The Twilight Zone: Complete Stories (66 page)

The officer looked somber. “It don’t look good, Corwin,” he said. “Of course they might lop off a few months if you was to tell us where the rest of the loot was.” He looked at Dundee and jerked his head in Corwin’s direction. “He’s been givin’ away stuff for two and a half hours. He must have a warehouse full of it.”

Corwin looked first toward Dundee, then at the policeman, and then at the burlap bag. “I’m glad you brought that up,” he, said quietly. “There’s a little discrepancy here.”

Dundee’s lips twitched. “Listen, you moth-eaten Robin Hood—the wholesale theft of thousands of dollars’ worth of goods is not a ‘little discrepancy’!” He moved over to the bag and started to open it. “Though I can tell you right now, Corwin, that this whole affair has come as no surprise to me! I happen to be a practical judge of ,human nature.”

He dipped into the bag and started to remove things—garbage bags, tin cans, broken bottles, and a large black cat that leaped out, squalling, and ran out of the room.

“I perceived that criminal glint in your eyes,” Dundee continued, as he wiped some catsup off his cuff, “the very first moment I laid eyes on you! I’m not a student of human misbehavior for nothing. And I can assure you—”

Suddenly, Dundee stopped talking and gaped at the pile of garbage he had heaped on the floor. Quite abruptly he realized what he had been removing. He stared at the bag, incredulous. Officer Flaherty did the same.

Corwin smiled ever so slightly. He waggled a finger at the bag. “Mr. Dundee,” he said softly, ‘‘you’ve kind of put your finger on the problem!” He waggled his finger at the bag again. “It can’t seem to make up its mind whether to give out garbage or gifts.”

Flaherty’s face turned white and his mouth worked before any sound came out. “Well…well...” he spluttered, “it was givin’ out gifts when I seen it.” He turned to Dundee. “Whatever they wanted, Corwin was supplying it, and it wasn’t tin cans neither! It was gifts. Toys. All kinds of expensive stuff. You might as well admit it, Corwin.”

Corwin smiled. “Oh, I admit it all right. When I put in—it put out.” He scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “But I believe the essence of our problem here is that we’re dealing with a most unusual bag—”

Dundee waved him quiet. “My advice to you, Corwin, is to clean this mess up and get out of here.”

Corwin shrugged, went over to the bag, and started to put the debris back inside.

In the meantime Dundee turned to the policeman. ‘‘And you, Officer Flaherty,” he said devastatingly, “call yourself a policeman! Well, I suppose it’s a demanding task to distinguish between a bag full of garbage and an inventory of expensive stolen gifts.”

The policeman’s lower lip sagged. “You can believe me, Mr. Dundee,” he said plaintively, “it’s just like Corwin says—we’re dealing with somethin’...somethin’ supernatural here.”

Dundee shook his head. “You know...you amaze me, Officer Flaherty. You really amaze me. In other words, all we need to do is ask Mr. Corwin to make a little abracadabra for us and no sooner said—done!” He looked up toward the ceiling. “Well, go ahead, Corwin. I fancy a bottle of cherry brandy, vintage nineteen-o-three.” He threw up his hands in disgust and shut his eyes.

Corwin was halfway to the door. He paused, smiled a little thoughtfully, and then nodded. “Nineteen-o-three. A good year.” He reached into the bag for a gift-wrapped package which he placed on the bench. Then he hoisted the bag over his shoulder and walked out of the room.

Dundee opened his eyes, took out a cigar, pointed it at the policeman. “Now, as for you, Officer Flah—” He stopped abruptly, staring at the beribboned box on the bench.

The policeman walked over to it and with shaking fingers pulled out a large bottle—a gift card hanging from it. His voice wavered slightly as he read it aloud. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Dundee.”

The cork suddenly and inexplicably popped out of the bottle, and the policeman sat down on the bench because his legs could no longer support him.

Dundee’s mouth was wide open as he stared at the bottle. The policeman finally picked it up, wiped the neck, and held it out. “After you, Mr. Dundee.”

Dundee took a couple of shaky steps over to Flaherty. He accepted the bottle and tilted it to his mouth, then he handed it back to the policeman. The two men sat side by side taking turns, doing honors to an oddball gift that they were both sure was a figment of their imaginations, just as the sudden warm feeling in their stomachs must also be illusory. But sit there they did. And drink they did. And the make-believe liquid in the imaginary bottle was the best-tasting brandy they’d ever had.

***

A light snow drifted gently down through the glow of a street corner lamp where Henry Corwin sat, the burlap bag between his legs. People came and went. But they came empty handed and left with whatever precious little thing they had asked for. An old man carried a smoking jacket. A sad-faced immigrant woman in a shawl gazed lovingly at fur-lined boots that she cradled in her arms as she walked away. Two little Puerto Rican children loaded their gifts onto a brand-new red wagon and, chattering like bright-eyed squirrels, ran through the snow. A rheumy-eyed Bowery bum clutched happily at a portable television set. And still people came and went—a tiny Negro girl, barely able to walk, an eighty-year-old ex-First Mate from a banana boat that hadn’t sailed in twenty years, a blind gospel singer who stared, unseeing, into the snow-filled night, crying softly as two of his neighbors helped pull a new organ down the sidewalk toward his tenement room.

And Henry Corwin’s voice carried over the traffic noise and his hands flew in and out of the bag. “Merry Christmas ... Merry Christmas...Merry Christmas... Here’s a sweater for you. What’s that, darling—a toy? Here you are. An electric train? Got lots of them. Smoking jackets? Lots of them here. What do you want, sweetheart—a dolly? What color hair would you like, darlin’...blonde, brunette, red, or what have you?”

And still the gifts came, and Henry Corwin felt a joy, a fulfillment, a sense of contentment he had never before known. It was when bells on a distant church steeple rang out midnight that Henry Corwin realized that most of the people had disappeared and that the bag was empty burlap lying limply at his feet.

The toothless little old man with his smoking jacket worn over his shabby coat looked off in the direction of the chimes. “It’s Christmas, Henry,” he said softly. “Peace on earth, good will to men.”

A little Puerto Rican child, setting up toy soldiers in the snow, smiled at Santa Claus sitting on the curb. “God bless us,” he whispered, “everyone.”

Corwin smiled and felt a wetness on his cheeks that wasn’t snow. The smile persisted as he touched the burlap sack. “A Merry Christmas to all.” He got to his feet and looked at the old man standing close to him. He straightened the phony beard and started to walk down the street.

The old man touched his arm. “Hey, Santa! Nothin’ for yourself this Christmas?”

“For myself?” Corwin said quietly. “Why, I’ve had the nicest Christmas since the beginning of time.”

“But with nothin’ for yourself?” the old man persisted. He pointed to the empty bag. “Not a thing?”

Corwin touched his make-believe whiskers. “Do you know something? I can’t think of anything I want.” He looked toward the empty bag. “I think the only thing I’ve
ever
wanted was to be the biggest gift-giver of all times. And in a way I’ve had that tonight.” He walked slowly along the snowy sidewalk. “Though if I did have a choice...any choice at all...of a gift”—he paused and looked back toward the old man—“I guess I’d wish I could do this every year.” He winked and grinned. “Now, that would be a gift, wouldn’t it!”

The old man smiled back at him.

“God bless you,” Corwin said, ‘‘and a Merry Christmas.”

“To you, Henry,” the old man said, “to you.”

Henry Corwin walked slowly down the street, feeling a sudden emptiness—a dullness, as if he had traveled through a land of lights only to enter suddenly a gray limbo. He didn’t know why he stopped, but then he realized he was standing at the entrance of the alley. He looked into it and, double-taking, looked in again and caught his breath. All his brain, his logic, his understanding of what could and couldn’t exist told him in this one flashing instant that this was simply an illusion added to a night full of illusions. But there it was.

Set back deep at the far end of the alley was a sleigh and eight diminutive reindeer, And even more incredible, there was a tiny pipe-smoking elf standing alongside.

Corwin jammed his knuckles into his eyes and rubbed hard, but when he peeked through his fingers there was the scene just as he’d seen it.

“We’ve been waiting quite a while, Santa Claus,” the elf said, taking a puff of his pipe.

Corwin shook his head. He wanted just to lie down in the snow and go to sleep. The whole thing was make-believe—of this there could be no doubt. He smiled foolishly and then giggled as he pointed to the pipe. “That’ll stunt your growth.” Then he giggled again and decided there was no point in going to sleep, since obviously that’s precisely what he
was
—asleep.

The little elf’s voice carried with it just a tinge of impatience. “Did you hear me? I said we’ve been waiting quite a while, Santa Claus.”

Corwin let it sink in and then very slowly raised his right hand and pointed to himself.

The elf nodded. “We’ve got a year of hard work ahead of us to prepare for next Christmas, so come on awready!”

Henry Corwin walked slowly into the alley and, as if in a dream, mounted into the tiny sleigh.

Officer Patrick Flaherty and Walter Dundee walked down the steps of the station house arm and arm, feeling no pain at all. They stopped at the foot of the steps.

“Going home now, Officer Flaherty?” Dundee asked.

Flaherty smiled happily back at him through glazed eyes. “Goin’ home, Mr. Dundee. And you?”

“Going home, Officer Flaherty. This is quite the nicest Christmas Eve I’ve ever had.”

There was a sound and both men looked up into the night sky.

Dundee shivered. “Flah...Flah...Flaherty? I could have sworn that—” He looked at the policeman, who was blinking and rubbing his eyes. “Did you see it?”

The policeman nodded. “I thought I did.”

“What
did
you see?”

“Mr. Dundee—I don’t think I’d better tell you. You’d report me for drinking on duty.”

“Go ahead,” Dundee insisted. “
What did you see?
”

“Mr. Dundee...it was Corwin! Big as life...in a sleigh with reindeer...sittin’ alongside an elf and headin’ up toward the sky!” He closed his eyes and heaved a tremendous sigh. “That’s about the size of it, ain’t it, Mr. Dundee?”

Dundee nodded. “That’s about the size of it, Officer Flaherty.” His voice sounded small and strained. He turned to the big cop. “I’ll tell you something. You’d better come home with me. We’ll brew up some hot coffee and we’ll pour some whiskey into it, and we’ll...” His voice drifted off as he stared toward the snow-filled sky, and when he looked back at Flaherty he wore a smile that somehow shone. “And we’ll thank God for miracles, Officer Flaherty. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll thank God for miracles.”

Arm and arm, the two men walked off into the night—and over the disappearing sound of tiny bells came the deep resonant ringing of the church bells as they ushered in the next day. The wondrous day. The joyous day above all joyous days—the day of Christmas.

The Midnight Sun

“The secret of a successful artist,” an old instructor had told her years ago, “is not just to put paint on canvas—it is to transfer emotion, using oils and brush as a kind of nerve conduit.”

Norma Smith looked out of the window at the giant sun and then back to the canvas on the easel she had set up close to the window. She had tried to paint the sun and she had captured some of it physically—the vast yellow-white orb which seemed to cover half the sky. And already its imperfect edges could be defined. It was rimmed by massive flames in motion. This motion was on her canvas, but the heat—the incredible, broiling heat that came in waves and baked the city outside—could not be painted, nor could it be described. It bore no relation to any known quantity. It simply had no precedent. It was a prolonged, increasing, and deadening fever that traveled the streets like an invisible fire.