The Shrinking Man (19 page)

He stopped and stood motionless on the floor. Something in his eyes caught minor fire. His lips drew back from his teeth as he grimaced.

All right. He had a brain. He’d use it. After all, wasn’t this his universe? Couldn’t he determine its values and its meanings? Didn’t the logic of a cellar life belong to him, who lived alone in that cellar?

Very well, then. He had planned suicide, but something had kept him from it. Call it what you will, he thought—fear, subconscious desire to survive, action of outside intelligence maintaining him. Whatever it was, it had happened. He lived still, his existence unbroken. Positive function was still possible; decision was still his.

“All right,” he muttered. He may as well act alive.

It was like the clearing of a mist in his brain, like a rush of cool wind across a parched desert of intentions. It made—absurdly, perhaps—his shoulders draw back, made him move with more certainty, ignoring the pain of his body. And, as if in instant reward, he found a large chunk of cracker behind the cement block. He cleaned it off and ate it. It tasted horrible. He didn’t care. It was nourishment.

He walked back across the floor. What did his decision mean? He knew, really, but he was afraid to dwell on it. Rather, he let himself drift surely toward the giant carton under the fuel tank, knowing what had to be done; knowing that he would do it or perish.

He stopped before the looming mass of the carton. Once, he thought, he had kicked open its side himself. At the time, it had been an act of rage, of frustration turned to acid fury. How odd that an ancient fury was making it easier for him now; that it had, indeed, saved his life more than once.

For hadn’t he got two thimbles from that carton, one that he’d put under the water tank, and another that he’d put under the dripping water heater? Hadn’t he got the material for his robe from the carton? Hadn’t he got there the thread that enabled him to reach the top of the wicker table and get the crackers? Finally, hadn’t he actually fought off the spider in there, discovering in a flash of astonishment that he did have
some efficacy against its horrible seven-legged blackness?

Yes, all these. And all because, one day long ago, he had burned with a terrible, angry desire and kicked open the side of the carton.

He hesitated for a moment, thinking he should search for the needle he’d taken from the carton before and lost. Then he decided he might not find it and the fruitless search would waste not only time, but valuable, needed energy.

He jumped up the carton side and dragged himself through the opening. It was difficult to get in. The difficulty pointed up, disconcertingly, how hard it was going to be to get up to the cliff, much less fight the—

No. He wasn’t going to let himself think about that. If anything could stop him, it was thoughts about the spider. He blanked his mind to them. Only far behind the conscious barrier did they move.

He slid down the hill of clothes until he went over the edge and fell down into the sewing box. For a moment panic jarred him as he thought that he might not be able to get out of the box. Then he remembered the rubber cork into which the pins and needles were inserted. He could push that to the edge of the box and then be able to climb out.

He found a cool needle lying on the bottom of the box and picked it up.

“God,” he muttered. It was like a harpoon made of lead. He let it fall and it clanked loudly. He stood there a moment, lines of distress around his eyes. Was he to be defeated already? He couldn’t possibly carry that needle up the face of the cliff.

Simple, said his mind. Take a pin.

He closed his eyes and smiled at himself. Yes, yes, he thought. He searched around in the shadows for a pin, but there were none loose. He’d have to get one from the rubber cork.

First he had to knock the cork over. It was four times as high as he was. Gritting his teeth, he shoved at the rubber cork until it toppled. Then he moved around it and jerked out a pin, hefted it in his hands. That was better. Still heavy, but manageable.

How could he carry it, though? Sticking it into his robe was no good; it would dangle, bang against surfaces, impede his climb, maybe cut him. He’d fasten a thread sling on the pin and carry it across his
back. He looked around for thread. No point in going after the thread he’d flung into the cat’s mouth; it was probably lost.

He cut himself a short length of rope-heavy thread by dragging the sharp pin point across it until the fibers were weakened enough to be torn apart. Panting in the dark, shadowy cavern, he tied one end of the thread around the pinhead, then tied the other end near the point. The second loop slid a little, but it would hold well enough. With a grunt he slung the pin across his back, then flexed on his toes to test the weight. Good enough.

Now. Was that all he needed? He stood indecisively, brow lined, but not with worry. He didn’t actually acknowledge it, but it gave him a good feeling to be calculating positively. Maybe there was something to the theory that true satisfaction was based on struggle. This moment was certainly the antithesis of the hopeless, listless hours of the night before. Now he was working toward a goal. True, it might be self-induced emotion, but it gave him the first definite pleasure he could remember experiencing for a long time.

All right, then, what was needed? The climb was too difficult to be attempted unaided. He was simply too small; he needed apparatus. Very well, then. Since it was a cliff, that made him a mountaineer. What did mountaineers use? Cleated shoes. He couldn’t manage that. Alpenstocks. Nor that. Grappling hooks. Nor—

Yes, he could! What if he got another pin and managed somehow to bend it into a semicircle? Then if he attached it to a long thread, he would fling it at openings in the lawn chairs, hook it in, and climb the thread. It would be perfect equipment.

Excited he pulled another pin from the rubber cork, then unrolled about twenty feet—to him—of thread. He threw the pins and thread out of the box, climbed out by using the cork, and dragged his prizes up the hill, throwing them out onto the floor.

He slid out of the carton and dropped down. He started toward the cement block, dragging the pins and thread behind. Now, he thought, if only I could take a little food and water with me…

He stopped, squinting at the box top. Suddenly he remembered, there were still pieces of cracker on the sponge! He could put them inside his robe somehow and take them with him.

And water? On his face there was a look of concentration bordering
on exultation. The sponge itself! Why couldn’t he tear off a small piece of it, soak it with water from the hose, and carry it with him? Certainly it would drip, it would run, but some of the water would stay in it, enough to see him through.

He didn’t let himself think about the spider. He didn’t let himself think about the fact that there were only two days left to him, no matter what he did. He was too absorbed, in the small triumphs of conquered detail and in the large triumph of conquered despair to let himself be dragged down again by crushing ultimates.

That was it, then. The pin spear slung across his back, the cracker crumbs and water-soaked sponge in his robe, the pin hook for climbing.

In half an hour he was ready. Although he already felt tired from the tremendous effort required to bend the pin (which he had done by shoving the point under the cement block and lifting at the head), hacking and tearing off a fragment of sponge, getting the water and the crackers and carrying everything to the foot of the cliff, he was too pleased to care. He was alive, he was trying. Suicide was a distant impossibility. He wondered how he could ever have considered it.

Excitement faded, almost died when he tilted back his head and looked up toward the soaring top of the lawn chairs as they leaned against the Everest heights of the wall. Could he possibly climb that high?

He lowered his eyes angrily. Don’t look, he ordered himself. To look at the entire journey all at once was stupidity. You thought of it in segments; that was the only way. First segment, the shelf. Second, the seat of the first chair. Third, the arm of the second chair. Fourth—

He stood at the very bottom of the cliff. Never mind anything else, he told himself. He had the resolve to get up there; that was what mattered.

He remembered another time in the past when resolution had come. Thoughts of it ran through his mind as he flung up the hook and began to climb.

18″

It was a giant’s toy; a glowing, moving, incredible toy. The Ferris wheel, like a vast white-and-orange gear, turned slowly against the black October sky. Scarlet-lit Loop-the-Loop cages blurred across the
night like shooting stars. The merry-go-round was a bright, cacophonous music box that turned and turned, the grimacing, wild-eyed horses rising and falling, endlessly rising and falling, frozen in their galloping postures. Tiny cars and trains and trolleys, like merry bugs, raced around in their imprisoning circles, overflowing red-faced children who waved and screamed. Aisles were sluggish currents of doll people who clustered like filings around the magnetism of barker stands, food concessions, and booths where balloons could be exploded with broken-feathered darts, wooden milk bottles toppled with scratched and grimy baseballs, and pennies tossed upon mosaics of colored squares. The air pulsed with a many-tongued clamor and spotlights cast livid ribbons across the sky.

As they drove up, another car pulled away from the curb and Lou eased the Ford into the opening, pulling out the hand brake, and turned off the engine.

“Mamma, can I go to the merry-go-round,
can
I?” Beth asked excitedly.

“Yes, dear.” Lou spoke distractedly, her gaze moving to where Scott was sitting, dwarfed in a shadowy corner of the back seat, the carnival glare splashed across his pale cheek, his eye like a tiny, dark berry, his mouth a pencil gash.

“You
will
stay in the car,” she said worriedly.

“What else can I do?”

“It’s for your own good,” she said.

It was a phrase she used all the time now; spoken with a hopeless patience, as if she could think of nothing better to say.

“Sure,” he said.

“Mother, let’s
go,”
Beth said with determined anxiety. “We’ll
miss
it.”

“All right.” Lou pushed open the door. “Push down your button,” she said, and Beth punched down the knob-topped rod that locked the door on her side, then scrambled across the seat.

“Maybe you’d better lock yourself in,” Lou said.

Scott didn’t speak. His baby shoes thudded down slowly on the seat. Lou managed a smile.

“We won’t be long,” she said, and she closed the door. He stared at her shadowy figure as she twisted the key in the lock; he heard the button clicking down.

Lou and Beth moved across the street, Beth tugging eagerly at her mother’s hand, and entered the crowded carnival grounds.

He sat for a while, wondering why he’d been so insistent on coming when he’d known all along he couldn’t go into the carnival with them. The reason was obvious, but he wouldn’t admit it to himself. He’d yelled at Lou to hide the shame he felt at forcing her to give up her job at the lake store; the shame he felt because she had to stay home, because she didn’t dare get another sitter, because she’d had to write her parents and borrow money. That’s why he’d yelled and insisted on going with them.

After a few minutes he stood up on the seat and walked over to the window. Dragging a pillow over, he stepped on its yielding surface and pressed his nose against the cold window. He stared at the carnival with hard, unenjoying eyes, looking for Lou and Beth; they had been ingested by the slowly moving crowd.

He watched the Ferris wheel revolving, the little pivoted seats rocking back and forth, passengers holding on tight to the safety bars. His gaze shifted to the Loop-the-Loop. He watched it flip over, the two cage-tipped arms flashing past each other like clock hands gone berserk. He watched the merry-go-round’s rhythmic turn and heard faintly the clash-grind-thump of its machinelike music. It was another world.

Once, long ago, a boy named Scott Carey had sat on another Ferris-wheel seat, transfixed with delicious terror, white-knuckled hands clutched over the bar. He had ridden other toy cars, twisting the steering wheel like a chauffeur. He had, in a perfect agony of delight, flipped over and over in another Loop-the-Loop, feeling the frankfurters and popcorn and cotton candy and soda and ice cream homogenized in his stomach. He had walked through the glittering unreality of another carnival, overjoyed with a life that built such wonders overnight on empty lots.

Why
should
I stay in the car? The question came minutes later, belligerently, demanding satisfaction. So what if people saw him? They’d think he was a lost baby. And even if they knew who he was, what difference did it make? He wasn’t going to stay in the car, that’s all there was to it.

The only trouble was that he couldn’t open the door. It was hard enough to push one of the front seats forward and clamber over it. It was impossible for him to get the door handles up. He kept jerking at
them, angrier and angrier, until he kicked the gray-lined door and butted it with his shoulder.

“Well, the
hell
…” he muttered then, and impulse-driven, rolled down the window.

He sat on the thin ledge a few moments, legs kicking restlessly. The cold wind blew up his legs. His shoes drummed on the door. I’m going, I don’t care. Abruptly he turned, lowered himself over the window edge, and hung suspended above the ground. Carefully he reached down one hand and caught hold of the outside door handle. After a moment he swung down.

“Oh!” His fingers slipped off the smooth chrome and he fell in a heap on the ground, banging against the side of the car. Momentary fear nibbled coldly at his insides when he realized he couldn’t get back; but it passed quickly. Louise would return soon enough. He walked to the end of the car, jumped down the steep curb, and moved into the street.

He flinched back as a car roared by. It passed at least eight feet away from him, but the noise of the motor was almost deafening. Even the crisp sound of its tires on the pavement was inordinately loud in his ears. When it was past he darted across the street, leaped up the knee-high curb, and raced around to a deserted area behind a tent. He walked beside the dark, wind-stirred canvas wall, listening to the din of the carnival.