Twilight Zone

  They were all alike today, or so it seemed; underprivileged kids from broken families that gave them too little and overprivileged kids from broken families that gave them too much. But like herself, they seemed to have found no home to go to, and so they dropped out into an artificial existence, surrounding themselves with a protective barrier of stereophonic sound.

  Helen shook her head ruefully. No sense going overboard; the least she could do was to own up to the truth. Not all youngsters were on drugs, not all of them flouted authority. But even the conformists seemed to be hooked on sound, ODing on decibels. They sought noise everywhere; injecting their eardrums with a daily dosage of rock, mainlining on the shrieks and groans of splatter-films, the cacophony of commercial commands from their television sets, the clatter of clamor of video-games. No wonder the voices of parents and teachers alike were lost in the din. Teaching was an art, and like all arts it depended upon communication. But how can you hope to communicate with anyone in the midst of all that noise?

  Maybe that’s what she was really running from. Running from the noise that negated every effort to fulfill the life she’d chosen. What was the sense of trying to teach when nobody listened?

  Helen shook her head. Big deal! It was easy enough to see the problems; the hard part was to come up with the proper solutions. She knew the questions, all right, but not the answers. And when you don’t have any answers, what is there left for you to teach?

  That was the bottom line. She wasn’t running away from noise, youthful protests, or social upheaval. She was running, and running scared, from the realization of her ignorance.

  I don’t want to be a teacher anymore, she told herself. I want to be a learner.

  Abruptly she glanced up at a roadside sign on the right, noting its message. CLIFFORDSVILLE 5.

  Cliffordsville? Helen glanced at her watch quickly. Almost five o’clock—she should have been in Willoughby at least half an hour ago at the rate she was traveling. What was she doing five miles away from a town she hadn’t even noticed on the roadmap? And why hadn’t she had the sense to bring the map along with her?

  She shook her head. All this worrying about kids who don’t pay attention, and where does it get you? Lost, that’s where. If I really want to be a learner, I’d better start right now.

  Peering through the windshield against the slanting rays of midafternoon sun, Helen saw the outline of a small structure set back from the highway ahead and to her left.

  As she neared it, she noted the lettered injunction of the sign mounted atop its flat roof—Eat.

  Helen had private reservations about the wisdom of obeying such a command; her past experience with roadside cafés in lonely rural areas like this had not been all that pleasant. Nevertheless, she swerved to the left and entered the parking area before the weatherbeaten structure. There were only two other cars parked beside the entrance and she pulled up a short distance away. Then she moved across the gravel to the door.

  As she opened it, a wave of warm air fanned her face, carrying with it the all-too-familiar reek of fast-food at its greasiest—a stomach-churning composite of French fries, cheeseburgers, and frozen pizzas which had been subjected to ordeal by fire.

  Thank goodness she’d had a late breakfast before taking off! As it was she could make do with a cup of coffee; it was probably the only thing she could order here that wasn’t fried. What she was really looking for, of course, was a roadmap.

  Luck was with her. Seating herself on a counter stool, Helen confronted a multi-talented, middle-aged man serving as the maitre d’, chef, waiter, and busboy.

  “What’ll it be, miss?” he asked.

  Helen told him what it would be, and as he busied himself at the coffee urn, she glanced past the side of the counter toward the two men seated at a corner table. Both appeared to be in their mid-thirties, too old for playing but happily resigned to their role as full-time spectators and sports commentators.

  Glancing over their beer, they stared raptly at the screen of the television set mounted above the counter at the far end.

  Jocks tossed a football across the full length of the nineteen-inch tube, then tumbled in a writhing heap at its base, their minuscule movements accompanied by the excited outcries of an unseen sportscaster.

  More noise. Helen shrugged; no matter where you went, you couldn’t get away from it.

  Then, glancing down the counter in the opposite direction, she discovered another source of sound—the electronic emanation from a video-game enthusiastically operated by a small boy. At first glance he didn’t appear to be any older than ten; if so, why wasn’t he in school at this hour?

  Helen frowned at the thought. There you go again, still playing teacher! I thought we were through with all that, remember?

  Her frown vanished as the counterman set the coffee mug before her.

  “Would that be all?” he asked. A pudgy thumb gestured toward the flyspecked glass container on the shelf directly behind him. “We got some nice pie, just came in today.”

  Helen shook her head. “You know what I want for dessert?” she said. “A nice, fresh roadmap.”

  The counterman’s forehead furrowed into a frown and Helen nodded quickly. “Really—if you have one, I’d be very much obliged if you’d let me take a look at it.”

  The counterman’s face relaxed in an amiable grin. “Sure thing. Got one lying around someplace—think I stuck it under the register.”

  Helen sipped her coffee as he moved away. In a moment he returned, brandishing the highway map triumphantly.

  “Here you are.”

  He placed his find on the countertop before her. Helen lifted it gingerly. It was a map, no doubt about that, but one could hardly call it fresh. The outer surface was wrinkled and creased; and when she unfolded it, she was confronted with smudges of grease, which streaked and stained most of this area and the surrounding counties. Whoever fried this map hadn’t done a very good job, Helen decided. But if she wanted to see what’s cooking—

  Helen studied the map for a moment, eyes narrowing as she squinted through the stains, then halted with a sigh of exasperation. “Okay, I give up. Where am I?”

  The counterman jabbed a greasy forefinger at a smudge in the center of the map. “Here. You want the main highway, right?”

  Helen nodded. “I guess so.”

  The counterman’s finger moved a trifle to the left. “Looks like you missed the turnoff at Cliffordsville.”

  “Oh—I see.”

  Mine host smiled knowingly; he was in his glory now. “Look—about two miles back, you come to a gas station. That’s Cayuga. You hang a left, go four blocks, and the highway cuts across. There you—”

  He broke off as banging sounds rose from the far corner.

  Helen turned and saw the source of the disturbance. The kid was pounding the side of the video-game, and each blow caused a blip of interference on the TV picture, much to the annoyance of the two customers watching the game.

  Raising his voice over the noise of repeated banging, the counterman called out, “Hey, kid, easy on the machinery!”

  The blows ceased abruptly as the boy glanced up. “It doesn’t work right,” he said.

  The counterman shrugged. “Look, kid, I don’t build the games, I just keep the quarters. Put in another one. Maybe it’ll work better.”

  He turned back to Helen and his finger moved down to the map again. “See, just outside Cayuga, the highway splits off—”

  A sudden series of thumps echoed through the confines of the café and he broke off, frowning.

  One of the men at the table called loudly. “Hey, Walter, the kid’s screwing up the TV!”

  The counterman shrugged. “It’s his quarter. The TV’s free.”

  The other customer shared his companion’s scowl. “Cut out that noise! I got twenty bucks riding on this game!”

  The counterman nodded toward the youngster standing in front of the video-game. “You heard the man,” he said. “Let’s coo
l it, huh?”

  The boy didn’t reply. Inserting another quarter, he resumed his play, this time without a pounding accompaniment.

  Now the only counterpoint to the counterman’s conversation came from the continuing babble of the TV sportscaster.

  As Helen watched, her informant began to fold the map as carefully as if the grease-spattered chart contained clues to the location of buried treasure. “You say you’re headed for Willoughby?”

  “That’s right.” Helen nodded.

  “Nice town. You got a job set up there, or what?”

  “Not really. I thought I’d just take a look around.”

  The counterman placed the folded map in his right-hand trouser pocket with tender loving care. “Where’re you from?” he asked.

  “Homewood. That’s downstate.”

  “I know the place.” He nodded. “Nice town.”

  Helen smiled. “If you say so.”

  Over the continuing chatter of commentary issuing from the television came the sound of a phone ringing from the galley behind the counter. The proprietor turned and headed for it, leaving Helen to finish her coffee in peace.

  But not for long.

  From the television set the commentator’s voice rose in crescendo, heralding a climactic crisis in the final moments of the last quarter. Then it faded abruptly at the sound of repeated bangings. Helen swung around on her stool to watch the youngster belaboring the side of the video-game machine with the flat of his hands.

  Overhead, the TV picture scrambled completely. One of the men at the table groaned and his companion turned to glare at the instigator of the interruption.

  “Cut out that pounding!” he shouted. “You hear me?”

  Ignoring him, the boy concentrated on the video-screen before him, then smacked the side of the machine again.

  Helen stared uneasily, fumbling in her purse for change. All she wanted now was to get out of here before trouble started.

  But it had already begun.

  One of the men at the table pushed back his chair and rose quickly. It wasn’t until he stood up that Helen realized how big he was; over six feet tall, burly and broad-shouldered.

  His companion looked up, gesturing. “Hey, Charlie, take it easy—”

  Charlie wasn’t listening. He headed toward the video-game in a cold rage, grabbing the boy by the shoulder and shoving him roughly to one side. Then he stooped and ripped the plug of the machine from the wall. Caught off balance, the youngster stumbled and fell against the baseboard.

  Almost before she realized it, Helen was on her feet. “Stop that!” she cried.

  Suddenly there was silence, all eyes focussing on Helen as she moved to the far wall and helped the child to his feet.

  As she did so, their eyes met briefly. To her surprise, Helen saw that the boy was smiling. Turning abruptly, he ran to the door, yanked it open, and raced out.

  Embarrassed, the big man lowered his gaze, then moved away to resume his seat at the table.

  Helen glanced toward the counter; behind it, the counterman stood staring, and his worried expression told her he’d returned in time to witness the altercation.

  “Sorry, lady,” he murmured. “These guys—they take their sports real serious.”

  Helen nodded. “Nice town.”

  Moving to the door she made her exit, letting it slam behind her.

  Only then did she relax. Peace.

  Crossing to her car, she shook her head in rueful self-reproval. Why had she allowed herself to lose her temper that way? What happened back there was really none of her business; but on the other hand, she had no choice. She just couldn’t stand to see a child mistreated that way. Thank goodness he hadn’t been hurt.

  Reaching the car, Helen slid her key into the door lock, glancing around as she did so. The parking area was deserted; the boy had disappeared.

  Probably ran all the way home, Helen decided. And yet he hadn’t seemed frightened.

  Helen remembered the way he’d smiled when she’d helped him to his feet. There was something odd about that smile; was she imagining things, or had it conveyed a hint of secret understanding? Funny kid.

  Funny Helen. Sliding into the seat before the steering wheel, she shook her head, remembering her resolution. Time to forget about what had happened, time to put the show on the road and make it over to Willoughby before dark.

  Closing the door, she glanced through the side window, noting with surprise that twilight had already descended. To emphasize its coming, a neon beer-sign blinked on above the café entrance.

  Helen turned the key in the ignition and the motor started. As her foot found the gas pedal, she released her parking brake, put the car in reverse, and started to back out before turning toward the driveway exit.

  Suddenly she glanced up at the rearview mirror just in time to see a blur of movement behind her. Through the twilight she caught a glimpse of the boy on a bicycle speeding directly across the lot behind her.

  Quickly she floored the brake, but as the car screeched to a halt there was a sudden, sickening thud.

  “Oh no!” she cried.

  Wrenching the door open, Helen lunged out and headed around the side of the car at a dead run. Then she halted behind it, staring down in shock.

  The boy was sprawled on the pavement beside his bike, eyes closed, breathing hard. Then, as she bent over him, his eyes opened.

  “Are you all right?” Helen gasped.

  The child nodded. “Yeah—I guess so—”

  Helen knelt beside him. “Can you move your arms and legs?”

  “Uh huh.”

  As Helen watched anxiously, the youngster started to sit up.

  “Easy there,” she said. “Tell me where it hurts.”

  The boy rubbed his left shoulder. “Just here. I must’ve hit it when I fell off.” He smiled, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, it’s not broke or anything.”

  He started to get up and Helen put her hand on his arm, slowing his movement. “Not too fast,” she said. “See if you can put your weight on your feet.”

  “Sure—you see?” The boy stood erect, rubbing his shoulder. “It doesn’t hurt anymore, honest.”

  Now, for the first time, Helen turned her attention to the bike. Its wheels lay bent and twisted beneath the rear tires of the car. The boy followed her stare, his smile of reassurance fading.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” Helen turned to the youngster, speaking quickly. “Look, maybe you can get it fixed. I’ll pay for it—”

  “That’s okay.” The youngster’s smile returned for a moment, then disappeared once more as he peered uncertainly around the dusk-dimmed parking area. “Do you think maybe you could give me a lift home? Before it gets dark?”

  “Of course.” Helen nodded, then glanced at her car trunk frowning. “I’m afraid there’s no room for your bike, though. I’m moving and the backseat is loaded. The rest of my things are in the trunk.”

  “I can get it tomorrow.” The boy bent down, tugging the bike free from beneath the tire, then dragged it across the lot and leaned it up against the wall of the café.

  “You’re sure it’ll be safe there?” Helen said.

  “Yeah. No sweat.” The youngster returned, moving around the side of the car to the passenger door. He waited while Helen slid into the driver’s seat and leaned over to unlock the door, then pushed it open so that he could enter.

  As he settled down beside her, closing the door, she released the brake and started up the motor again. The car moved forward to the edge of the road. There it halted as Helen glanced at her passenger.

  “Which way?” she asked.

  “Make a left.” The youngster nodded up at her. “The same way you’re going.”

  Helen blinked. “How do you know which way I’m going?”

  “I heard you talking back there.”

  “Did you now? You’ve got good ears.”

  The car picked up speed, moving down the road in the gathering twilight. There was no traf
fic and as Helen switched on her headlights, their glow seemed to emphasize the darkness of the lonely countryside ahead.

  She peered through the windshield, waiting to catch a glimpse of the filling station that the counterman had mentioned, but now she felt the boy’s hand nudge her arm.

  “Turn here,” he said, indicating a side road branching off through the trees at their right.

  Helen slowed the car, glancing dubiously at the narrow lane revealed in the headlights’ beam.

  The boy sensed her indecision. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s not far now.”

  Helen turned off into the opening between the trees, then turned the headlights up to bright as she steered a cautious course along the rutted roadway.

  Beside her the boy glanced up again. “Are you moving to Willoughby?” he asked.

  Helen glanced at him, amused. “You heard me say that, too, I guess.”

  He nodded. “How come you left Homewood?”

  Helen hesitated, as for a moment her amusement faded. The little devil—he really had been listening! But that didn’t give the kid the right to pry into her business.

  Then again, what difference did it make? Might as well answer—if she could. Why had she left Homewood? A good question.

  She shrugged, searching for the right words. “I don’t know—I guess I was looking for something and didn’t find it there.”

  The boy nodded. “What about your folks?”

  “They’re both gone.”

  “You mean they’re dead?”

  Helen nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Oh.” There was a note of concern in the small voice now. “Don’t you have anybody?”

  “Not anymore. I’m all alone.”

  Beside her the boy sat silent for a moment. Then, suddenly, he held out his hand, smiling.

  “My name is Anthony,” he said.

  Helen released her right hand from the steering wheel and gripped the small palm in her own. “Helen,” she said.

  Anthony turned gravely. “I’m very glad to meet you, Helen.”

  Now Helen turned her attention to the roadway once again. The car bumped along the narrow lane between the black border of towering trees.