Читать книгу Peyton Place - Grace Metalious - Страница 21

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Kenny Stearns raised his head and looked carefully around him. From where he was lying on his cellar floor, he could vaguely discern other shapes lying on the same floor, and he wondered who these people could be.

“Seems to be a slew of ’em clutterin’ up this cellar,” said Kenny aloud.

“Who’re you?” he asked and prodded at one sleeping body with an inaccurately aimed toe. “Who’re you?”

Lucas Cross mumbled and turned over on his side. “Go to hell,” he said.

“Whadya mean, tellin’ me to go to hell in my own cellar?” demanded Kenny. “It is my cellar, ain’t it?”

“Go to hell,” said Lucas.

Kenny Stearns raised himself to his feet by sliding his back up against the cement wall behind him. At last he was standing, propped against the cold stone.

“Ain’t no man tells Kenny Stearns to go to hell in his own cellar,” he said truculently.

Two other bodies stirred on the cellar floor and Kenny regarded them calmly.

“More sonsofbitches to tell a man to go to hell in his own cellar,” he said.

He made a motion in the direction of one of the men who had just moved.

“Here, you,” shouted Kenny. “What’re you doin’ in my cellar?”

Henry McCracken almost jumped to his feet, so startled was he by Kenny’s official-sounding voice. Henry had been dreaming, and in his dream he had heard the voice of the sheriff, his brother Buck, who stood over him ready, as usual, to yell at him about something. Henry focused his gaze on Kenny.

“Jeez, you just give me a helluva turn, Kenny,” he said reproachfully. “Thought for a minute you was old Buck standin’ there.”

Kenny sneered. “Well, I guess not!” he said indignantly. “There ain’t no sheriff that’s gonna be tellin’ my friends what to do in my cellar.”

“Atta boy, Kenny,” said Henry yawning. “Let’s you and me get us a little drink and then go back to sleep.”

“You’re my friend, Henry McCracken,” said Kenny, “my one and only true friend.”

He looked around him sadly. “I ain’t got one other friend in this whole cellar, you know that, Henry? Not one.”

Kenny indicated the sleeping Lucas with a jerk of his thumb.

“See him?” he asked. “See that drunken bum? Told me to go to hell not two minutes ago, right here in my own cellar. How do you like that?”

“Terrible,” replied Henry, nodding his head in woeful agreement. “Well, that’s the way things are in this world. You get the idea that you got a friend, and then he tells you to go to hell. Awful. Wonder if Lucas ever got rid of all them bugs that was botherin’ him.”

“Dunno,” said Kenny. “Seems we’d see some, if they was still here. Gray, they was, and green, and crawlin’ all over the walls, so Lucas said.”

“He musta got rid of ’em,” said Henry, looking fearfully at the cement walls. “Don’t see none now.”

“Good thing,” said Kenny sanctimoniously. “I don’t hold with insects. Never did. I don’t want no goddamn insects crawlin’ around in my cellar.”

“I thought you was gonna get a bottle,” said Henry.

“Yep. I’ll find one. Must be one around here somewheres.”

Kenny began to gaze around the cellar floor. His eyes shifted slowly from one spot to another, but they did not fall upon anything that could be mistaken for a full bottle of liquor. At last, with a supreme effort, he swayed away from the wall which had been holding him up and began to shuffle groggily around the cellar. He picked up one bottle after another and stared mournfully into the empty depths of each one.

“Them bastards drunk it all up,” he told Henry. “That’s what they done.”

He moved slowly to the Franklin stove and peered down into its blackness, and then, sighing mightily, he reached down into it and rummaged around thoroughly.

“ ’Tain’t no use, Henry,” he said, almost in tears. “Them bastards drunk it all up.”

Suddenly Henry gave a glad cry. “Kenny! Look at all them barrels! Look at ’em, lined up against that wall over there, just as pretty as a line of girls at a county fair.”

Kenny turned to look at his twelve cider barrels. A remembered perfume came to him, of apples and wood smoke, and he could see again the streams of juice pouring into his barrels.

“Christ, yes,” he said, moving almost quickly toward the cider barrels. “I worked like a nigger fillin’ the goddamn things. How the hell could I forget a thing like that?”

He leaned his hand against the first spigot, while Henry crawled over to him on his hands and knees.

“Jeez, Kenny, put something under that faucet! Don’t let the stuff run all over the floor.”

Kenny picked up an empty whisky bottle and held it under the spigot. Nothing happened.

“How do you like that?” he demanded of Henry. “Those bastards went and drained a whole goddamn barrel of my cider.”

“Try the next one.”

“All right. Hold this bottle under the spigot.”

Kenny pressed every spigot on every barrel while Henry held the bottle hopefully each time, and when they had finished there was not a single drop of cider in the empty whisky bottle.

“Well, I’ll be a dirty pile of horseshit, if those bastards ain’t drained every drop!” yelped Kenny, enraged beyond endurance.

He began tipping the barrels so that they fell onto their sides and rolled creakingly on the cement floor. He kicked at each one hard and viciously and cursed until he was exhausted and Henry began to cry.

“ ’Tain’t no use, Kenny,” wept Henry. “There just ain’t no more cider. ’Tain’t no use at all.” He wiped his eyes and blew his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. “Come on, Kenny, ’tain’t no use carryin’ on like that. Let’s make Lucas wake up. It’s the only way. Time for Lucas to make another trip to White River.”

Henry dragged himself toward Lucas, and when he reached the sleeping man’s side, he began to kick him with both heels.

“Wake up, you pig,” commanded Henry. “Wake up and move your ass. Time you went to White River. Wake up, I say!”

Lucas moved protestingly against the sharp heels which dug into his back and buttocks.

“Go to hell,” he mumbled.

Henry went on kicking and Kenny came to help him.

“Wake up, you drunken bum,” yelled Henry. “Wake up, you cider-drinkin’ pig!”

“Go to hell,” murmured Lucas.

“Hear that?” demanded Kenny shrilly. “What’d I tell you? Tellin’ a man to go to hell, right in his own cellar.”

“It’s insultin’, that’s what it is,” sympathized Henry. “Kick him harder, Kenny.”

At last Lucas groaned, turned over on his back and attempted to focus his eyes on the wooden beams of the cellar ceiling.

“What got into you fellers,” whined Lucas, “kickin’ at a feller fit to rupture his guts?”

“We’re out of booze,” said Henry. “Time for you to take another trip to White River.”

“Like hell,” said Lucas. “Just shut up and gimme another drink.”

“There ain’t any,” yelled Henry, in a rage. “Didn’t you hear what I said? It’s time for you to go over to White River. There ain’t nothin’ left to drink. Get up.”

“All right,” sighed Lucas and tried to raise himself to a sitting position. “Oh, Christ.”

His last two words were a groan, uttered more as a prayer than a curse, and he collapsed flat on his back.

“Oh, Christ,” he moaned. “They’re back.”

He began to cry and covered his eyes with gray, crusty hands.

“Where?” asked Kenny. “Where they at now, Lucas?”

Lucas kept his eyes covered with one hand, and with the forefinger of the other he pointed to the opposite wall.

“Right there next to you. Behind you. All over the place. Oh, Christ!”

Kenny fixed his eyes on the cellar wall. “I don’t see nothin’,” he quavered. “I don’t see nothin’ at all.”

“They’re there,” sobbed Lucas. “All gray and green. Millions of ’em, crawlin’ all over!”

He spread two of his fingers apart and stared out through this small slit.

“Watch out!” he screamed and began to slap at his thighs. “Watch out! They’re comin’ right at us!”

“I don’t see nothin’,” cried Kenny.

“You crazy bastard,” yelled Lucas. “You’re drunk, blind drunk, that’s why you can’t see nothin’. You’re drunker than hell. Watch out!”

Lucas turned over on to his stomach and covered his head with his arms, but almost immediately he jumped to his feet and ran to a corner of the cellar where he crouched, panting.

“They was under me,” he wept, terror stricken. “Right under me, waitin’ for me to lay down so’s they could start feastin’.”

Kenny and Henry bent to examine the spot where Lucas had been lying.

“There’s nothin’ there,” they agreed. “Nothin’ at all.”

“Drunken bums!” screamed Lucas. “Blind drunk, both of you!”

Two of the other four sleeping men were aroused by Lucas’ screams. They looked about with dull, uncomprehending eyes.

“Where’s the bottle?” asked one man.

“Watch out!” cried Lucas. “Put your head down!”

“Where’s the goddamned bottle?”

“There ain’t none,” shouted Henry, exasperated with all the sudden confusion.

“I don’t see nothin’,” said Kenny. “Not a bloomin’ thing.”

“Where’s the friggin’ bottle?”

“Ain’t none.”

“Not a bloomin’ thing.”

“They’re covered with slime. Green slime.”

“I’ll go after some,” said Henry. “I’ll go myself, and to hell with Lucas. Gimme some money.”

Henry began to feel through his pockets. His fingers searched every possible hiding place in his clothing, but he found nothing.

“I ain’t got no more money,” he told Kenny.

“I got some, Henry,” said Kenny, rummaging through his pockets. “Always got money for my friend Henry McCracken.” But after a few more minutes of searching, he said, “Reckon I’m as bad off as you, Henry. Not a cent on me.”

“Maybe he’s got some,” said Henry, indicating the gibbering Lucas.

Together, Henry and Kenny approached Lucas and began to search him, but his pockets, too, were empty. The men who had awakened began to search themselves, but finding nothing they began to feel in the pockets of the two men who still slept.

“Gotta get somethin’ to drink,” said Kenny. “Come on, empty your pockets, boys. Wake up. There ain’t a goddamn thing to drink.”

When the men had searched themselves thoroughly, they began to search one another.

“You got some,” each accused the other. “You’re keepin’ it hid. Come on, now, dig it out. All for one and one for all. Put up your money.”

In the end, they collected six cents.

“There, by God,” said Henry McCracken. “I’ll go over to White River myself. To hell with Lucas, I’ll go myself.”

He stood up and lurched against the wall. “Yep, you can count on me, boys. I’ll go right now.”

Carefully, he put the six cents into one of his pockets.

“I’ll get whisky and a coupla cases of beer,” he said to Kenny. “That should hold us until tomorrow.”

“Watch out!” screamed Lucas. “Oh, Christ!”

“Where’s the friggin’ bottle?”

“Come on, Henry. I’ll give you a boost out the window.”

“I’ll get three cases of beer. That’ll be better.”

“Better get one apiece,” advised Kenny.

“Chase ’em out the window,” ordered Lucas. “Quick!”

When Henry had gone, all the men except Lucas sat down to await his return. Lucas still crouched in the corner, whimpering, and peeking out from behind his fingers once in a while. Every time he uncovered his eyes he screamed, “Watch out!” then hastily covered them again.

“Takin’ Henry one godawful while,” said one man.

“Prob’ly gonna stay in White River and get drunk,” said another.

“If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a sonofabitch who won’t share.”

One man, sitting a little apart from the others, began to move carefully toward the end of the cellar. This was Angus Bromley, and he vaguely remembered having hidden a bottle on top of one of the low rafters. He made his way slowly further away from the others, and they did not notice his movement. They still discussed the fickleness of Henry McCracken who had been gone, now, perhaps eight minutes.

“Greedy sonofabitch, that Henry.”

“Prob’ly havin’ a big time over to White River.”

“Met some whore, that’s what he done, and he’s showin’ her a big time. On our money.”

“Oh, Christ!” moaned Lucas. “Oh, Christ, help me!”

“That sonofabitch McCracken. Gone out to get drunk.”

“His whole goddamn family drinks. Every last one of the McCrackens is a drunk.”

“On our money.”

Angus Bromley managed to reach a spot under a beam, and now contemplated the wide rafter over his head. Slowly, he raised himself up on his toes, his hands sliding carefully over the top of the beam over his head, and at last his fingers wrapped themselves around the neck of a quart bottle. He lowered this treasure painstakingly and held it before his eyes.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, caressing the shoulders of the bottle as if they had been those of a perfumed woman. “Beautiful, beautiful.”

He sat down abruptly on the floor and hastily broke the seal on the top of the bottle. The cap rolled, unheeded, across the floor while Angus raised the mouth of the bottle to his lips.

Kenny Stearns turned his head sharply at the sound of a bottle cap dropping on cement, and he saw Angus—drinking.

“Look!” cried Kenny to the other men. “Angus has got a bottle!”

The men turned toward Angus, who wiped his mouth and quickly hid the bottle under his shirt.

“You’re crazy, Kenny,” he said and smiled ingratiatingly. “You’re drunk, Kenny. Drunk and seein’ things. I ain’t got no bottle.”

“Bastard!” shouted Kenny.

He rushed toward Angus, who had not had time to prepare for an onslaught. He was felled and lay on the floor. Kenny managed to rescue the bottle just in time. He held it in his hands and kicked viciously at Angus’ head, and Angus groaned and did not move again. In a few minutes, he began to snore.

“Greedy bastard,” mumbled Kenny and turned to face the others. “Who wants a drink?” he yelled.

All the men began to struggle to their feet, and even Lucas lowered one of his hands to look at Kenny.

“Anybody here that can take it away from me gets it,” said Kenny, and without another word raised the bottle to his mouth.

The men, like starving animals, snarling and crafty eyed, approached Kenny slowly, circling him, watching for an opening.

Kenny laughed. “Anybody who’s man enough to take it away from me gets it,” he said, and then raised his foot unsteadily to push at the first man who rushed him.

Kenny had the advantage of a leaning place, for his back was against the broad cellar chimney, but the others had nothing to balance them but their equilibrium which was, at the moment, nonexistent. In ten minutes it was over. The sound of four snoring men filled the cellar and covered the noise of Lucas’ whimpering.

“Bastards,” gloated Kenny. “Tellin’ a man to go to hell right in his own cellar. I guess I showed ’em. To hell with them.” He approached Lucas. “You’re the only friend I got, Lucas,” he said. “The only real, true friend in the whole world. Have a drink.”

He did not relinquish the bottle, but held it to Lucas’ lips while Lucas swallowed thirstily.

“That’s enough,” said Kenny, withdrawing the bottle, and Lucas, already saturated with alcohol from the long weeks of drinking, fell unconscious to the floor.

Kenny sat down, leaning against a wall, and took a long pull from the bottle. At once everything began to swing dizzily in front of his eyes, and he was transported back to a wonderful time when he had taken Ginny to a county fair and they had gone for a ride on the Ferris wheel. He half closed his eyes and saw the bright lights of the fairgrounds and heard the thin music of the calliope.

“Once more,” he said, and obediently the Ferris wheel began to turn.

Kenny took another drink. After six weeks of the most prolonged spree in town history, Kenny’s cellar floor was covered with vomit and feces. The stench had floated up through the floor boards of the story above and Ginny Stearns had long since moved in with a friend of hers who lived down by the river. But to Kenny now, his cellar was a beautiful place of carnival and pleasure.

“Once more,” he cried, wanting to stay on the Ferris wheel forever. “Hold my hand, Ginny. Don’t be scared.”

Kenny looked in the direction of his sleeping friends and saw Ginny’s smile.

“Here we go!” he shouted, and reached for her hand.

But abruptly she was gone and Kenny was alone in the Ferris wheel.

“Stop!” he yelled. “Stop! Stop! She fell out! Stop this goddamned thing!”

But the wheel turned faster and faster, and the music of the fair was suddenly sinister, a gay tune gone wrong and played in a minor key.

“Ginny!” he cried. “Ginny! Where’d you go to?”

He staggered to his feet and looked around wildly while the lights of the fair swung crazily all around him, dipping, swaying, hurting his eyes.

“Ginny!” he screamed from the top of the Ferris wheel.

And then he saw her. She was walking arm in arm with a smiling, oily-looking man. The stranger was dressed in city clothes, and he looked up at Kenny, trapped in the wheel, and laughed out loud.

“You bastard!” shouted Kenny. “Come back here. Come on back here with my Ginny!”

But Ginny was laughing, too. She turned her head and looked up at Kenny, her red lips parted so that her teeth showed, square and white, and she laughed and laughed.

“You bitch!” cried Kenny. “You dirty, whorin’ bitch!”

Ginny laughed harder than ever and shrugged her shoulders and looked up at the city-dressed stranger. Kenny could see her painted nails resting against the man’s dark sleeve, and he could feel her breasts and thighs straining through her dress to rest against the stranger’s side.

“I’ll kill you,” he screamed, standing up in the Ferris wheel. “I’ll kill you both!”

But Ginny and the stranger began to walk away, still laughing, as if they had not heard Kenny’s threat. They walked slowly, and Ginny reached up and put her finger tips against the stranger’s cheek. Kenny dropped the bottle he held and tried to get off the Ferris wheel. He dashed crookedly toward the stairs in his cellar, and when he reached the top, he fell heavily against the door. It would not budge.

“I’m locked in,” he shouted, his fingers moving senselessly against the wooden panels. “I’m locked in this goddamned Ferris wheel!” His fingers touched the door’s strong double bolt without recognizing it. “Let me out!” he called to the man who was operating the Ferris wheel. “Let me out, you sonofabitch!”

But the man kept the wheel going, smiling up at Kenny, his head like a skull and his yellow teeth gleaming dully in the dark.

Kenny ran down the cellar stairs and grasped the ax that he had put down next to his woodpile weeks before. He turned toward the grinning Ferris wheel operator.

“I’ll chop my way out, you bastard!” he shouted.

He ran up the cellar stairs and when he reached the top he began to chop at the panels of the door in front of him.

“I’ll kill you both,” he yelled at Ginny and the stranger, who had stopped their walking now, to stand and stare at him. Ginny’s smile was gone, replaced by a fear that contorted her face and made her mouth droop, and Kenny’s heart exulted.

“I’ll get you first, you rotten bitch,” he called. “I’ll get you and hack your pretty face all to pieces.”

The ax bit into the wooden door panels once again, and this time Kenny had to struggle to loosen it for another swing. At last he freed it from the wood and raised it above his head. He aimed for the bottom of the Ferris wheel car and swung the ax in a tremendous arc.

Suddenly his foot was bleeding. While he stood and stared stupidly, blood was gushing in a fountain through the sliced leather of his shoe. It poured out redly, all around him, so that he was lost in it, drowning. Kenny Stearns fell forward, out of the Ferris wheel into the crowds below, while Ginny’s laughter rang in his ears.