DORIS LESSING, The Golden Notebook 3 page

She didn't.

“All right,” she said, “but you know I don't care how much you drink, Gard. I'm your friend, not your wife.”

No, you don't care how much I drink—you've made it very easy for me to drink all I want. Because it neutralizes me.

He walked along Route 9 past Justin Hurd's place, and when he struck the Nista Road, he turned left and moved along at a good pace, his arms swinging easily. The last month's labor had toughened him more than he would have believed—not so long ago even a two-mile walk such as this would have left him rubber-legged and winded.

Still, it was eerie. No whippoorwills greeted the encroaching twilight; no dog barked at him. Most of the houses were dark. No TVs flickered inside the few lighted windows he passed.

Who needs Barney Miller reruns when you can “become” instead? Gardener thought.

By the time he reached the sign reading ROAD ENDS 200 YARDS, it was almost full dark, but the moon was rising and the night was very bright. At the end of the road he reached a heavy chain strung between two posts. A rusty, bullet-holed NO TRESPASSING sign hung from it. Gard stepped over the chain, kept walking, and was soon standing in an abandoned gravel pit. The moonlight on its weedy sides was white as bone. The silence made Gardener's scalp prickle.

What had brought him here? His own “becoming” he supposed—something he had picked out of Bobbi's mind without even knowing he'd done it. It must have been that, because whatever had brought him out here had been a lot stronger than just a hunch.

To the left there was a thick triangular scar against the whiteness of the undisturbed gravel. This stuff had been moved around. Gardener walked over, shoes crunching. He dug into the fresher gravel, found nothing, moved, dug another hole, found nothing, moved, dug a third, found nothing

Oh, hey, wait a minute.

His fingers skimmed across something much too smooth to be a stone. He leaned over, heart thudding, but could see nothing. He wished he had brought a flashlight, but that probably would have made Bobbi even more suspicious. He dug wider, letting the dirt run and rattle down the inclined slope.

He saw he had uncovered a car headlight.

Gardener looked at it, filled with an eerie, skeletal amusement. THIS is what it's like to find something in the earth, he thought. To find some strange artifact. Only I didn't have to stumble over it, did I? I knew where to look.

He dug faster, climbing the slope and throwing dirt back between his legs like a mutt digging for a bone, ignoring his pounding head, ignoring his hands, which first scraped, then chafed, then began to bleed.

He was able to clear a level place on the Cutlass's hood just above the right-side headlights where he could stand, and then the work went faster. Bobbi and her buddies had done a casual burial job at best. Gardener pulled loose gravel down by the armload, then kicked it off the car. Pebbles shrieked and squealed on the metalwork. His mouth was dry. He was working his way up to the windshield, and he honestly didn't know which would be better—to see something, or nothing.

His fingers brushed slick smoothness again. Without allowing himself to stop and think—the silent creepiness of the place might have gotten to him then; he might have just turned and run—he dug a clear place on the windshield and peered in, cupping his hands to the glass to cut the glare from the moon.

Nothing.

Anne Anderson's rented Cutlass was empty.

They could have put her in the trunk. The fact is, you still don't know anything for sure.

He thought he did, however. Logic told him that Anne's body wasn't in the trunk. Why would they bother? Anyone who found a brand-new car buried out here in a deserted gravel pit was going to find it suspicious enough to investigate the trunk... or to call the police, who would do it.

No one in Haven would give a rip one way or another. They have concerns more pressing than cars buried in gravel pits right now. And if someone from town did happen to find it, calling the police is the last thing they'd do. That would mean outsiders, and we don't want any outsiders in Haven this summer, do we? Perish the thought!

So she wasn't in the trunk. Simple logic. QED.

Maybe the people who did this didn't have your sterling powers of logic, Gard.

That was a crock of shit, too. If he could see a thing from three angles, the Haven Quiz-Kids could see it from twenty-three. They didn't miss a trick.

Gardener backed to the edge of the hood on his knees and jumped down. Now he was aware of his scraped, burning hands. He would have to take a couple of aspirin when he got back and try to conceal the damage from Bobbi in the morning—work-gloves were going to be the order of the day. All day.

Anne wasn't in the car. Where was Anne? In the shed, of course; in the shed. Gardener suddenly understood why he had come out here—not just to confirm a thought he had plucked from Bobbi's head (if that was what he had done; his subconscious mind might simply have fixed on this as the handiest place to get rid of a big car quick), but because he had needed to make sure it was the shed. Needed to. Because he had a decision to make, and he knew now that not even seeing Bobbi change into something which was not human was enough to force him into that decision—so much of him still wanted to dig the ship out, dig it out and put it to use—so much, so very much.

Before he could make the decision, he had to see what was in Bobbi's shed.

Halfway back he stopped in the cold, slippery moonlight, struck by a question -why had they bothered to hide the car? Because the rental people would report it missing and more police would turn up in Haven? No. The Hertz or Avis people might not even know it was missing for days, and it would be longer still before the cops traced Anne's family connection here. At least a week, more like two. And Gardener thought by then Haven would be done worrying about outside interference, one way or another, for good.

So who had the car been hidden from?

From you, Gard. They hid it from you. They still don't want you to know what they're capable of when it comes to protecting themselves. They hid it and Bobbi told you Anne went away.

He went back with this dangerous secret turning in his mind like a jewel.

Chapter 3

The Hatch

It happened two days later, as Haven lay sprawled and sunstruck under the August heat. Dog-days had come, except of course there were no dogs left in Haven -unless maybe there was one in Bobbi Anderson's shed.

Gard and Bobbi were at the bottom of a cut which was now a hundred and seventy feet deep—the hull of the ship formed one side of this excavation, and the other side, behind the silvery mesh crisscrossing it, showed a cutaway view of thin soil, clay, schist, granite, and spongy aquifer. A geologist would have loved it. They were wearing jeans and sweatshirts. It was stiflingly hot on the surface, but down here it was chilly—Gardener felt like a bug crawling on the side of a water cooler. On his head he wore a hard-hat with a flashlight attached to it by silver utility tape. Bobbi had cautioned him to use the light as sparingly as possible -batteries were in limited supply. Both of his ears were stuffed with cotton. He was using a pneumatic drill to shag up big chunks of rock. Bobbi was at the other end of the cut, doing the same thing.

Gardener had asked her that morning why they had to drill. “I liked the radio explosives better, Bobbi old kid,” he said. “Less pain and strain on the American brain, know what I mean?”

Bobbi didn't smile. Bobbi seemed to be losing her sense of humor along with her hair.

“We're too close now,” Bobbi said. “Using an explosive might damage something we don't want to damage.”

“The hatch?”

“The hatch.”

Gardener's shoulders were aching, and the plate in his head was aching as well -that was probably mental, steel couldn't ache, but it always seemed to when he was down here—and he hoped Bobbi would signal soon that it was time for them to knock off for lunch.

He let the drill chatter and bite its way toward the ship again, not bothering too much about grazing that dull silver surface. You had to be careful not to let the tip of the drill walk onto it too hard, he had discovered; it was apt to rebound and tear off your foot if you weren't careful. The ship itself was as invulnerable to the rough kiss of the drill as it had been to the explosives he and his parade of helpers had used. There was at least no danger of damaging the goods.

The drill touched the ship's surface—and suddenly its steady machine-gun thunder turned to a high-pitched squeal. He thought he saw smoke squirt from the pulsing blur of the drill's tip. There was a snap. Something flew past his head. All this happened in less than a second. He shut the drill off and saw the drill-bit was almost entirely gone. All that remained was a jagged stub.

Gardener turned around and saw the part that had gone winging past his face embedded in the rock of the cut. It had sheared a strand of the meshwork neatly in two. Delayed shock hit, making his knees want to come unlocked and spill him to the ground.

Missed me by a whore's hair. No more, no less. Mother!

He tried to pull it out of the rock, and thought at first it wasn't going to come. Then he began to wiggle it back and forth. Like pulling a tooth out of a gum, he thought, and a hysterical titter escaped him.

The chunk of drill-bit came free. It was the size of a . 45 slug, maybe a little bigger.

Suddenly he was on the verge of passing out. He put an arm on the mesh-covered wall of the cut and rested his head on it. He closed his eyes and waited for the world to either go away or come back. He was dimly aware that Bobbi's drill had also cut out.

The world began to come back... and Bobbi was shaking him.

“Gard? Gard, what's wrong?”

There was real concern in her voice. Hearing it made Gardener feel absurdly like weeping. Of course, he was very tired.

“I almost got shot in the head by a forty-five-caliber drill-bit,” Gardener said. “On second thought, make that a . 357 Magnum.”

“What are you talking about?”

Gardener handed her the fragment he had worked out of the wall. Bobbi looked at it and whistled. “Jesus!”

“I think He and I just missed connections. That's the second time I've almost gotten killed down in this shithole. The first time was when your friend Enders almost forgot to send down the sling after I'd set one of those radio explosives.”

“He's no friend of mine,” Bobbi said absently. “I think he's a dork... Gard, what did you hit? What made it happen?”

“What do you mean? A rock! What else is there down here to hit?”

“Were you near the ship?” All of a sudden Bobbi looked excited. No; more than that. Nearly feverish.

“Yes, but I've grazed the ship with the drill before. It just bounces b

But Bobbi wasn't listening anymore. She was at the ship, down on her knees, digging into the rubble with her fingers.

It looked like it was steaming, Gardener thought. It

It's here, Gard! Finally here!

He had joined her before he realized that she hadn't spoken the conclusion of her thoughts aloud; Gardener had heard her in his head.

Something, all right, Gardener thought.

Pulling aside the rock Gardener's drill had chunked up just before it exploded, Bobbi had revealed, finally, a line in the ship's surface—one single line in all of that huge, featureless expanse. Looking at it, Gardener understood Bobbi's excitement. He stretched out his hand to touch it.

“Better not,” she said sharply. “Remember what happened before.”

“Leave me alone,” Gardener said. He pushed Bobbi's hand aside and touched that groove. There was music in his head, but it was muffled and quickly faded. He thought he could feel his teeth vibrating rapidly in their sockets and suspected he would lose more of them tonight. Didn't matter. He wanted to touch it; he would touch it. This was the way in; this was the closest they had been to the Tommyknockers and their secrets, their first real sign that this ridiculous thing wasn't just solid through and through (the thought had occurred to him; what a cosmic joke that would have been). Touching it was like touching starlight made solid.

“It's the hatch,” Bobbi said. “I knew it was here!”

Gardener grinned at her. “We did it, Bobbi.”

“Yeah, we did it. Thank God you came back, Gard!”

Bobbi hugged him... and when Gardener felt the jellylike movement of her breasts and torso, he felt sick revulsion rise in him. Starlight? Maybe the stars were touching him, right now.

It was a thought he was quick to conceal, and he thought that he did conceal it, that Bobbi got none of it.

That's one for me, he thought. “How big do you think it is?”

“I'm not sure. I think we might be able to clear it today. It's best if we do. Time's gotten short, Gard.”

“How do you mean?”

“The air over Haven has changed. This did it.” Bobbi rapped her knuckles on the hull of the ship. There was a dim, bell-like note.

“I know.”

“It makes people sick to come in. You saw the way Anne was.”

“Yes.”

“She was protected to some degree by her dental work. I know that sounds crazy, but it's true. Still, she left in a hell of a hurry.”

Oh? Did she?

“If that was all—the air poisoning people who came into town—that would be bad enough. But we can't leave anymore, Gard.”

“Can't—?”

“No. I think you could. You might feel sickish for a few days, but you could leave. It would kill me, and very quickly. And something else: we've had a long siege of hot, still weather. If the weather changes—if the wind blows hard enough—it's going to blow our biosphere right out over the Atlantic Ocean. We'll be like a bunch of tropical fish just after someone pulled the plug on the tank and killed the rebreather. We'll die.”

Gard shook his head. “The weather changed the day you went to that woman's funeral, Bobbi. I remember. It was clear and breezy. That was what was so weird about you catching a sunstroke after all that hot and muggy.”

“Things have changed. The “becoming” has speeded up.”

Would they all die? Gardener wondered. ALL of them? Or just you and your special pals, Bobbi? The ones that have to wear makeup now?

“I hear doubt in your head, Gard,” Bobbi said. She sounded halfexasperated, half-amused.

“What I doubt is that any of this can be happening at all,” Gardener said. “Fuck it. Come on. Dig, babe.”

They took turns with a pick. One of them would use it for fifteen minutes or so, and then both would clear away the rubble. By three that afternoon Gard saw a circular groove that looked about six feet in diameter. Like a manhole cover. And here, at last, was a symbol. He looked at it, wonderingly, and at last he had to touch it. The blast of music in his head was louder this time, as if in weary protest, or in weary warning—a warning to get away from this thing before its protection lapsed entirely. But he needed to touch it, confirm it.

Running his fingers over this almost Chinese symbol, he thought: A creature who lived under the glow of a different sun conceived this mark. What does it mean? NO TRESPASSING? WE CAME IN PEACE? Or is it maybe a plague-symbol, an alien version Of ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER IN HERE?

It was pressed into the metal of the ship like a bas-relief. Merely touching it brought on a species of superstitious dread he had never felt before; he would have laughed if, six weeks ago, someone had told him he might feel this way—like a caveman watching an eclipse of the sun or a medieval peasant watching the arrival of what would eventually become known as Halley's Comet.

A creature who lived under the glow of a different sun conceived this mark. I, James Eric Gardener, born in Portland, Maine, United States of America, Western Hemisphere of the World, am touching a symbol made and struck by God only knows what sort of being across a black distance of light-years. My God, my God, I am touching a different mind!

He had, of course, been touching different minds for some time now, but this was not the same... not the same at all.

Are we really going in? He was aware that his nose was bleeding again “ but not even that could make him take his hand away from that symbol; he trailed the pads of his fingers restlessly back and forth across its smooth, unknowable surface.

More accurately, are you going to try to go in there? Are you, even though you know it may—probably will—kill you? You get a jolt every time you touch the thing; what's going to happen if you're foolish enough to go inside? It will probably set up a harmonic vibration in that damned steel plate of yours that will blow your head apart like a stick of dynamite in a rotten turnip.

Awfully concerned about your welfare for a man who was on the verge of suicide not very long ago, aren't you, goodbuddy? he thought, and had to grin in spite of himself. He drew his fingers away from the shape of the symbol, flicking them absently to get rid of the tingle like a man trying to shake off a good-sized booger. Go on and go for it. What the fuck, if you're gonna step out anyway, having your brains vibrated to death inside of a flying saucer is a more exotic way to go than most.

Gard laughed aloud. It was a strange sound at the bottom of that deep slit in the ground.

“What's funny?” Bobbi asked quietly. “What's funny, Gard?”

Laughing harder, Gardener said: “Everything. This is... something else. I guess it's laugh or go crazy. You dig it?”

Bobbi looked at him, obviously not digging it, and Gardener thought: Of course she doesn't. Bobbi got stuck with the other option. She can't laugh because she went crazy.

Gardener roared until tears rolled down his cheeks, and some of these tears were bloody, but he did not notice this. Bobbi did, but Bobbi didn't bother to tell him.

It took them another two hours to completely clear the hatchway. When they were done, Bobbi stuck out a dirty, makeup-streaked hand in Gardener's direction.

“What?” Gardener asked, shaking it.

“That's it,” Bobbi said. “We're finished with the dig. We're done, Gard.”

Yeah?”

Yeah. Tomorrow we go inside, Gard.”

Gard looked at her without saying anything. His mouth felt dry.

“Yes,” Bobbi said, and nodded, as if Gard had questioned this. “Tomorrow we go in. Sometimes it seems like I started this about a million years ago. Sometimes like it was just yesterday. I stumbled over it, and I saw it, and I ran my finger along it and blew off the dirt. That was the start. One finger dragged through the dirt. This is the end.”

“That was a different Bobbi at the beginning,” Gardener said.

“Yes,” Bobbi said meditatively. She looked up, and there was a sunken gleam of humor in her eyes. “A different Gard, too.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess you know, it'll probably kill me to go in there... but I'm going to give it a shot.”

“It won't kill you,” Bobbi said.

“No?”

“No. Now let's get out of here. I've got a lot to do. I'll be out in the shed tonight.”

Gardener looked at Bobbi sharply, but Bobbi was looking upward as the motorized sling trundled down on its cables.

“I've been building things out there,” Bobbi said. Her voice was dreamy.,Me and a few others. Getting ready for tomorrow.”

“They'll be joining you tonight,” Gardener said. It was not a question.

“Yes. But first I need to bring them out here, to look at the hatch. They... they've been waiting for this day, too, Gard.”

“I'll bet they have,” Gardener said.

The sling arrived. Bobbi turned to look at Gardener narrowly. “What's that supposed to mean, Gard?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Their eyes met. Gardener could feel her clearly now, working at his mind, trying to dig into it, and he had again that sense of his secret knowledge and secret doubts turning and turning like a dangerous jewel.

He thought deliberately.

(get out of my head Bobbi you're not welcome here)

Bobbi recoiled as if slapped—but there was also faint shame on her face, as if Gard had caught her peeking where she had no business peeking. There was still some humanness left in her, then. That was comforting.

“Bring them out, by all means,” Gard said. “But when it comes to opening it up, Bobbi, it's just you and me. We dug the fucker up, and we go in the fucker first. You agree?”

“Yes,” Bobbi said. “We go in first. The two of us. No brass bands, no parades.”

“And no Dallas Police.”

Bobbi smiled faintly. “Not them, either.” She held out the sling. “You want to ride up first?”

“No, you go. It sounds like you got a schedule and a half still ahead of you.”

“I do.” Bobbi swung astride the sling, pressed a button, and started up. “Thanks again, Gard.”

“Welcome,” Gardener said, craning his neck to follow Bobbi's upward progress.

“And you'll feel better about all of this

(when you “become” when you finish your own “becoming')

Bobbi rose up and up and out of sight.

Chapter 4

The Shed

It was August 14th. A quick calculation told Gardener that he had been with Bobbi for forty-one days—almost exactly a biblical period of confusion or unknown time, as in “he wandered in the desert for forty days and forty nights.” It seemed longer. It seemed like his entire life.

He and Bobbi did no more than pick at the frozen pizza Gardener heated up for their supper.

“I think I'd like a beer,” Bobbi said, going to the fridge. “How about you? Want one, Gard?”

“I'll pass, thanks.”

Bobbi raised her eyebrows but said nothing. She got the beer, walked out on the porch, and Gardener heard the seat of her old rocker creak comfortably as she sat down. After a while he drew a cold glass of water from the tap, went out, and sat beside Bobbi. They sat there for what seemed a long time, not speaking, just looking out into the hazy stillness of early evening.

“Been a long time, Bobbi, you and me,” he said.

“Yes. A long time. And a strange ending.”

“Is that what it is?” Gardener asked, turning in his chair to look at Bobbi. “The end?”

Bobbi shrugged easily. Her eye slid away from Gardener's. “Well, you know. End of a phase. How's that? Any better?”

“If it's le mot juste, then it's not just better, not even the best—just the only mot that matters. Isn't that what I taught you?”

Bobbi laughed. “Yeah, it was. First damned class. Mad dogs, Englishmen... and English teachers.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Bobbi sipped her beer and looked out at the Old Derry Road again. Impatient for them to arrive, Gardener supposed. If the two of them had really said everything there was left to say after all these years, he almost wished he had never heeded the impulse to come back at all, no matter what the reasons or eventual outcome. Such a weak ending to a relationship which had, in its time, encompassed love, sex, friendship, a period of tense detente, concern, and even fear seemed to make a mock of the whole thing—the pain, the hurt, the effort.

“I always loved you, Gard,” Bobbi said softly and thoughtfully, not looking at him. “And no matter how this turns out, remember that I still do.” Now she did look at Gardener, her face a strange parody of a face under the thick makeup—surely this was some hopeless eccentric who happened to resemble Bobbi a little. “And I hope you'll remember that I never asked to stumble over the goddam thing. Free will was not a factor here, as some wise-ass or other has surely said.”

“But you chose to dig it up,” Gardener said. His voice was as soft as Bobbi's but he felt a new terror steal into his heart. Was that crack about free wiII a roundabout apology for his own impending murder?

Stop it, Gard. Stop jumping at shadows.

Is the car buried out at the end of Nista Road a shadow? his mind returned at once.

Bobbi laughed softly. “Man, the idea that whether or not to dig something like that up could ever be a function of free will... you might be able to stick that to a kid in a high-school debate, but we out on de po'ch, Gard. You don't really think a person chooses something like that, do you? Do you think people can choose to put away any knowledge once they've seen the edge of it?”

“I had been picketing nuclear power plants on that assumption, yes,” Gardener said slowly.

Bobbi waved it away. “Societies may choose not to implement ideas—actually I doubt even that, but for the sake of argument we'll say it's so—but ordinary people? No, I'm sorry. When ordinary people see something sticking out of the ground, they got to dig on it. They got to dig on it because it might be treasure.”

“And you didn't have the slightest inkling that there would be . Fallout was the word that came to mind. He didn't think it was a word Bobbi would like. “.. . consequences?”

Bobbi smiled openly. “Not a hint in the world.”

“But Peter didn't like it.”

“No. Peter didn't like it. But it didn't kill him, Gard.”

I'm quite sure it didn't.

“Peter died of natural causes. He was old. That thing in the woods is a ship from another world. Not Pandora's box, not a divine apple tree. I heard no voice from heaven saying Of this ship shalt thou not eat lest ye die.”

Gard smiled a little. “But it is a ship of knowledge, isn't it?”

“Yes. I suppose.”

Bobbi was looking toward the road again, obviously not wanting to pursue the topic further.

“When do you expect them?” Gardener asked.

Instead of answering, Bobbi nodded at the road. Kyle Archinbourg's Caddy was coming, followed by Adley McKeen's old Ford.

“Guess I'll go inside and catch some winks,” Gardener said, getting up.

“If you want to go out to the ship with us, you're welcome to.”

“With you, maybe. With them?” He cocked a thumb toward the approaching cars. “They think I'm crazy. Also, they hate my guts because they can't read my mind.”

“If I say you go, you go.”

“Well, I think I'll pass,” Gardener said, getting up and stretching. “I don't like them, either. They make me nervous.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. Just... tomorrow. The two of us, Bobbi. Right?”

“Right.”

“Give them my best. And remind them I helped, steel plate in my head or not.”

“I will. Of course I will.” But Bobbi's eyes slid away again, and Gardener didn't like that. He didn't like it at all.

He thought they might go in the shed first, but they didn't. They stood around outside for a while talking—Bobbi, Frank, Newt, Dick Allison, Hazel, the others—and then moved off toward the woods in a tight group. The light was shading down toward purple now, and most of them were carrying flashlights.

Watching, Gard felt that his last real moment with Bobbi had come and gone. There was nothing now but to go into the shed and see what was in there. Make up his mind once and for all.

Saw an eyeball peepin” through a smokey cloud behind the green door...

He got up and went through the house to the kitchen in time to see them heading into Bobbi's rampant garden. He counted noses quickly, making sure that they were all there, then headed for the cellar. Bobbi kept a spare keyring down there.

He opened the cellar door and paused one final time.

Do you really want to do this?

No; no, he did not. But he meant to do it. And he discovered that, more than fear, he felt a great sense of loneliness. There was literally no one else he could turn to for help. He had been in the desert with Bobbi Anderson forty days and forty nights, and now he was in the desert on his own. God help him.

To bell with it, he thought. Like the old World War I platoon sergeant was supposed to have said, Come on, you guys, you want to live forever?

Gardener went downstairs to get Bobbi's keyring.

It was there, hanging on its nail with every key neatly labeled. The only catch was the shed key was gone. It had been here; he was quite sure of that. When had he last seen it here? Gard tried to remember and couldn't. Bobbi taking precautions? Maybe.

He stood in the New and Improved Workshop, sweat on his forehead and sweat on his balls. No key. That was great. So what was he supposed to d... Grab Bobbi's ax and make like Jack Nicholson in The Shining? He could see it. Smash, crash, bash: Heeeeere's GARDENER! Except that might be a bit hard to cover up before the pilgrims got back from The Viewing of the Sac-red Hatch.

Gardener stood in Bobbi's workshop, feeling time slipping away, feeling Old and Unimproved. How long would they be out there, anyway? No way of telling, was there? No way at all.

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 549