John E. Tomerlin) is a crime thriller, and (1957; with John E. Tomerlin) is a crime thriller, and The Intruder The Intruder (1959) is a mainstream novel of race relations in the South. Some of his best-known horror tales are ”The Howling Man,” a brilliant tale of the Devil, and ”Black Country,” which ingeniously fuses the supernatural with blues music. (1959) is a mainstream novel of race relations in the South. Some of his best-known horror tales are ”The Howling Man,” a brilliant tale of the Devil, and ”Black Country,” which ingeniously fuses the supernatural with blues music.
Beaumont did much work in film and television, writing the screenplay (with Ben Hecht) to the film Queen of Outer s.p.a.ce Queen of Outer s.p.a.ce and writing many scripts for Rod Serling's and writing many scripts for Rod Serling's The Twilight Zone. The Twilight Zone. These have now been collected in These have now been collected in The Twilight Zone Scripts of Charles Beaumont, Volume I The Twilight Zone Scripts of Charles Beaumont, Volume I (2004), with more volumes to follow. Beaumont, afflicted with an extremely advanced case of Alzheimer's disease, died in 1967. His (2004), with more volumes to follow. Beaumont, afflicted with an extremely advanced case of Alzheimer's disease, died in 1967. His Selected Stories Selected Stories appeared in 1988. appeared in 1988.
”The Vanis.h.i.+ng American” (first published in the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, August 1955, and collected in August 1955, and collected in The Hunger and Other Stories The Hunger and Other Stories) exhibits Beaumont's use of the supernatural as a metaphor for social and psychological trauma in the literal vanishment of a dispirited office worker.
THE VANIs.h.i.+NG AMERICAN.
He got the notion shortly after five o'clock; at least, a part of him did, a small part hidden down beneath all the conscious cells-he didn't get the notion until some time later. At exactly five p.m., the bell rang. At two minutes after, the chairs began to empty. There was the vast slamming of drawers, the straightening of rulers, the sound of bones snapping and mouths yawning and feet shuffling tiredly. didn't get the notion until some time later. At exactly five p.m., the bell rang. At two minutes after, the chairs began to empty. There was the vast slamming of drawers, the straightening of rulers, the sound of bones snapping and mouths yawning and feet shuffling tiredly.
Mr. Minch.e.l.l relaxed. He rubbed his hands together and relaxed and thought how nice it would be to get up and go home, like the others. But of course there was the tape, only three-quarters finished. He would have to stay.
He stretched and said good night to the people who filed past him. As usual, no one answered. When they had gone, he set his fingers pecking again over the keyboard. The click-clicking click-clicking grew loud in the suddenly still office, but Mr. Minch.e.l.l did not notice. He was lost in the work. Soon, he knew, it would be time for the totaling, and his pulse quickened at the thought of this. grew loud in the suddenly still office, but Mr. Minch.e.l.l did not notice. He was lost in the work. Soon, he knew, it would be time for the totaling, and his pulse quickened at the thought of this.
He lit a cigarette. Heart tapping, he drew in smoke and released it.
He extended his right hand and rested his index and middle fingers on the metal bar marked TOTAL. A mile-long ribbon of paper lay gathered on the desk, strangely festive. He glanced at it, then at the manifest sheet. The figure 18037448 was circled in red. He pulled breath into his lungs, locked it there; then he closed his eyes and pressed the TOTAL bar.
There was a smooth low metallic grinding, followed by absolute silence.
Mr. Minch.e.l.l opened one eye, dragged it from the ceiling on down to the adding machine.
He groaned, slightly.
The total read: 18037447.
”G.o.d.” He stared at the figure and thought of the fifty-three pages of manifest, the three thousand separate rows of figures that would have to be checked again. ”G.o.d.”
The day was lost, now. Irretrievably. It was too late to do anything. Madge would have supper waiting, and F. J. didn't approve of overtime; also . . .
He looked at the total again. At the last two digits.
He sighed. Forty-seven. And thought, startled: Today, for the Lord's sake, is my birthday! Today I am forty-what?-forty-seven. And that explains the mistake, I suppose. Subconscious kind of thing . . .
Slowly he got up and looked around the deserted office.