Mother Aegypt and Other Stories Part 20

on Sunday afternoon you could still fire a shotgun down Pomeroy Street without hitting a living soul.

Once it had made her want to scream with frustration; now the permanence of the past was comforting.

She had learned that the future, far from being inevitable, sometimes drains away like water vanis.h.i.+ng into sand.

So she was the Branch Postmistress in the hide store now, selling stamps and weighing envelopes for the year-round population, who were mostly pensioned retirees living in the trailer park on the edges of the dunes. All day 171 she sat behind the humidor cabinet and watched the bright glare of the sea outside, or watched the fog advance or recede between the old pool hall and the secondhand store.

On this particular afternoon her view was occluded for a moment by an old man limping in. The limp identified him for her, because otherwise he looked like most of her customers: past seventy, in a stained nylon windbreaker, wearing a baseball cap pinned with military insignia. He had neither the pink plastic hearing aid nor the reading gla.s.ses in black plastic frames that went with the geriatric uniform, however.

"How are you today, Mr. Lynch?" she inquired.

"So-so. Something gave me the runs last night like you wouldn't believe." He smacked an envelope down on the counter and stared at her earnestly.

"Really."

"I think I inhaled some of that bug spray, that's what I think did it," he affirmed.

"Working in your garden?" This one was proud of his garden, she remembered. He had an acre behind his trailer, enclosed by snow fence to keep the dunes from encroaching. He leaned forward now and his voice dropped to a loud whisper.

"Have you ever heard," he wanted to know, "of a bug or a virus or anything that makes the bottom of corn stalks go soft?" Wow, his breath was like a crypt. She tried not to draw back involuntarily as she frowned and shook her head.

"Gosh, no. You mean like, rotten or something?"

"Not rotten, no, they're still green and all right-but they're all bent over! Like the stalk went soft and they melted, then got hard again. d.a.m.nedest thing I ever saw. You ever heard of that?"

She had, in fact. Her gaze darted momentarily to the rack of magazines with t.i.tles like Paranormal Horizon, Journal of the Unproven and Alien Truth!!!'But she blinked and replied "No, I can't imagine what would do that."

"I just thought, you being j.a.panese and all, you might know. Your father might garden or something."

Mr. Hatta didn't garden; he sat on the couch in his black bathrobe doing crossword puzzles. So did Mrs.

Hatta, in her pink bathrobe. As far as Marybeth could tell, they had done nothing else since she'd been home. Marybeth smiled apologetically and shook her head.

"Nope. No idea."

"Well, I'll tell you who will know." He reached for his wallet. "U.S. Government will, that's who. You know those commercials they put on about writing to Pueblo, Colorado for free Government information on everything? No? They're on at five a.m. I get up at four-thirty most mornings, earlier when I got the runs like I did, and you can learn a lot from those. I mail this, they'll send me a free booklet on garden pests special for our area-this part of the coast right here. Now, isn't that a deal?"

"Sounds great." She weighed the envelope in her hand. "One stamp ought to do it, Mr. Lynch."

"Okey-doke." He counted out change. "You should write to them, you know. Pueblo, Colorado.

People don't know about all the free stuff they're missing out on."

"I'll have to remember to do that." She smiled, peeling off a stamp and fixing it to the envelope.

"There's the Post Office Box number right there." He reached out to tap the address insistently. "You want to copy it down before I mail it?"

"Okay, sure." She took a pen and copied out the address on the back of a sc.r.a.p of paper. When she had finished, he took the envelope and dropped it through the OVERSEAS-OUT OF STATE slot m the wall.

"She's on her way now, all right," he stated cheerily. "Now, you can sell me a bottle of Milk of Magnesia. The cherry kind."

A week later the fan was still going around and Marybeth was arranging the various needlecraft monthly magazines in their places when Mr. Lynch came through the door.

He looked troubled.

"Good morning, Mr. Lynch." She looked up from a cover featuring a particularly hideous hooked rug. "What can I do for you today?"

"Well, I sort of thought-" He waved a booklet at her helplessly. It was printed on newsrag, like a tax form guide. "You remember I sent off to Pueblo, Colorado, for free information on garden pests?

Well, they sent it, all right, but I think they must be Army guys wrote it-the language is awful technical.

And I remembered your father said you went to College, so I wondered if you couldn't tell me-"

"You want me to look at it for you?" Marybeth returned to her seat behind the humidor and held out her hand for the booklet. She skimmed through it, reading about Artichoke Plume Moths, Meadow Spittlebugs, Corn Earworms and a host of others.

Mr. Lynch s.h.i.+fted uneasily from foot to foot.

"And the problem's getting worse," he told her.

"The diarrhea?" She looked up in mild alarm.

"No, the... the whatever it is. I can't find anything like what's happening to my corn in that book. It's just laying right over."

"Maybe it's jack rabbits." She went on reading.

"No it ain't, because there's no holes under the fence and no tracks. At first I thought it was those G.o.d-d.a.m.ned kids, because I caught somebody looking in my window, but then the glowing started."

"Glowing?" She looked up again.

"I don't know, maybe it's phosphorus or something. Maybe it's something to do with the wilt or whatever's bending the stalks. I look out my window last night and a whole row's s.h.i.+ning like it was broad daylight. That ain't normal, is it?"

"It doesn't sound normal." She wondered how to phrase her next question. "Um-you haven't heard any funny noises, have you? High-pitched whistling or anything?"

"Well, I'll tell you , I couldn't hear it if there was because there's so G.o.d- d.a.m.ned much interference on my radio lately I think they must be running some big machinery over at that Mr Force base. It's driving me nuts."

"Okay." She bit her lower lip. "Maybe that's what's doing it, you know; something electromagnetic? I don't think it's a garden pest in this booklet, Mr. Lynch."

"No? Didn't seem like it to me, but the way it was written I couldn't tell anything. Well, you know what? I'm going to write back to Pueblo, Colorado and tell 'em about this. Maybe it's something to do with rocket testing." He dug in his pocket for his wallet. "So I need you to sell me some stamps and a writing tablet. Another box of envelopes, too."

When he had limped out the door with the paper sack that held his purchases, she went straight to the nearest copy of Paranormal Horizons and retired behind the humidor case with it for an hour of uninterrupted reading.

That night she waited until the TV trays had been cleared away and a commercial had interrupted Jeopardy to ask: "Daddy, when Grandpa had the truck farm out behind the dunes before the war... did he ever mention anything funny happening to the corn?"

"Didn't grow- corn." Her father did not look away from the screen. "We grew- peas, artichokes, lettuce and cauliflower. No corn."

"Well... did he ever talk about anything he couldn't explain? Any kind of really strange pests in his fields?"

"No." Mr. Hatta turned his head and the lamplight hit his gla.s.ses in such a way that his eyes looked like glowing ovals. He gave a bitter laugh. "Except G.o.d-d.a.m.ned G.I.s!"

Jeopardy returned and Alex Trebek saved her from another visit to Manzanar. She sighed and went in to wash the dinner dishes.

The next Sat.u.r.day dawned bright and hot, but then the wind s.h.i.+fted and a wall of cold fog rolled in, blanketing the town. Tourists retreated, complaining, to their hotel rooms, and discovered they would be charged extra for cable TV. The salt mist beaded on everything. Mr.

Lynch's nylon jacket was slick and damp with it when he came in.

"Good morning, Mr. Lynch. How's your garden doing?" she asked. By way of a reply, he laid a thick manila envelope on the top of the humidor.

"Well, they wrote back from Pueblo, Colorado," he told her. "But, you know, I was right-it is some Army guv who writes this stuff. They sent me a letter and a thing I'm supposed to fill out. Now I just wondered, since I know you went to College and all, if you couldn't explain this in plain English?"

"Okay." She tipped out the contents of the envelope and unfolded the cover letter. Below the superscription and date it began: Dear Mr. Lynch, Thank you for your interest in our programs. We received your recent letter describing the unusual problem affecting your Early Golden Wonder Hybrid.

It is our opinion that your plants may be suffering from a condition known as Australian Anthracnose Sclerotinia, which is uncommon but not unknown in the United States, especially in cool coastal areas adjacent to military bases.

However, this diagnosis cannot be confirmed without further information.

You may be aware that as an honorably discharged member of our Armed Forces, you are ent.i.tled to a number of benefits auxiliary to your pension and medical coverage.

Pest control is included among these. If you will take the time to complete the enclosed detailed questionnaire and return it in the enclosed postage-paid envelope, we will endeavor to respond within ten (10) working days from the arrival of your reply.

Sincerely, Lt. John C. Collins Dept. of Agricultural Safety "Agricultural Safety'?" Marybeth looked over her gla.s.ses at Mr. Lynch.

"That's right. People don't know there's government departments where the Army will do things free for them, but it's true, you know." He nodded his head for emphasis. "Now, I got a pen here-if you wouldn't mind taking a look at the test for me?"

"It's not a test, it's a questionnaire." She unfolded five sheets of closely typed, crudely photocopied paper. She read aloud: "Please circle either YES or A 0 after each of the following questions. One. Have any unusual marks appeared on the ground adjacent to the affected plants? These may he fungal blights resembling scorch or burn marks and may be circular in shape, or may appear in a pattern. YES or KO?"

"Yep, yep, I've had those." Mr. Lynch nodded again.

"Okay" Marybeth took the pen and circled YES. "Tim Have you noticed a continuous high-pitched noise that may or may not be described as trilling, warbling or whistling?"

There were many more questions of this kind, some of them seemingly repet.i.tive. Mr. Lynch gave his Yes or No answer to each of them and Marybeth circled appropriately, though with a growing sense of unease. Some of the questions really couldn't have any imaginable connection with gardening, and many were of a quite personal nature. They didn't seem to bother Mr. Lynch, however. Alien the questions had all been answered, Marybeth folded the pages, slipped them into the envelope that had been provided, and sealed it. She stole a quick look at the stamps, half-expecting a franking mark from Langley, Virginia.

No; two ordinary stamps celebrating the Lighthouses of America.

"Well, there you go, Mr. Lynch." She gave it to him. "I hope this helps."

"Hey those guvs know what they're doing." He stuck the envelope in 0VERSEAS-OUT OF TOWN. He seemed relieved, energized. "You know what? I could go for a Hoffman's Cup o' Gold.

You restock those yet?"

When he had gone she roamed unhappily up and down the aisles, straightening the magazines on doll collecting, on guns and ammo, on Victorian furniture. Finally she drifted over to the paperback kiosks, and spent a long while perusing them. She found the latest t.i.tle by Whitley Streiber. She took it back to the humidor cabinet and barely looked up from it the rest of the afternoon.

Some old guv's got a package," grunted the mail carrier, sliding it across the counter at her. Surf was up and he was anxious to be done with his route for the day.

Marybeth examined it and saw Mr. Lynch's name. "He wasn't home?"

"Nah. I knocked. Left the sticker on his door so he can pick it up here." The carrier crossed the green linoleum with rapid steps and was out again in the sunlight, in the fresh salt air. Marybeth leaned down and turned the box slowly. It was just big enough to contain a head of lettuce, perhaps, or a jar of candy. It didn't weigh much, nor did it rattle. She looked for a return address. There it was: a Post Office Box in Pueblo, Colorado. She gnawed her lower lip, wondering why Mr. Lynch hadn't answered the mail carrier's knock.

But he limped in an hour later, face alight with antic.i.p.ation. "My trap here yet?" he wanted to know.

"Is that what it is?" Marybeth reached under the counter and brought it out for him.

"Uh-huh. Got a letter the other day from Pueblo, Colorado saying they were sending it separate." He thrust the yellow delivery slip at her. "Here. Where do I sign for it?"

"Right there. Did they say if they'd figured out what the problem is?"

"Well, as near as I can make out they think it's that thing they said in the other letter, and they think it's carried by some kind of-I don't remember what they said it was, bugs or spores or something. One of them Latin names. Anyhow, here's this trap or repellent or whatever it is for me to try on 'em, absolutely free. You have to have an FCC license for it, but they said they'd waive that since I'm a Veteran of Foreign Wars." He completed his wandering signature with effort. "Don't tell me this government don't take care of its servicemen!"

"You mean it's electronic?" Marybeth frowned.

"I guess so. They sent instructions with it." He hefted the box and limped toward the door. "I'll let you know how it works!"

"Okay. Good luck, Mr. Lynch," she called after him, craning her head to watch his shadow limp away after him down the sidewalk.

There were gulls circling in the air outside, wheeling and crying, and their shadows danced over the street. An old car pulled up and parked under the swirling cloud of wings, a 1953 BelAir, black and pink, beautifully restored. She nodded in appreciation. A child came in through the doorway, silhouetted against the light, and moved down the aisle toward her. She pulled her attention away from the car and looked down into her own eves. Mommie, can I have a U-No Bar?

Blue school uniform, white Peter Pan collar, saddle oxfords, yes, and there was the pink Barbie purse that had been stolen from her desk in third grade. She heard her mother's voice answering: You know what your father said about candy. Here, have some raisins.

Just as the child began to pout, it vanished. She jumped to her feet, staring. The car was gone, too.

She felt an urge to make the sign of the cross. But here came Mr. Lynch, limping in haste, and he looked out of breath and upset. She drew on years of Customer Service sangfroid and inquired: "Is anything the matter, Mr. Lynch?"

"Well, that trap don't work, for one," he gasped. "All my corn knocked clean over this morning, and these d.a.m.n things all over the place!" He held up a white sphere. It had a cloudy, frosted-gla.s.s quality, like a fist-sized mothball. "All there is in here's a moth! There's bugs and moths and mosquitoes in every d.a.m.n one of 'em, but they're not the problem. There's tracks now. Looks like some kind of big chicken feet. Say, you got a phone in here?"

Wordlessly she pointed him to the dark oak booth in the corner. He hurried into it and she heard him fumbling around in there, dropping nickels and cursing. After several attempts at dialing he yelled in frustration: "This G.o.d-d.a.m.ned phone don't work."

"Yes it does, Mr. Lynch." She went to the door of the booth. "Who are you trying to call?"

"This Eight-Oh-Oh number that came with the instructions." He held out a letter, creased and dogeared from haying been in his pocket. She glimpsed the words: -Temporal Displacement Unit not perform to specifications, please do not hesitate to call us day or night at the following number- "Did you dial One first?"

"Are you supposed to?" He stared at her in distraction. On the little hammered steel shelf under the telephone, the white sphere was glowing softly. "Listen, could I ask you to dial?-these G.o.d-d.a.m.ned long numbers they got now-"

"Sure, Mr. Lynch." She leaned in and took the receiver from him. "What's the number again?" He read it out to her and she dialed it. Abruptly there was a jarring clang on the other end of the line and the number began ringing. She handed the receiver back to him and walked quickly away Trying not to listen to his conversation, she stared at the postal wall. Under the LOCAL slot was a decal of the little cartoon figure the Postal Service had used to convince its customers that zip codes were wonderful, convenient and necessary. The years had not worn away his crazy little smile. Mr. Lynch raised his voice, pulling her attention back. He was waving the sphere as though the person on the other end of the line could see it.

"NOPE. NOPE. YESSIR. I THOUGHT IT WAS ON FIRE. SEE, I-UH HUH. UH-HUH. NO, I DIDN'T. ABOUT THREE INCHES. NOPE. SEE, I THOUGHT-UH HUH. TWO MONTHS.

AGO. NO, JUST FLAT DOWN. SEE, WHAT I THOUGHT AT FIRST-UH HUH. YESSIR. YOU.

WHAT?".

A pair of tourists came in. they bought a San Francisco Chronicle and a package of Hostess Honeybuns. they were unpleasantly surprised at the price of the newspaper, but went ahead with the purchase anyway. When they walked out, Marybeth glanced over at the phone booth. Mr. Lynch looked happy now, he was smiling and nodding as he scrawled something on the back of the letter.