Power of love insanity

   There was only one thing the perfume could not do. It could not turn him into a person who could love and be loved like everyone else. So, to hell with it all. He thought. To hell with the world, with the perfume, with himself.
    I told myself that I was going home. I told myself that
I would not go near the office or the phone that was waiting
on the desk until I'd had some time to think. For even if
I went and picked up the phone and one of the voices answered,
what would I have to tell them? The best that I could do
would be to say that I had seen Gerald Sherwood and had the
money, but that I'd have to know more about what the
situation was before I took their job. And that wasn't good
enough, I told myself; that would be talking off the cuff
and it would gain me nothing.
   And then I remembered that early in the morning I'd be
going fishing with Alf Peterson and I told myself, entirely
without logic, that in the morning there'd be no time to
go down to the office.
   I don't suppose it would have made any difference if I'd
had that fishing date or not. I don't suppose it would have
made any difference, no matter what I told myself. For even
as I swore that I was going home, I knew, without much
question, that I'd wind up at the office.
   Main Street was quiet. Most of the stores were closed
and only a few cars were parked along the kerb. A bunch of
farm boys, in for a round of beers, were standing in front
of the Happy Hollow tavern.
   I parked the car in front of the office and got out.
Inside I didn't even bother to turn on the light. Some light
was shining through the window from a street light at the
intersection and the office wasn't dark.
   I strode across the office to the desk with my hand
already reaching out to pick up the phone - and there wasn't
any phone.
   I stopped beside the desk and stared at the top of it,
not believing. I bent over and, with the flat of my hand,
swept back and forth across the desk, as if I imagined that
the phone had somehow become invisible and while I couldn't
see it I could locate it by the sense of touch. But it wasn't
that, exactly. It was simply, I guess, that I could not
believe my eyes.
   I straightened up from feeling along the desk top and
stood rigid in the room, while an icy-footed little creature
prowled up and down my spine. Finally I turned my head,
slowly, carefully, looking at the corners of the office,
half expecting to find some dark shadow crouching there and
waiting. But there wasn't anything. Nothing had been
changed. The place was exactly as I had left it, except there
wasn't any phone.
   Turning on the light, I searched the office. I looked
in all the corners, I looked beneath the desk, I ransacked
the desk drawers and went through the filing cabinet.
   There wasn't any phone.
   For the first time, I felt the touch of panic. Someone,
I thought, had found the phone. Someone had managed to break
in, to unlock the door somehow, and had stolen it. Although,
when I thought of it, that didn't make much sense. There
was nothing about the phone that would have attracted
anyone's attention. Of course it had no dial and it was not
connected, but looking through the window, that would not
have been apparent.
   More than likely, I told myself, whoever had put it on
the desk had come back and taken it. Perhaps it meant that
the ones who had talked to me had reconsidered and had
decided I was not the man they wanted. They had taken back
the phone and, with it, the offer of the job.
   And if that were the case, there was only one thing I
could do - forget about the job and take back the fifteen
hundred.
   Although that, I knew, would be rather hard to do. I
needed that fifteen hundred so bad I could taste it.
   Back in the car, I sat for a moment before starting the
motor, wondering what I should do next. And there didn't
seem to be anything to do, so I started the engine and drove
slowly up the street.
   Tomorrow morning, I told myself, I'd pick up Alf Peterson
and we'd have our week of fishing. It would be good, I
thought, to have old Alf to talk with. We'd have a lot to
talk about -his crazy job down in Mississippi and my
adventure with the phone.
   And maybe, when he left, I'd be going with him. It would
be good, I thought, to get away from Millville.
   I pulled the car into the driveway and left it standing
there.
   Before I went to bed, I'd want to get the camping and
the fishing gear together and packed into the car against
an early start, come morning. The garage was small and it
would be easier to do the packing with the car standing in
the driveway.
   I got out and stood beside the car. The house was a
hunched shadow in the moonlight and past one corner of it
I could see the moonlit glitter of an unbroken pane or two
in the sagging greenhouse. I could just see the tip of the
elm tree, the seedling elm that stood at one corner of the
greenhouse. I remembered the day I had been about to pull
the seedling out, when it was no more that a sprout, and
how my dad had stopped me, telling me that a tree had as
much right to live as anybody else. That's exactly what he'd
said as much as anybody else. He'd been a wonderful man,
I thought; he believed, deep inside his heart, that flowers
and trees were people.
   And once again I smelled the faint perfume of the purple
flowers that grew in profusion all about the greenhouse,
the same perfume I'd smelled at the foot of the Sherwood
porch. But this time there was no circle of enchantment.
   I walked around the house and as I approached the kitchen
door I saw there was a light inside. More than likely, I
thought, I had forgotten it, although I could not remember
that I had turned it on.
   The door was open, too, and I could remember shutting
it and pushing on it with my hand to make sure the latch
had caught before I'd gone out to the car.
   Perhaps, I thought, there was someone in there waiting
for me, or someone had been here and left and the place was
looted, although there was, God knows, little enough to loot.
It could be kids, I thought sonic of these mixed-up kids
would do anything for kicks.
   I went through the door fast and then came to a sudden
halt in the middle of the kitchen. There was someone there,
all right; there was someone waiting.
   Stiffy Grant sat in a kitchen chair and he was doubled
over, with his arms wrapped about his middle, and rocking
slowly, from side to side, as if he were in pain.
   'Stiffy!' I shouted, and Stiffy moaned at me.
   Drunk again, I thought. Stiffer than a goat and sick,
although how in the world he could have gotten drunk on the
dollar I had given him was more than I could figure. Maybe,
I thought, he had made another touch or two, waiting to start
drinking until he had cash enough to really hang one on.
   'Stiffy,' I said sharply, 'what the hell's the matter?'
   I was plenty sore at him. He could get plastered as often
as he liked and it was all right with me, but he had no right
to come busting in on me.
   Stiffy moaned again, then he fell out of the chair and
sprawled untidily on the floor. Something that clattered
and jangled flew out of the pocket of his ragged jacket and
skidded across the worn-out linoleum.
   I got down on my knees and tugged and hauled at him and
got him straightened out. I turned him over on his back.
His face was splotched and puffy and his breath was jerky,
but there was no smell of liquor. I bent close over him in
an effort to make certain, and there was no smell of booze.
   'Brad?' he mumbled. 'Is that you, Brad?'
   'Yes,' I told him. 'You can take it easy now. I'll take
care of you.'
   'It's getting close,' he whispered. 'The time is coming
dose.'
   'What is getting close?'
   But he couldn't answer. He had a wheezing fit. He worked
his jaws, but no words came out. They tried to come, but
he choked and strangled on them.
   I left him and ran into the living-room and turned on
the light beside the telephone. I pawed, all
fumble-fingered, through the directory, to find Doc
Fabian's number. I found it and dialled and waited while
the phone rang on and on. I hoped to God that Doc was home
and not out on a call somewhere. For when Doc was gone, you
couldn't count on Mrs Fabian answering. She was all crippled
up with arthritis and half the time couldn't get around.
Doc always tried to have someone there to watch after her
and to take the calls when he went out, but there were times
when he couldn't get anyone to stay. Old Mrs Fabian was hard
to get along with and no one liked to stay.
   When Doc answered, I felt a great surge of relief.
   'Doc,' I said. 'Stiffy Grant is here at my place and
there's something wrong with him.'
   'Drunk, perhaps,' said Doc.
   'No, he isn't drunk. I came home and found him sitting
in the kitchen. He's all twisted up and babbling.'
   'Babbling about what?'
   'I don't know,' I said. 'Just babbling - when he can talk,
that is.'
   'All right,' said Doc. 'I'll be right over.'
   That's one thing about Doc. You can count on him. At any
time of day or night, in any kind of weather.
   I went back to the kitchen. Stiffy had rolled over on
his side and was clutching at his belly and breathing hard.
I left him where he was. Doc would be here soon and there
wasn't much that I could do for Stiffy except to try to make
him comfortable, and maybe, I told myself, he might be more
comfortable lying on his side than turned over on his back.
   I picked up the object that had fallen out of Stiffy's
coat. It was a key ring, with half a dozen keys. I couldn't
imagine what need Stiffy might have for half a dozen keys.
More than likely he just carried them around for some smug
feeling of importance they might give to him.
   I put them on the counter top and went back and squatted
down alongside Stiffy. 'I called Doc,' I told him. 'He'll
be here right away.'
   He seemed to hear me. He wheezed and sputtered for a while,
then he said in a broken whisper: 'I can't help no more.
You are all alone.' It didn't go as smooth as that. His words
were broken up.
   'What are you talking about?' I asked him, as gently as
I could. 'Tell me what it is.'
   'The bomb,' he said. 'The bomb. They'll want to use the
bomb. You must stop them, boy.'
   I had told Doc that he was babbling and now I knew I had
been right.
   I headed for the front door to see if Doc might be in
sight and when I got there he was coming up the walk.
   Doc went ahead of me into the kitchen and stood for a
moment, looking down at Stiffy. Then he set down his bag
and hunkered down and rolled Stiffy on his back.
   'How are you, Stiffy?' he demanded.
   Stiffy didn't answer.
   'He's out cold,' said Doc.
   'He talked to me just before you came in.'
   'Say anything?'
   I shook my bead. 'Just nonsense.'
   Doc hauled a stethoscope out of his pocket and listened
to Stiffy's chest. He rolled Stiffy's eyelids back and
beamed a light into his eyes. Then he got slowly to his feet.
   'What's the matter with him?' I asked.
   'He's in shock,' said Doc. 'I don't know what's the
matter. We'd better get him into the hospital over at Elmore
and have a decent look at him.'
   He turned wearily and headed for the living-room.
   'You got a phone in here?' he asked.
   'Over in the corner. Right beside the light.'
   'I'll call Hiram,' he said. 'He'll drive us into Elmore.
We'll put Stiffy in the back seat and I'll ride along and
keep an eye on him.'
   He turned in the doorway. 'You got a couple of blankets
you could let us have?'
   'I think I can find some.'
   He nodded at Stiffy. 'We ought to keep him warm.'
   I went to get the blankets. When I came back with them,
Doc was in the kitchen. Between the two of us, we got Stiffy
all wrapped up. He was limp as a kitten and his face was
streaked with perspiration.
   'Damn wonder,' said Doc, 'how he keeps alive, living the
way he does, in that shack stuck out beside the swamp. He
drinks anything and everything he can get his hands on and
he pays no attention to his food. Eats any kind of slop he
can throw together easy. And I doubt he's had an honest bath
in the last ten years. It does beat hell,' he said with
sudden anger, 'how little care some people ever think to
give their bodies.'
   'Where did he come from?' I asked. 'I always figured he
wasn't a native of this place. But he's been here as long
as I remember.'
   'Drifted in,' said Doc, 'some thirty years ago, maybe
more than that. A fairly young man then. Did some odd jobs
here and there and just sort of settled down. No one paid
attention to him. They figured, I guess, that he had drifted
in and would drift out again. But then, all at once, he
seemed to have become a fixture in the village. I would
imagine that he just liked the place and decided to stay
on. Or maybe lacked the gumption to move on.'
   We sat in silence for a while.
   'Why do you suppose he came barging in on you?' asked
Doc.
   'I wouldn't know,' I said. 'We always got along. We'd
go fishing now and then. Maybe he was just walking past when
he started to get sick.'
   'Maybe so,' said Doc.
   The doorbell rang and I went and let Hiram Martin in.
Hiram was a big man. His face was mean and he kept the
constable's badge pinned to his coat lapel so polished that
it shone.
   'Where is he?' he asked.
   'Out in the kitchen,' I said. 'Doc is sitting with him.'
   It was very plain that Hiram did not take to being drafted
into the job of driving Stiffy in to Elmore.
   He strode into the kitchen and stood looking down at the
swathed figure on the floor.
   'Drunk?' he asked.
   'No,' said Doc. 'He's sick.'
   Well, OK,' said Hiram, 'the car is out in front and I
left the engine running. Let's heave him in and be on our
way.'
   The three of us carried Stiffy out to the car and propped
him in the back seat.
   I stood on the walk and watched the car go down the street
and I wondered how Stiffy would feel about it when he woke
up and found that he was in a hospital. I rather imagined
that he might not care for it.
   I felt bad about Doc. He wasn't a young man any longer
and more than likely he'd had a busy day, and yet he took
it for granted that he should ride with Stiffy.
   Once in the house again, I went into the kitchen and got
out the coffee and went to the sink to fill the coffee pot,
and there, lying on the counter top, was the bunch of keys
I had picked up off the floor. I picked them up again and
had a closer look at them. There were two of them that looked
like padlock keys and there was a car key and what looked
like a key to a safety deposit box and two others that might
have been any kind of keys. I shuffled them around, scarcely
seeing them, wondering about that car key and that other
one which might have been for a safety box. Stiffy didn't
have a car and it was a good, safe bet that be had nothing
for which he'd ever need a safety deposit box.
   The time is getting close, he'd told me, and they'll want
to use the bomb. I had told Doc that it was babbling, but
now, remembering back, I was not so sure it was. He had
wheezed out the words and he'd worked to get them out. They
had been conscious words, words he had managed with some
difficulty. They were words that he had meant to say and
had laboured to get said. They had not been the easy flow
of words that one mouths when babbling. But they had not
been enough. He had not had the strength or time. The few
words that he'd managed made no particular sense.
   There was a place where I might be able to get some
further information that might piece out the words, but I
shrank from going there. Stiffy Grant had been a friend of
mine for many years, ever since that day he'd gone fishing
with a boy often and had sat beside him on the river bank
all the afternoon, spinning wondrous tales. As I recalled
it, standing in the kitchen, we had caught some fish, but
the fish were not important. What had been important then,
what was still important, was that a grown man had the sort
of understanding to treat a ten-year-old as an equal human
being. On that day, in those few hours of an afternoon, I
had grown a lot. While we sat on that river bank I had been
as big as he was, and that was the first time such a thing
had ever happened to me.
   There was something that I had to do and yet I shrank
from doing it - and still, I told myself, Stiffy might not
mind. He had tried to tell me something and he had failed
because he didn't have the strength. Certainly he would
understand that if I used these keys to get into his shack,
that I had not done it in a spirit of maliciousness, or of
idle curiosity, but to try to attain that knowledge he had
tried to share with me.
   No one had ever been in Stiffy's shack. He had built it
through the years, out at the edge of town, beside a swamp
in the corner of Jack Dickson's pasture, and he had built
it out of lumber he had picked up and out of flattened tin
cans and all manner of odd junk he had run across. At first
it had been little more than a lean-to, a shelter from the
wind and rain. But bit by bit, year by year, he had added
to it until it was a structure of wondrous shape and angles,
but it was a home.
   I made up my mind and gave the keys a final toss and caught
them and put them in my pocket. Then I went out of the house
and got into the car.