Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4 (41 page)

"The who?" asked Mandie.

"Don't tell me you never heard of the Walrus and the Carpenter?" asked
Carl.

"Never once," said Mandie.

"Disgusting," said Carl. "You're an uncultured bitch. The Walrus and the
Carpenter are probably two of the most famous characters in literature.
They're in a poem by Lewis Carroll in one of the
Alice
books."

"In
Through the Looking Glass,
" I said, and then I recited their
introduction:

"The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand
They
wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand …"

Mandie shrugged. "Well, you'll just have to excuse my ignorance and
concentrate on my charm," she said.

"I don't know how to break this to you all," said Irene, "but the little
one
does
have a handkerchief."

We stared at them. The little one did indeed have a handkerchief, a huge
handkerchief, and he was using it to dab at his eyes.

"Is the little one supposed to be the Carpenter?" asked Mandie.

"Yes," I said.

"Then it's all right," she said, "because he's the one that's carrying the
saw."

"He is, so help me, God," said Carl. "And, to make the whole thing
perfect, he's even wearing an apron."

"So the Carpenter in the poem has to wear an apron, right?" asked Mandie.

"Carroll doesn't say whether he does or not," I said, "but the
illustrations by Tenniel show him wearing one. They also show him with the
same square jaw and the same big nose this guy's got."

"They're goddamn doubles," said Carl. "The only thing wrong is that the
Walrus isn't a walrus, he just looks like one."

"You watch," said Mandie. "Any minute now he's going to sprout fur all
over and grow long fangs."

Then, for the first time, the approaching pair noticed us. It seemed to
give them quite a start. They stood and gaped at us, and the little one
furtively stuffed his handkerchief out of sight.

"We can't be as surprising as all that!" whispered Irene.

The big one began moving forward, then, in a hesitant, tentative kind of
shuffle. The little one edged ahead, too, but he was careful to keep the
bulk of his companion between himself and us.

"First contact with the aliens," said Mandie, and Irene and Horace giggled
nervously. I didn't respond. I had come to the decision that I was going
to quit working for Carl, that I didn't like any of these people about me,
except, maybe, Irene, and that these two strangers gave me the honest
creeps.

Then the big one smiled, and everything was changed.

I've worked in the entertainment field, in advertising and in public
relations. This means I have come in contact with some of the prime charm
boys and girls in our proud land. I have become, therefore, not only a
connoisseur of smiles, I am a being equipped with numerous automatic
safeguards against them. When a talcumed smoothie comes at me with his
brilliant ivories exposed, it only shows he's got something he can bite me
with, that's all.

But the smile of the Walrus was something else.

The smile of the Walrus did what a smile hasn't done for me in years—it
melted my heart. I use the cornball phrase very much on purpose. When I
saw his smile, I knew I could trust him; I felt in my marrow that he was
gentle and sweet and had nothing but the best intentions. His resemblance
to the Walrus in the poem ceased being vaguely chilling and became warmly
comical. I loved him as I had loved the teddy bear of my childhood.

"Oh, I
say,
" he said, and his voice was an embarrassed boom. "I
do
hope we're not intruding!"

"I daresay we are," squeaked the Carpenter, peeping out from behind his
companion.

"The, uhm, fact is," boomed the Walrus, "we didn't even notice you until
just back then, you see."

"We were talking, is what," said the Carpenter.

They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand …

"About sand?" I asked.

The Walrus looked at me with a startled air.

"We
were,
actually, now you come to mention it."

He lifted one huge foot and shook it so that a little trickle of sand
spilled out of his shoe.

"The stuff's impossible," he said. "Gets in your clothes, tracks up the
carpet."

"Ought to be swept away, it ought," said the Carpenter.

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"

"It's too much!" said Carl.

"Yes, indeed," said the Walrus, eying the sand around him with vague
disapproval, "altogether too much."

Then he turned to us again, and we all basked in that smile.

"Permit me to introduce my companion and myself," he said.

"You'll have to excuse George," said the Carpenter, "as he's a bit of a
stuffed shirt, don't you know?"

"Be that as it may," said the Walrus, patting the Carpenter on the flat
top of his paper hat, "this is Edward Farr, and I am George Tweedy, both
at your service. We are, uhm, both a trifle drunk, I'm afraid."

"We are, indeed. We are that."

"As we have just come from a really delightful party, to which we shall
soon return."

"Once we've found the fuel, that is," said Farr, waving his saw in the
air. By now he had found the courage to come out and face us directly.

"Which brings me to the question," said Tweedy. "Have you seen any
driftwood
lying about the premises? We've been looking high and low, and we can't
seem to find
any
of the blasted stuff."

"Thought there'd be piles of it," said Farr, "but all there is is sand,
don't you see?"

"I would have sworn you were looking for oysters," said Carl.

Again, Tweedy appeared startled.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech
…

"Oysters?" he asked. "Oh, no, we've
got
the oysters. All we lack is
the means to cook 'em."

" 'Course we could always use a few more," said Farr, looking at his
companion.

"I suppose we
could,
at that," said Tweedy thoughtfully.

"I'm afraid we can't help you fellows with the driftwood problem," said
Carl, "but you're more than welcome to a drink."

There was something unfamiliar about the tone of Carl's voice that made my
ears perk up. I turned to look at him, and then had difficulty covering up
my astonishment.

It was his eyes. For once, for the first time, they were really friendly.

I'm not saying Carl had fishy eyes, blank eyes—not at all. On the
surface, that is. On the surface, with his eyes, with his face, with the
handling of his entire body, Carl was a master of animation and
expression. From sympathetic, heartfelt warmth, all the way to icy rage,
and on every stop in-between, Carl was completely convincing.

But only on the surface. Once you got to know Carl, and it took a while,
you realized that none of it was really happening. That was because Carl
had died, or been killed, long ago. Possibly in childhood. Possibly he had
been born dead. So, under the actor's warmth and rage, the eyes were
always the eyes of a corpse.

But now it was different. The friendliness here was genuine, I was sure of
it. The smile of Tweedy, of the Walrus, had performed a miracle. Carl had
risen from his tomb. I was in honest awe.

"
Delighted,
old chap!" said Tweedy.

They accepted their drinks with obvious pleasure, and we completed the
introductions as they sat down to join us. I detected a strong smell of
fish when Tweedy sat down beside me, but, oddly, I didn't find it
offensive in the least. I was glad he'd chosen me to sit by. He turned and
smiled at me, and my heart melted a little more.

It soon turned out that the drinking we'd done before had only scratched
the surface. Tweedy and Farr were magnificent boozers, and their gusto
encouraged us all to follow suit.

We drank absurd toasts and were delighted to discover that Tweedy was an
incredible raconteur. His specialty was outrageous fantasy: wild tales
involving incongruous objects, events, and characters. His invention was
endless.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
Of cabbages—and
kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether
pigs have wings."

We laughed and drank, and drank and laughed, and I began to wonder why in
hell I'd spent my life being such a gloomy, moody son of a bitch, been
such a distrustful and suspicious bastard, when the whole secret of
everything, the whole core secret, was simply to enjoy it, to take it as
it came.

I looked around and grinned, and I didn't care if it was a foolish grin.
Everybody looked all right, everybody looked swell, everybody looked
better than I'd ever seen them look before.

Irene looked happy, honestly and truly happy. She, too, had found the
secret. No more pills for Irene, I thought. Now that she knows the secret,
now that she's met Tweedy, who's given her the secret, she'll have no more
need of those goddamn pills.

And I couldn't believe Horace and Mandie. They had their arms around each
other, and their bodies were pressed close together, and they rocked as
one being when they laughed at Tweedy's wonderful stories. No more nagging
for Mandie, I thought, and no more cringing for Horace, now they've
learned the secret.

And then I looked at Carl, laughing and relaxed and absolutely free of
care, absolutely unchilled, finally, at last, after years of—

And then I looked at Carl again.

And then I looked down at my drink, and then I looked at my knees, and
then I looked out at the sea, sparkling, clean, remote and impersonal.

And then I realized it had grown cold, quite cold, and that there wasn't a
bird or a cloud in the sky.

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead—
There were no birds to
fly.

That part of the poem was, after all, a perfect description of a lifeless
earth. It sounded beautiful at first; it sounded benign. But then you read
it again and you realized that Carroll was describing barrenness and
desolation.

Suddenly Carl's voice broke through and I heard him say:

"Hey, that's a hell of an idea, Tweedy! By God, we'd love to! Wouldn't we,
gang?"

The others broke out in an affirmative chorus and they all started
scrambling to their feet around me. I looked up at them, like someone
who's been awakened from sleep in a strange place, and they grinned down
at me like loons.

"Come on, Phil!" cried Irene.

Her eyes were bright and shining, but it wasn't with happiness. I could
see that now.

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick
…"

I blinked my eyes and stared at them, one after the other.

"Old Phil's had a little too much to drink!" cried Mandie, laughing. "Come
on, old Phil! Come on and join the party!"

"What party?" I asked.

I couldn't seem to get located. Everything seemed disorientated and
grotesque.

"For Christ's sake, Phil," said Carl, "Tweedy and Farr, here, have invited
us to join their party. There's no more drinks left, and they've got
plenty!"

I set my plastic cup down carefully on the sand. If they would just shut
up for a moment, I thought, I might be able to get the fuzz out of my
head.

"Come
along,
sir!" boomed Tweedy jovially. "It's only a pleasant
walk!"

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk"
Along the briny beach
…"

He was smiling at me, but the smile didn't work anymore.

"You cannot do with more than four," I told him.

"
Uhm?
What's that?"

"We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."

"I said, 'You cannot do with more than four.'"

"He's right, you know," said Farr, the Carpenter.

"Well, uhm, then," said the Walrus, "if you feel you really
can't
come, old chap …"

"What, in Christ's name, are you all talking about?" asked Mandie.

"He's hung up on that goddamn poem," said Carl. "Lewis Carroll's got the
yellow bastard scared."

"Don't be such a party pooper, Phil!" said Mandie.

"To hell with him," said Carl. And he started off, and all the others
followed him. Except Irene.

"Are you sure you really don't want to come, Phil?" she asked.

She looked frail and thin against the sunlight. I realized there really
wasn't much of her, and that what there was had taken a terrible beating.

"No," I said. "I don't. Are you sure you want to go?"

"Of course I do, Phil."

I thought of the pills.

"I suppose you do," I said. "I suppose there's really no stopping you."

"No, Phil, there isn't."

And then she stooped and kissed me. Kissed me very gently, and I could
feel the dry, chapped surface of her lips and the faint warmth of her
breath.

I stood.

"I wish you'd stay," I said.

"I can't," she said.

And then she turned and ran after the others.

I watched them growing smaller and smaller on the beach, following the
Walrus and the Carpenter. I watched them come to where the beach curved
around the bluff and watched them disappear behind the bluff.

I looked up at the sky. Pure blue. Impersonal.

"What do you think of this?" I asked it.

Nothing. It hadn't even noticed.