Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe March 1954. Extensive
research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this
publication was renewed.
[The history of this materialistic world is highlighted with
strange events that scientists and historians, unable to explain
logically, have dismissed with such labels as "supernatural,"
"miracle," etc. But there are those among us whose simple faith
can--and often does--alter the scheme of the universe. Even a little
child can do it....]
to remember charlie by
by ... Roger Dee
Just a one-eyed dog named Charlie and a crippled boy named
Joey--but between them they changed the face of the universe ...
perhaps.
* * * * *
I nearly stumbled over the kid in the dark before I saw him.
His wheelchair was parked as usual on the tired strip of carpet grass
that separated his mother's trailer from the one Doc Shull and I lived
in, but it wasn't exactly where I'd learned to expect it when I rolled
in at night from the fishing boats. Usually it was nearer the west end
of the strip where Joey could look across the crushed-shell square of
the Twin Palms trailer court and the palmetto flats to the Tampa
highway beyond. But this time it was pushed back into the shadows away
from the court lights.
The boy wasn't watching the flats tonight, as he usually did. Instead
he was lying back in his chair with his face turned to the sky,
staring upward with such absorbed intensity that he didn't even know I
was there until I spoke.
"Anything wrong, Joey?" I asked.
He said, "No, Roy," without taking his eyes off the sky.
For a minute I had the prickly feeling you get when you are watching a
movie and find that you know just what is going to happen next.
You're puzzled and a little spooked until you realize that the reason
you can predict the action so exactly is because you've seen the same
thing happen somewhere else a long time ago. I forgot the feeling when
I remembered why the kid wasn't watching the palmetto flats. But I
couldn't help wondering why he'd turned to watching the sky instead.
"What're you looking for up there, Joey?" I asked.
He didn't move and from the tone of his voice I got the impression
that he only half heard me.
"I'm moving some stars," he said softly.
I gave it up and went on to my own trailer without asking any more
fool questions. How can you talk to a kid like that?
Doc Shull wasn't in, but for once I didn't worry about him. I was
trying to remember just what it was about my stumbling over Joey's
wheelchair that had given me that screwy double-exposure feeling of
familiarity. I got a can of beer out of the ice-box because I think
better with something cold in my hand, and by the time I had finished
the beer I had my answer.
The business I'd gone through with Joey outside was familiar because
it _had_ happened before, about six weeks back when Doc and I first
parked our trailer at the Twin Palms court. I'd nearly stumbled over
Joey that time too, but he wasn't moving stars then. He was just
staring ahead of him, waiting.
He'd been sitting in his wheelchair at the west end of the
carpet-grass strip, staring out over the palmetto flats toward the
highway. He was practically holding his breath, as if he was waiting
for somebody special to show up, so absorbed in his watching that he
didn't know I was there until I spoke. He reminded me a little of a
ventriloquist's dummy with his skinny, knob-kneed body, thin face and
round, still eyes. Only there wasn't anything comical about him the
way there is about a dummy. Maybe that's why I spoke, because he
looked so deadly serious.
"Anything wrong, kid?" I asked.
He didn't jump or look up. His voice placed him as a cracker, either
south Georgian or native Floridian.
"I'm waiting for Charlie to come home," he said, keeping his eyes on
the highway.
Probably I'd have asked who Charlie was but just then the trailer door
opened behind him and his mother took over.
I couldn't see her too well because the lights were off inside the
trailer. But I could tell from the way she filled up the doorway that
she was big. I could make out the white blur of a cigarette in her
mouth, and when she struck a match to light it--on her thumb-nail,
like a man--I saw that she was fairly young and not bad-looking in a
tough, sullen sort of way. The wind was blowing in my direction and it
told me she'd had a drink recently, gin, by the smell of it.
"This is none of your business, mister," she said. Her voice was
Southern like the boy's but with all the softness ground out of it
from living on the Florida coast where you hear a hundred different
accents every day. "Let the boy alone."
She was right about it being none of my business. I went on into the
trailer I shared with Doc Shull and left the two of them waiting for
Charlie together.
Our trailer was dark inside, which meant first that Doc had probably
gone out looking for a drink as soon as I left that morning to pick up
a job, and second that he'd probably got too tight to find his way
back. But I was wrong on at least one count, because when I switched
on the light and dumped the packages I'd brought on the sink cabinet I
saw Doc asleep in his bunk.
He'd had a drink, though. I could smell it on him when I shook him
awake, and it smelled like gin.
Doc sat up and blinked against the light, a thin, elderly little man
with bright blue eyes, a clipped brown mustache and scanty brown hair
tousled and wild from sleep. He was stripped to his shorts against the
heat, but at some time during the day he had bathed and shaved. He had
even washed and ironed a shirt; it hung on a nail over his bunk with a
crumpled pack of cigarettes in the pocket.
"Crawl out and cook supper, Rip," I said, holding him to his end of
our working agreement. "I've made a day and I'm hungry."
Doc got up and stepped into his pants. He padded barefoot across the
linoleum and poked at the packages on the sink cabinet.
"Snapper steak again," he complained. "Roy, I'm sick of fish!"
"You don't catch sirloins with a hand-line," I told him. And because
I'd never been able to stay sore at him for long I added, "But we got
beer. Where's the opener?"
"I'm sick of beer, too," Doc said. "I need a real drink."
I sniffed the air, making a business of it. "You've had one already.
Where?"
He grinned at me then with the wise-to-himself-and-the-world grin that
lit up his face like turning on a light inside and made him different
from anybody else on earth.
"The largess of Providence," he said, "is bestowed impartially upon
sot and Samaritan. I helped the little fellow next door to the
bathroom this afternoon while his mother was away at work, and my
selflessness had its just reward."
Sometimes it's hard to tell when Doc is kidding. He's an educated
man--used to teach at some Northern college, he said once, and I never
doubted it--and talks like one when he wants to. But Doc's no bum,
though he's a semi-alcoholic and lets me support him like an invalid
uncle, and he's keen enough to read my mind like a racing form.
"No, I didn't batter down the cupboard and help myself," he said. "The
lady--her name is Mrs. Ethel Pond--gave me the drink. Why else do you
suppose I'd launder a shirt?"
That was like Doc. He hadn't touched her bottle though his insides
were probably snarled up like barbed wire for the want of it. He'd
shaved and pressed a shirt instead so he'd look decent enough to rate
a shot of gin she'd offer him as a reward. It wasn't such a doubtful
gamble at that, because Doc has a way with him when he bothers to use
it; maybe that's why he bums around with me after the commercial
fishing and migratory crop work, because he's used that charm too
often in the wrong places.
"Good enough," I said and punctured a can of beer apiece for us while
Doc put the snapper steaks to cook.
He told me more about our neighbors while we killed the beer. The
Ponds were permanent residents. The kid--his name was Joey and he was
ten--was a polio case who hadn't walked for over a year, and his
mother was a waitress at a roadside joint named the Sea Shell Diner.
There wasn't any Mr. Pond. I guessed there never had been, which would
explain why Ethel acted so tough and sullen.
We were halfway through supper when I remembered something the kid had
said.
"Who's Charlie?" I asked.
Doc frowned at his plate. "The kid had a dog named Charlie, a big
shaggy mutt with only one eye and no love for anybody but the boy. The
dog isn't coming home. He was run down by a car on the highway while
Joey was hospitalized with polio."
"Tough," I said, thinking of the kid sitting out there all day in his
wheelchair, straining his eyes across the palmetto flats. "You mean
he's been waiting a _year_?"
Doc nodded, seemed to lose interest in the Ponds, so I let the subject
drop. We sat around after supper and polished off the rest of the
beer. When we turned in around midnight I figured we wouldn't be
staying long at the Twin Palms trailer court. It wasn't a very
comfortable place.