Part 11 (1/2)

Aorta's face.

He thought a moment, judged the whole situation, and began to climb. But the pains were too much and he fell, writhing.

The wind came again and more dirt was scattered down into the hole: soon the strange plant was being pushed to and fro against the soil, and dirt fell more and more heavily. More and more, more heavily and more heavily.

Mr. Aorta, who had never up to this point found occasion to scream, screamed. It was quite successful, despite the fact that no one heard it.

The dirt came down, and presently Mr. Aorta was to his knees in damp soil. He tried rising, and could not.

And the dirt came down from that big white plant flip-flopping in the moonlight and the wind.

After a while Mr. Aorta's screams took on a m.u.f.fled quality.

For a very good reason.

Then, some time later, the garden was just as still and quiet as it could be.

Mr. and Mrs. Joseph William Santucci found Mr. Aorta. He was lying on the floor in front of several tables. On the tables were many plates. The plates on the tables were clean and s.h.i.+ning.

Mr. Aorta's stomach was distended past burst belt buckle, popped b.u.t.tons and forced zipper. It was not unlike the image of a great white whale rising curiously from placid, forlorn waters.

”Ate hisself to death,” Mrs. Santucci said in the fas.h.i.+on of the concluding line of a complex joke.

Mr. Santucci reached down and plucked a tiny ball of soil from the fat man's dead lips. He studied it. And an idea came to him.

He tried to get rid of the idea, but when the doctors found Mr. Aorta's stomach to contain many pounds of dirt--and nothing else, to speak of--Mr. Santucci slept badly, for almost a week.

They carried Mr. Aorta's body through the weeded but otherwise empty and desolate back yard, past the mournful dead tree and the rock fence.

They gave him a decent funeral, out of the goodness of their hearts, since no provision had been made.

And then they laid him to rest in a place with a moldering green woodboard wall: the wall had a little sign nailed to it.

And the wind blew absolutely Free.

SONG FOR A LADY.

by Charles Beaumont

The travel agent had warned us. It was an old s.h.i.+p, very old, very tired. And slow. ”In fact,” said Mr. Spierto, who had been everywhere and knew all about travel, ”there's nothing slower afloat. Thirteen days to Le Havre, fourteen to Southampton. Provided there are favorable winds, of course! No; I doubt that we'll spend our honeymoon on her. Besides, this will be her last crossing. They're going to sc.r.a.p the old relic in a month.” And I think that's the reason we picked the _Lady Anne_ for our first trip abroad.

There was something appealing about taking part in a s.h.i.+p's last voyage, something, Eileen said, poignant and special.

Or maybe it was simply the agent's smirk. He might have been able to talk to us out of it otherwise, but he had to smirk--the veteran of Katmandu and the innocent untraveled Iowans--and that got us mad. Anyway, we made two first cla.s.s reservations, got married and caught a plane for New York.

What we saw at the dock surprised us. Spierto's horrified descriptions of the s.h.i.+p had led us to expect something between a kayak and The Flying Dutchman, whereas at first glance the _Lady Anne_ seemed to be a perfectly ordinary ocean liner. Not that either of us had ever actually seen an ocean liner, except in films; but we decided what one should look like, and this looked like one. A tall giant of a vessel, it was, with a bright orange hull and two regal smokestacks; and a feeling of lightness, of grace, almost, despite the twenty thousand tons.

Then we got a little closer. And the _Lady Anne_ turned into one of those welldressed women who look so fine a block away and then disintegrate as you approach them. The orange on the hull was bright, but it wasn't paint. It was rust. Rust, like fungus, infecting every inch, trailing down from every port hole. Eating through the iron.

We gazed at the old wreck for a moment, then resolutely made our way past some elderly people on the dock and, at the gangplank, stopped. There was nothing to say, so Eileen said: ”It's beautiful.”

I was about to respond when a voice snapped: ”No!” An aged man with thin but fierce red hair was standing behind us, bags in hand. ”Not 'it',” he said, angrily. ”_She_. This s.h.i.+p is a lady.”

”Oh, I'm sorry.” My wife nodded respectfully. ”Well, then, she's beautiful.”

”Indeed she is!” The man continued to glare, not malevolently, not furiously, but with great suspicion. He stared up the plank, then paused. ”You're seeing someone off?”

I told him no.

”Visitors, then.”

”No,” I said. ”Pa.s.sengers.”

The old man's eyes widened. ”How's that?” he said, exactly as if I'd just admitted that we were Russian spies. ”You're what?”

”Pa.s.sengers,” I said again.

”Oh, no,” he said, ”no, no, I hardly think so. I hardly think that. This, you see, is the _Lady Anne_. There's been a mistake.”

”Jack, please!” A small square woman with thick gla.s.ses shook her head reproach. fully.

”Be still,” the old man snapped at her. His voice was becoming reedy with excitement. ”If you'll consult your tickets, young fellow, I think you'll find that a serious error has occurred here. I repeat, this is the _Lady Anne_--”

”--and I repeat,” I said, not too patiently, ”that we're pa.s.sengers.” However, he didn't move, so I fished the tickets out of my pockets and shoved them at him.

He stared at the papers for a long time; then, sighing, handed them back. ”Private party,” he muttered; ”excursion, might say. Planned so long. Outsiders! I . . .” And without another word, he turned and marched stiffly up the gangplank. The small square woman followed him, giving us a thin, curious smile.

”Well!” Eileen grinned, after the slightest hesitation. ”I guess that means 'Welcome Aboard' in British.”

”Forget it.” I took her hand and we went directly to the cabin. It was small, just as the friendly travel agent had prophesied: two bunks, an upper and lower, a sink, a crown-shaped _pot du chambre_.But it wasn't stark. Incredible fat cupids stared blindly from the ceiling, the door was encrusted with flaked gold paint, and there was a chipped chandelier. Grotesque, but cheerful, somehow. Of course, it would have been cheerful at half the size--with a few rats thrown in--because we'd gotten ourselves into this mess against everyone's advice and, one way or another, we were determined to prove that our instincts had been right.

”Nice,” said Eileen, reaching up and patting a cupid's belly.

I kissed her and felt, then, that things wouldn't be too bad. It would take more than a grumpy old Englishman and a crazy stateroom to spoil our trip. A lot more.

Unfortunately, a lot more was fast in coming.

When we took our stroll out on deck, we noticed a surprisingly large number of elderly people standing at the rail; but, we were excited, and somehow this didn't register. We waved at the strangers on the dock, watched the pa.s.sengers still coming aboard, and began to feel the magic. Then I saw the old red-headed gentleman tottering toward us, still glaring and blinking. In a way he looked like the late C.

Aubrey Smith, only older and thinner. Just as straight, though, and just as bushy in the eyebrows.

”See here,” he said, pointing at me with his cane, ”you aren't really serious about this, are you?”

”About what?” I said.

”Traveling on the _Lady Anne_. That is, hate to sound cliqueish and all that, but--”