The Investigations of Avram Davidson (11 page)

“Progress my eye! This is the only decently paved street in the whole town—you know that, don't you, Papa? Just because it's cobblestone and not concrete—or macadam—or—”

“My dear,” said Edward Linkhorn, “
I
remember when several of the streets were still paved with wood. I remember it quite particularly because, in defiance of my father's orders, I went barefoot one fine summer's day and got a splinter in my heel. My mother took it out with a needle and my father thrashed me … Besides, don't you find the cobblestones difficult to manage in high-heeled shoes?”

Betty smiled—not sweetly. “I don't find them difficult at all. Mrs. Harris does—but, then, if
she'd
been thrashed for going barefoot … Come on, Papa,” she said, while her grandfather maintained a diplomatic silence, “admit it—if Mrs. Harris hadn't sprained her ankle, if her husband wasn't a paving contractor, if his partner wasn't C. B. Smith, the state chairman of the party that's had the city, county,
and
state sewn up for twenty years—”

Mr. Linkhorn spread honey on a small piece of toast. “‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride—'”

“Well, what's wrong with that?”

“‘—and all mankind be consumed with pride.' My dear, I will see what I can do.”

*   *   *

H
IS
H
ONOR WAS
interviewing the press. “Awright, what's next? New terlets in the jail, right? Awright, if them bums and smokies wouldn't of committed no crimes they wouldn't be in no jail, right? Awright, what's next? Cobblestones?
Cob
blestones? Damn it,
again
this business wit the cobblestones! You'd think they were diamonds or sumpthin'.
Awright.
Well, om, look, except for Saratoga Street, the last cobblestones inna city were tore up when I was a
boy,
for Pete's sake. Allathem people there, they're living inna past, yaknowwhatimean? Allathem gas lamps in frunna the houses, huh? Hitching posts and carriage blocks, for Pete sakes! Whadda they think, we're living inna horse-and-buggy age?
Awright,
they got that park with a fence around it, private property, okay. But the streets belong to the City, see? Somebody breaks a leg on wunna them cobblestones, they can
sue
the City, right? So—
cobblestones?
Up they come, anats all there is to it. Awright, what's next?”

His comments appeared in the newspaper (the publisher of which knew what side his Legal Advertisements were buttered on) in highly polished form.
I yield to no one in my respect for tradition and history, but the cobblestoned paving of Saratoga Street is simply too dangerous to be endured. The cobblestones will be replaced by a smooth, efficient surface more in keeping with the needs of the times.

As the Mayor put it, “What's next?”

Next was a series of protests by the local, county, and state historical societies, all of which protests were buried in two- or three-line items in the back of the newspaper. But (as the publisher put it, “After all, C.B., business is business. And, besides, it won't make any difference in the long run, anyway.”) the Saratoga Street Association reprinted them in a full-page advertisement headed
PROTECT OUR HERITAGE,
and public interest began to pick up.

It was stimulated by the interest shown in the metropolitan papers, all of which circulated locally.
BLUEBLOODS MAN THE BARRICADES,
said one.
20TH CENTURY CATCHES UP WITH SARATOGA STREET,
said another.
BELOVED COBBLESTONES DOOMED, HISTORICAL SARATOGA STREET PREPARES TO SAY FAREWELL,
lamented a third. And so it went.

And it also went like this:
To the Editor, Sir, I wish to point out an error in the letter which claimed that the cobblestones were laid down in 1836. True, the houses in Saratoga Street were mostly built in that year, but like many local streets it was not paved at all until late in the '90s. So the cobblestones are not so old as some people think.

And it went like this, too:

Mr. Edward Linkhorn: Would you gentlemen care for anything else to drink?

Reporter: Very good whiskey.

Photographer: Very good.

Linkhorn: We are very gratified that a national picture magazine is giving us so much attention.

Reporter: Well,
you
know—human interest story. Not so much soda, Sam.

Photographer: Say, Mr. Linkhorn, can I ask you a question?

Linkhorn: Certainly.

Photographer: Well, I notice that on all the houses—in all the windows, I mean—they got these signs,
Save Saratoga Street Cobblestones.
All but one house. How come? They
against
the stones?

Reporter: Say, that's right, Mr. Linkhorn. How come—?

Linkhorn: Well, gentlemen, that house, number 25, belongs to the Misses de Gray.

Reporter: de Gray? de Gray?

Linkhorn: Their father was General de Gray of Civil War fame. His statue is in de Gray Square. We also have a de Gray Avenue.

Reporter: His
daughters
are still living? What are they like?

Linkhorn: I have never had the privilege of meeting them.

*   *   *

M
ISS
A
DELAIDE
T
ALLMAN'S
family was every bit as good as any of those who lived on Saratoga Street; the Tallmans had simply never
cared
to live on Saratoga Street, that was all. The Tallman estate had been one of the sights of the city, but nothing remained of it now except the name
Jabez Tallman
on real estate maps used in searching land titles, and the old mansion itself—much modified now, and converted into a funeral parlor. Miss Tallman herself lived in a nursing home. Excitement was rare in her life, and she had no intention of passing up any bit of attention which came her way.

“I knew the de Gray girls well,” she told the lady from the news syndicate. This was a big fib; she had never laid eyes on them in her life—but who was to know? She had
heard
enough about them to talk as if she had, and if the de Gray girls didn't like it, let them come and tell her so. Snobby people, the de Grays, always were. What if her father, Mr. Tallman,
had
hired a substitute during the Rebellion?
Hmph.

“Oh, they were the most beautiful things! Louisa was the older, she was blonde. Augusta's hair was brown. They always had plenty of beaux—not that I didn't have my share of them, too, mind you,” she added, looking sharply at the newspaper lady, as if daring her to deny it. “But nobody was ever good enough for
them.
There was one young man, his name was Horace White, and—oh, he was the
hand
somest thing! I danced with him myself,” she said complacently, “at the Victory Ball after the Spanish War. He had gone away to be an officer in the Navy, and he was just the most handsome thing in his uniform that you ever saw. But
he
wasn't good enough for them, either. He went away after that—went out west to Chicago or some such place—and no one ever heard from him again. Jimmy Taylor courted Augusta, and William Snow and Rupert Roberts—no, Rupert was sweet on Louisa, yes, but—”

The newspaper lady asked when Miss Tallman had last seen the de Gray sisters.

Oh, said Miss Tallman vaguely, many years ago.
Many
years ago … (Had she really danced with anybody at the Victory Ball? Was she still wearing her hair down then? Perhaps she was thinking of the Junior Cotillion. Oh, well, who was to know?)

“About 1905,” she said firmly, crossing her fingers under her blanket. “But, you see, nobody was
good
enough for them. And so, by and by, they stopped seeing
anybody.
And that's the way it was.”

*   *   *

T
HAT WAS NOT
quite the way it was. They saw Carruthers.

Carruthers left the house on Sunday mornings only—to attend at the A.M.E. Zion Church. Sunday evenings he played the harmonium while Miss Louisa and Miss Augusta sang hymns. All food was delivered and Carruthers received it either at the basement door or the rear door. The Saratoga Street Association took care of the maintenance of the outside of the house, of course; all Carruthers had to do there was sweep the walk and polish the brass.

It must not be thought that because his employers were recluses, Carruthers was one, too; or because they did not choose to communicate with the outside world, he did not choose to do so, either. If, while engaged in his chores, he saw people he knew, he would greet them. He was, in fact, the first person to greet Mrs. Henry Harris when she moved into Saratoga Street.

“Why, hel-lo, Henrietta,” he said. “What in the world are
you
doing here?”

Mrs. Harris did not seem to appreciate this attention.

Carruthers read the papers, too.

“What do they want to bother them old stones for?” he asked himself. “They been here long as I can remember.”

The question continued to pose itself. One morning he went so far as to tap the cobblestones story in the newspaper with his finger and raise his eyebrows inquiringly.

Miss Augusta answered him. “They won't,” she said.

Miss Louisa frowned. “Is all this conversation necessary?”

Carruthers went back downstairs. “That sure relieves my mind,” he said to himself.

*   *   *

“T
HE NEWSPAPERS SEEM
to be paying more attention to the de Gray sisters than to the cobblestones,” Betty Linkhorn said.

“Well,” her grandfather observed, “people
are
more important than cobblestones. Still,” he went on, “
House of Mystery
seems to be pitching it a little stronger than is necessary. They just want to be left alone, that's all. And I rather incline to doubt that General M. M. de Gray won the Civil War all by himself, as these articles imply.”

Betty, reading further, said
Hmmm.
“Papa, except for that poor old Miss Tallman, there doesn't seem to be anyone alive—outside of their butler—who has ever
seen
them, even.” She giggled. “Do you suppose that maybe they could be
dead?
For years and
years?
And old Carruthers has them covered with wax and just dusts them every day with a feather mop?”

Mr. Linkhorn said he doubted it.

*   *   *

C
OMPARISONS WITH THE
Collier brothers were inevitable, and newsreel and television cameras were standing by in readiness for—well, no one knew just what. And the time for the repaving of Saratoga Street grew steadily nearer. An injunction was obtained; it expired. And then there seemed nothing more that could be done.

“It is claimed that removal would greatly upset and disturb the residents of Saratoga Street, many of whom are said to be elderly,” observed the judge, denying an order of further stay; “but it is significant that the two oldest inhabitants, the daughters of General M. M. de Gray, the Hero of Chickasaw Bend, have expressed no objection whatsoever.”

Betty wept. “Well, why
haven't
they?” she demanded. “Don't they realize that this is the beginning of the end for Saratoga Street? First the cobblestones, then the flagstone sidewalks, then the hitching posts and carriage blocks—then they'll tear up the common for a parking lot and knock down the three houses at the end to make it a through street. Can't you
ask
them—?”

Her grandfather spread his hands. “They never had a telephone,” he said. “And to the best of my knowledge—although I've written—they haven't answered a letter for more than forty years. No, my dear, I'm afraid it's hopeless.”

Said His Honor: “Nope, no change in plans. T'morra morning at eight
A.M
. sharp, the cobblestones go. Awright, what's next?”

At eight that morning a light snow was falling. At eight that morning a crowd had gathered. Saratoga Street was only one block long. At its closed end it was only the width of three houses set in their little gardens; then it widened so as to embrace the small park—“common”—then narrowed again.

The newsreel and television cameras were at work, and several announcers described, into their microphones, the arrival of the Department of Public Works trucks at the corner of Saratoga and Trenton Streets, loaded with workmen and air hammers and pickaxes, at exactly eight o'clock.

At exactly one minute after eight the front door of number 25 Saratoga Street, at the northwest corner, swung open. The interviewers and cameramen were, for a moment, intent on the rather embarrassed crew foreman, and did not at first observe the opening of the door. Then someone shouted,
“Look!”
And then everyone noticed.

First came Carruthers, very erect, carrying a number of items which were at first not identifiable. The crowd parted for him as if he had been Moses, and the crowd, the Red Sea. First he unrolled an old, but still noticeably red, carpet. Next he unfolded and set up two campstools. Then he waited.

Out the door came Miss Louisa de Gray, followed by Miss Augusta. They moved into the now absolutely silent crowd without a word; and without a word they seated themselves on the campstools—Miss Louisa facing south, Miss Augusta facing north.

Carruthers proceeded to unfurl two banners and stood—at parade rest, so to speak—with one in each hand. The snowy wind blew out their folds, revealing them to be a United States flag with 36 stars and the banner of the Army of the Tennessee.

And while at least fifty million people watched raptly at their television sets, Miss Louisa drew her father's saber from its scabbard and placed it across her knees; and Miss Augusta, taking up her father's musket, proceeded to load it with powder and ball and drove the charge down with a ramrod.