No One Hears but Him Page 2

  And the people expect every decent, hard-working brave cop to be a drooling psychiatric social worker and not a guardian of the law and a protector of the public! thought Fred with intense old bitterness. Damn, damn, damn!

  He felt the familiar despair and frustrated anger again, and the outrage. Slobs, he thought. We’ve become a nation of slobs, simpering with fake good will, and dangerous and dreamy-eyed and soft and lachrymose, mouthing every sick platitude the sly and crafty enemies of society can think up, for their ultimate ends. We’ve become womanish and—what do they call it in their jargon? Scared. Everything is scary, now, from a threat of war to a TV show. What kind of a people are we?

  Slobs. Effeminate slobs! Transvestites in more ways than one!

  He thought of the last time, a month ago, when he had attended the Communion Breakfast of the Holy Name Society, of which he was a member. He had seen old grizzled retired cops there, manly old fellows whom none would ever mistake for old women. They had strong and resolute faces, these men who had guarded the public safety and weal for over fifty years, who had demanded and had received respect from the people. They had been the terror of criminals. “Tell me, Tim,” Fred had asked one of them during the breakfast. “Why is it that people don’t respect cops any longer?”

  “It’s the wimen,” said Tim in his rough brogue. “We got afraid of the wimen and their big mouths and their pokin’ their noses in politics and such. We let them make wimen of our bhoys, too, God have mercy on our souls!”

  Fred asked another old retired patrolman the same question. “Well, I tell you, Sarge,” the old man had answered. “It’s the gineril breakdown in religion and public morals, and who’s to blame? Over the past forty years I seen it for meself. I ain’t sayin’ things wasn’t tough for people in the old days; they was. But people were workin’ too long and too hard to listen to pussy-footers and their soft-headed tripe, and they laid a heavy hand on their kids, too, and dragged them off to church. But now my grandchildren laugh at religion and go their ways, and who did it? I don’t know, son, I don’t know. I think it’s too many women in things and wantin’ too much for their kids before they’ve earned it. That makes ’em weak and whimperin’ and no muscle in their bodies or their souls.”

  “Well,” said Fred, with gratitude, “my Connie slams the kids if they get out of line, and she’s right. No ‘democracy’ in our household, and diapers having an ‘equal voice.’ What do kids know?”

  “Nothin’,” replied the old man promptly. “But you’d think, listenin’ to the women and the women teachers, that every time a kid opens his fool mouth he was sayin’ Holy Writ, instead of s—. And so the kids think they own the world. I tell you, Fred, one of these days there’s goin’ to be a real shakin’-out and it can’t come too soon.”

  “They call ’em kids when they’re old enough to be married and have families of their own,” said still another old policeman. “On one hand they tell you that the kids are more mature these days, and know more than we did at their age, and on the other hand they call ’em ‘babies,’ and cry their fool eyes out when some young hussy has a bastard and says she ‘didn’t know,’ and what the hell didn’t they know, with everythin’ out plain in the newspapers and magazines and advertisements and TV? They just figure some one’ll bail them out of their mess instead of throwin’ them into jail as they used to, when they rolled in the hay.”

  Permissiveness, thought Fred. What was it Lenin had written? Debase the morals of a people and they will have no courage to resist. Well, the morals of the American people had been debased as far as was possible, now! A faithless and adulterous generation. They were ripe for harsh totalitarianism, and the whip. Inevitably they would get them.

  He had been walking very fast and now stopped, in the warmth of the autumnal day, to wipe his face. He saw that at his left hand there rose a gentle swell of green land, in the very midst of the city, with brilliant gold and red trees in clusters here and there, and flower beds filled with bright autumn flowers. At the top of the rise was a single white building, classical, with a red roof and bronze doors shining in the sun. It was a beautiful small park, Fred thought, and wonderfully well-kept. He saw fountains and marble benches in the shade of the trees, and squirrels romping on the grass, and children playing here and there while their mothers watched them from the cool shadows.

  A little church up there, a museum? Fred began to walk slowly up one of the gravel paths, his interest excited. The white walls in the distance gleamed in the shining light. He had never seen anything so handsome and so peaceful. He saw a young mother sitting under a great red oak, watching her little boy feeding a squirrel. She had a beautiful face and large black eyes and a mass of black silken hair falling almost to her shoulders. She smiled at Fred and he stopped. He touched his hat.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “I’m a stranger in town. What is that building up there?”

  In a clear and very sweet voice she told him the history of the building and old John Godfrey, and he listened with deep interest.

  “The man who listens, eh?” he said. “A doctor, a psychiatrist, a social worker, a lawyer?”

  The girl smiled and her face became vivid with light. “Oh, no,” she said. “That’s what some people think, but it isn’t so.”

  “Well, who?”

  The girl was suddenly grave. She studied Fred. “You could find out for yourself,” she said. “No one seems to tell anyone else.”

  “Did you ever see him?”

  Her voice was very quiet. “Yes.” She hesitated. “You see, four years ago I—well, I was pretty desperate. I was going to kill myself—”

  “You?” He was incredulous. “And leave your husband and little boy?”

  “We didn’t have him, then, Tom and me. If it hadn’t been for that—that man—up there, little Tom wouldn’t be here now, and I wouldn’t, and what would have happened to my husband I hate to think. And where I’d have been—well, I hate to think of it now.” She studied Fred again, very acutely. “Why don’t you go and talk to him, yourself? If you have any troubles?”

  “I haven’t any troubles,” said the reticent police sergeant. “At least, not any I can’t manage myself.”

  “How lucky you are,” said the girl, and her eyes were very sober. She called to her little boy and Fred sauntered upward toward the building. How lucky he was! He was leaving the hopeless and heartbreaking rat race of police work and making a future for himself and his family in a job that would be respected by everybody. Yes, he was very lucky to be getting out in time before it was too late. It was only the thought of selling the first home he had ever really had that was making him feel depressed, and the idea of leaving familiar places and old friends. Yes, that was all. In a couple of months he would be happy again, or at least contented, for who could be happy in this world?

  He stopped on the wide low step to read the arching golden words above the marvelously carved bronze doors: THE MAN WHO LISTENS. I could tell you a lot, brother, thought Fred with such powerful bitterness that he was astonished. I certainly could! But, would you listen to me? Or would you purr like these neuter-gender counselors and soothe me with foolish words and platitudes? Or would you tell me I was doing exactly right—when I know damn well I’m not!

  He was struck by the treacherous vehemence of his own thoughts. Why, of course he was right! Why had he thought for even a second that he was not? What hidden thing in himself had betrayed him? He was so disturbed that he felt hate for the man within this white sanctuary, the cooing, murmurous liar who probably had no manliness but only that nauseating, and emasculated “good-will” that was replacing Christian righteousness these days. He probably stroked the cheeks and the arms of the piteous wretches who came to him for advice in their desperate misery, and bleated psychiatric jargon and told them that “society” had mistreated them and that they had his “compassion.”

  Compassion, hell! thought Fred Carlson. What people need these days is real understanding, the kind t
hat told them, as God told Job, to gird up their loins and be men, and not “scared” pseudo-men. Brother! he thought, staring at the bronze doors, I bet you never heard a real man’s complaints in your life! I’d like to tell you! Not a doctor, a psychiatrist, a social worker or a lawyer, that girl had said. Then, he must be a clergyman, one of the glossy New Breed full of sophistication and concern over “modern, complex problems,” and “our duties to the world,” and with never a word about a man’s stern duties to his God and the imperative to be a man and not a woman in trousers!

  Fury made Fred Carlson push open the doors so strongly that he was almost catapulted into the cool dim waiting room beyond. He exclaimed, “Excuse me!” But there was only an old man there, in the midst of glass tables and pleasant lamps and comfortable chairs. The old man smiled at him. He had a very brown face webbed with years and a shock of virile white hair, and his whole appearance, and his clothes, revealed him as a countryman.

  “Boy! You sure got troubles!” said the old man, with a deeper smile. “Runnin’ in like that!”

  Fred’s new hat had fallen almost over his nose in his rush. He pushed it back. “No,” he said. “I haven’t any troubles. I’m a stranger in town.”

  “That’s what we all are, son,” said the old man. “Strangers in town. Always was, always will be. I remember somethin’ I heard once—my wife was a great reader and liked poetry. ‘Strangers meeting in an alien land, at the gates of hell.’ Never thought much of that until lately, but now I know what it means. Yes sir, I sure do.”

  Fred was so interested by this that he found himself sitting down and taking off his hat. The old man was studying him with tired but very sharp eyes. “You said you ain’t got no troubles? Son, if that’s so, then you ain’t got much sense, either, or much feelin’. When somebody tells me they’re awful happy, I think, ‘You’re either a liar or a fool.’ ’T’ain’t possible to live in this world and be happy, after you’re about three years old.”

  “And that’s why you’re here?”

  “That’s right. I come to the end of the road and don’t know what to do. I hear that man in there can give me some good advice. Nobody else can!”

  He must be at least seventy, thought Fred, and he’s worked hard all his life, as my father and my grandfather did. He’s worked on the land and from the look of his hands he’s still working on it. He had a lonely look. He was probably a widower, too.

  “I hope that man will help you,” said Fred, politely.

  He heard the chime of a soft bell and the old man stood up. “That’s for me,” he said. He paused and stared down acutely at Fred. “Son, you’d better talk to him, yourself. You look as if you need it. I can smell trouble, the same as I can smell snow and rain before they come.”

  He went toward the far door, shaking his head. Fred fumed. He saw the door close behind the old man without a sound. He sat back in his chair. It was pleasant in here, and cool, and as good a place as any to rest before going back to the hotel. Fred picked up a current magazine and began to turn the large picture-pages. There was a huge colored spread here of a certain famous evangelist with a fervid and excited face, wind-blown hair, and upraised hands, addressing a vast outdoor audience. Under the picture, which was a double-fold, there was a caption:

  “Watchman! What of the night?”

  Fred’s restless hands stopped. He stared at the printed words, which seemed to leap at him. “Watchman! What of the night?”

  From the Bible, of course. He remembered that, vaguely, from long ago. In the ancient days the watchman patrolled the walls of the city, and the gates, with his lantern at midnight and his sword at his side and his alarm trumpet. Under a great golden moon or under dim stars he pursued his slow and resolute way, guarding the city while it slept, his eyes seeking enemies and criminals, murderers and thieves. That was his duty, his sacred duty. Without the watchman the city would fall—

  Fred hurled the magazine vindictively across the room, and his great rage returned. Oh, he’d mention that to the soothing and sanctimonious liar in there! He’d ask him what he thought of a nation that attacked its watchmen and jeered at them and accused them of “police brutality.” What do you think of a city, he’d say, that despises its watchmen so much that it won’t pay them a living wage and fulminates against them and catcalls at them derisively? Why, I’d say: Well, I’m leaving my post and I just hope to hell the vandals will murder you in your sweaty beds and burn your houses down around your ears! That’s all you deserve. Take your measly handful of dollars and stick it! Let your civilian review boards patrol your city and kiss every murdering son-of-a-bitch they find in the dark! We cops have had it.

  He sat and brooded in his rage and indignation. Then he heard the chiming of the bell. He looked up. That call was for him. He jumped to his feet and went to the farther door, his mind boiling with furious questions and furious answers. He flung open the door and charged inside, full of hate and bitterness.

  He did not know what he had expected, but certainly not this blue and white calm, this windowless peace, that distant blue-shrouded alcove and the white chair with its blue cushions. He had half-thought to see a serious middle-aged clergyman at a desk, with files of “cases” behind him, a pad and a pen before him. He had expected a rich greeting, “Good afternoon, won’t you sit down and tell me what is troubling you?”

  Fred was surprised and the heat in his mind calmed a little. There was no one here but himself. Had the man left after the last visitor? Fred looked about him, seeing softly lighted walls and hearing the faintest whisper of fresh air-conditioning. There was a scent of fern in the air, like the fragrance of a deep forest.

  “Anyone here?” he asked tentatively.

  No one answered him. He put his coat over the chair and laid his hat on the floor. Then he sat down and stared at the blue velvet draperies. It was very strange, but they seemed to hide someone who was very much at hand, and who was listening. Fred leaned forward a little and said with abruptness, “I’m a cop.”

  There was no answer. Fred laughed a little. “A retiring cop. I’m getting out. Do I need to tell you why? It’s very simple. I’m tired of being ashamed of my job, of having to apologize for it, to a bunch of fools who think cops are stupid or sadists, and love to shoot and to club for the sheer hell of it. Well, they’ve driven me out into their own ranks, and when I see a cop on the street after today I’ll think, ‘You poor, unappreciated slob! One of these days some punk is going to shove a knife into your ribs or blow your brains out, and then your wife can leave your kids and get a job for herself, for there won’t be enough money to let her stay at home. There won’t be any justice for you, either, or any public tears. The judges will fall on the neck of your murderer and sob about his “broken home” and how he was “deprived,” and your murderer will be sent to a nice cozy jail for a couple of years or to a country-club sort of psychiatric hospital, and everyone will be sure he has been abused. You were using “police brutality,” weren’t you? Sure you were! You were protecting your city and your life. You slob!’”

  “Watchman! What of the night?”

  “What?” exclaimed Fred. “Oh. That stupid question. I’ll tell you. When the night comes, and it sure as hell is coming, the cities will be chaotic with murderers and looters and that is all they deserve. Talk of alarms! I’ll be glad to see it, I tell you, I’ll be glad to see it. I’ll be the first to laugh at the shocked and frightened faces. Women and kids murdered in the streets? Stores looted? Churches burned? Men scurrying along walls like mice, and whimpering? Who cares?”

  His voice, almost violent, rang back from the walls like challenging echoes.

  “You don’t think so, eh? You think men are getting more and more civilized, do you? ‘The perfectibility of man!’ You know what I think of that?—! I don’t give a damn if you are a clergyman; you might as well hear a few brutal words from a ‘brutal’ cop, probably for the first time in your life.

  “The only way the majority of men can b
e kept in line is by fear of the law or by the fear of God—”

  He stopped. “The fear of God,” he repeated, slowly. “And where is that now in America today, or anywhere else in the world? And what have some of you clergymen done to put the fear of God into people? Nothing. You deplore what you call ‘force,’ whether it be the authority of parents, the law, or of Divine Justice. You believe in persuasion and education and enlightenment. So did other men, in the past, and they found out, as we’ll find out, that they are only words and maudlin ones at that.

  “Let me tell you of a few things I’ve seen for myself in my own city. There isn’t a day but what some cop doesn’t bring in a punk caught stealing or manhandling or killing. And then when the punk is brought to trial the social workers swarm in and the crying parents, and it turns out that the cop was wrong and the punk was only abused and ‘never had a chance in life.’ The judge listens. Does he turn to the parents of the punk and say, ‘It is you who should be punished or executed, for you did this to your son and to your country and you are the real criminals.’ No, he doesn’t say that. He wipes away a tear, himself, and he sharply questions the cop and half the time he doesn’t believe the slob who had risked his life to defend the law and society. Sometimes he even reprimands him. And the punk goes free and ends up committing another theft or another murder. Then people ask, ‘Where are our police? All they are doing is handing out traffic tickets.’

  “I’ll tell you where the cops are! They are patrolling their beats by day and patrolling them by night, and they know it is useless. The people won’t back them up. In fact, the people are their enemies. The watchman, the ‘fuzz’ as they call him, is desperately serving the very men and women who are busy destroying his authority and condemning him, and releasing murderers and thieves on themselves again. All in the name of ‘brotherly love!’ for God’s sake! They don’t understand any longer that millions of people are natural-born Cains, and must be ‘cast out,’ as the Bible calls it and ostracized from society, and not ‘rehabilitated’ until they show repentance—and I’ve been a cop for years and I never saw a criminal repent. The only thing the criminal fears is stern justice.