“Thing” was all I could call it, and it had a million tentacles.
“Thing” was all I could call it, and it had a million tentacles.
It was growing in Da Campo’s garden, and it kept staring at me.“How’s your garden, John,” said Da Campo behind me, and I spun, afraid he’d see my face was chalk-whiteand terrified.
“Oh—pretty, pretty good. I was just looking for Jamie’s baseball. It rolled in here.” I tried to laugh gaily, butit got stuck on my pylorus. “Afraid the lad’s getting too strong an arm for his old man. Can’t keep up these days.”I pretended to be looking for the ball, trying not to catch Da Campo’s eyes. They were steel-grey anddisturbing. He pointed to the hardball in my hand, “That it?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah! I was just going back to the boy. Well, take it easy. I’ll—uh—I’ll see you—uh—at theCivic Center, won’t I?”
“You suspect, don’t you, John?”
“Suspect? Uh—Suspect? Suspect what?”
I didn’t wait to let him clarify the comment. I’m afraid I left hurriedly. I crushed some 0f his rhododendrons.When I got back to my own front yard I did something I’ve never had occasion to do before. I mopped mybrow with my handkerchief. The good monogrammed hankie from my lapel pocket, not the all-purpose one in myhip pocket; the one I use on my glasses. That shows you how unnerved I was.
The hankie came away wet.
“Hey, Dad!”
I jumped four feet, but by the time I came down I realized it was my son, Jamie, not Clark Da Campocoming after me. “Here, Jamie, go on over to the schoolyard and shag a few with the other kids. I have to do somework in the house.”
I tossed him the ball and went up the front steps. Charlotte was running one of those hideous claw-likeattachments over the drapes, and the vacuum cleaner was howling at itself. I had a vague urge to run out of the houseand go into the woods somewhere to hide—where there weren’t any drapes, or vacuum cleaners, or staring tentacledplants.