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EPISODE 46

"Just what I thought,” Howard nodded. “A fork! And there isn't any wind blowing either from the right or from the left. We're on our own. One of these might have us out of here in no time. The other would probably keep us wandering forever - probably all the way to Canada. Which way do you choose, honey? The left or the right?"

"Oh please," Betty cringed, "you know how I hate decisions. I get worried, even, choosing whether to open the can of beets that they cut in little cubes with crinkles, or the one in circles, like the carrots. Only sort of bigger... like purple potatoes? Someone else decide!"

"Why not leave it up to Spot?" suggested Timmy. "Dogs are always right when it comes to instinctual decisions."

Howard nodded, and his shadow... tall, robust and flickering against the muddy tunnel wall... nodded also.

"Wonderful. Wonderful. Tell him how to choose which fork... oww!"

The match had burned down, and darkness filled the tunnel.

"Which way, boy?" asked Timmy. "Which way?"

Spot sniffed and splashed, side to side, and then growled his reply.

"He chooses the right one."

"Right, then," Howard said, and led them off into the fork, prodding the mud with his stick. No more than a few steps in, a bear trap snapped. But, after that, only the dark and splashing.

"Howard," Betty worried after some moments, "as long as we don't run across any of those escaped slaves? The one thing that I could not endure would be a strange colored person hiding out down here. Do you remember those Japanese soldiers that they're always finding, way over there... left-over soldiers..."

"That's in the Pacific," Howard assured her. "This isn't an island in the ocean, it's just a muddy tunnel that probably empties out in some sewer, somewhere."

"Well, the least that you could do would be to light another match."

"I give you my word," he answered, "that there are no slaves. What would they still be doing, here? This is the twentieth century. Walter Cronkite says so!"

"But I'd still feel better if you lit another match," Betty persisted. "I just want to look at you."

"I can't," said Howard. "Remember, if there were bad people down here, they'd be more able to see us then we would be able to see them. Besides, we have to save all we can for the future. I'll light another at the next fork."

"Are there going to be more forks?" The prospect discouraged her. "We might already have taken the wrong one. I won't choose between those forks either. Howard, what if we take more wrong forks."

"Then we walk," he threatened. "Deeper and deeper into a void without fluorescent lighting until the mud and the slaves cover us over."

"But you said there were no slaves..."

Howard thrashed ahead along the slimy path, defying bear traps. None emerged. He never did answer, and Betty decided that it would better not to press the issue. She followed his footsteps, mud slipping in and oozing at the crest of her high heels.

A silence and a darkness... twice as dark and twice as long and twice as still as that which had preceded.

"Howard," Betty finally ventured, "I think that I've figured out the lay of your landscape." She waited, but he didn't answer. Thwack! his stick cracked against the dirty, bear trap-haunted waters. Squish! their footsteps; Howard, Betty, Timmy. Spot behind them, panting.

"Remember that night? The one where we watched the educational television, and you were telling me how the developers had a way to put all life's failures on one side of the street and the ones who make it on the other? It's true! Do you remember how we thought it so strange that the family who moved in next to Jacob got divorced? Well, look at tonight... he got drunk. Tried to shoot a fire! They know everything, those developers."

"I think that most of them are Shriners," she added, after a moment's squishy pause.

"Maybe you've got something there," Howard admitted. Al and Martha have done alright with the cabin at the lake. And the Brannigans are moving out to Haddon Heights. Ed believes they're looking for something on the successful side of Auburn Way."

"See what I mean? Lisa insists that Joe is going to be made manager by the end of the year. If not the Shriners, something worse... even more secret..."

"Could be. I hope so. Pontiac's a good brand, and he's the kind of guy who improves his product. Guys like Joe and Al Hoff, they know how to sell themselves."

"Mrs. Dixon sells herself," Betty said. "Old Miss Gobben said that she'd never make it, but we all just came to Margaret's for Chloe. Now, the French Salon's a success, and Ruth told me that Margaret's is full of all those women from the apawtments... s’cuse me! And Lucy Sanders goes there, you remember the ones who lost their mortgage and went back?"

"Sure! Sure. Harvey's customers. Funny... I'm gonna miss him at the office, laying points on football games after the meetings. Losing big, the way he always did! Anyway, all of that began when Arthur Sanders took an extra week's vacation." He slapped the path for emphasis. "And when he came back, this younger fellow had just moseyed in. Three months later... out of a job!"

"You never can be sure in life," said Betty.

Silence. Darkness. Unseen things that sloshed and wriggled.

"Darling, did you hear them?" Betty reached out, touched the tunnel wall and jerked her hand away. "It wasn't rats. They sounded more like something different... rattling chains," she guessed.

They stopped.

"Whatever they are, they're moving away," Howard said. "They're fainter, they're going away. Nothing to be bothered with."

"I'd sorta hoped it was the ice-cream truck," said Timmy, pointing. "Up there!"

"Well, I am dying in these shoes," said Betty. "If we have to go on much longer, I'll be full of blisters."

"Careful, honey," Howard warned. "It's much too damp for bare feet, you'll catch cold."

"I've caw't code already! My feet hurt, and they've soaked clear through my stockings. If I take them off, I won't get blisters, or fall down and break an ankle."

"Keep them on!" Howard retorted. "This whole mess began with Mrs. Harwood taking off her shoes. Women shouldn't try to walk like men. You're different. It's the bone structure..."

"My bone structure hurts," she whimpered.

"No! You'll get sick, you'll pick up a piece of glass, and then where will that leave us? And what about the bear traps?"

"These little shoes wouldn't help," she answered. "I've got a code already... before long, I'll be wanting to sneeze. I onwy wish I had a cup of Waldo and Mawwene's espresso. That would help the code! Keeping on my shoe will only get me bwisters!"

Howard's response was an angry flailing of his stick against the water and the walls of mud.

"All right.... take your shoes off! Get sick or die of blood poisoning... what's that to me? They made me stand in the corner. And now, I can't even talk to my wife! I'm so sick and tired of you that it's a lucky thing that it's dark, and I don't have to see your whining, vengeful face. Or, do you want me to waste another match?"

"No," Betty retreated, "I'm sowwy..."

But, in a fit of rage and phosphorous, he'd already struck his match. "Here!" Howard hissed. "What do you see now... mud and rock and destitution! Satisfied?"

He threw down the match with a sizzle and banged his stick. There came a rattling motion and a metal snap.

"Bear trap!" warned Timmy.

Spot began to bark.

Howard drew the stick up and propped it under his armpit, the way a frontiersman would have handled one of those long rifles. Daniel Boone, Fess Parker. Marshal Dillon! If the stick had been a rifle, of course, and if it was not so dark. "Yes it is," he told them. "Now, are you satisfied?"

But the only sound that answered him was soft, yet bitter crying.

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