Flick went on in his Wise Old Bartender manner: "Once you been there, you never forget it."

The change from the twenty, fives and singles and silver, lay spread out on the bar in a pool of beer. I idly shoved a half-dollar around with my forefinger, making larger and larger concentric circles.

"This dough means a lot of sweat," I said reflectively. "Flick, do you ever get nervous when you look at cash? Like you figure it's going to all of a sudden disappear?"

I smoothed out a beer-soaked five. He leaned forward confidentially and spoke in a low voice to me: "Don't tell anybody. It is."

"You got that same fear, too?"

There was no doubt that we were now getting close to Home Base. Flick was no longer a Bowler. My credit card had dissolved in my pocket; my English flannel had magically somehow become worn denim; my well-cut sport coat a zippered canvas work jacket. I spoke in a low, tense voice: "I wonder what those three guys would say if we told 'em about the Kissels?"

The jukebox roared into another polka disk; the three open-faced Simple Toilers in the booth downed their beer merrily as they told their dirty jokes. Flick looked over his shoulder at them in a long, piercing way, turned back to me, and, leaning even closer to my ear, said in a flat voice: "Not one of 'em would believe it. They'd think we made it up."

XXVIII

"NEVERMORE," QUOTH THE a.s.sESSOR, "NEVERMORE...." "NEVERMORE," QUOTH THE a.s.sESSOR, "NEVERMORE...."

Mister Poe's sinister, beady-eyed raven has always been a figure of great speculation and conjecture among literary a.n.a.lysts. How did Poe come up with such an eerie apparition? What did it mean? What was the source of this evil bird? In what dark, cluttered, moldy recess of Poe's mind did it live? Why?

It said little; just bleakly stared, a hooded angel of death and destruction and G.o.d knows what.

Any resident of Northern Indiana, of a certain benighted period in history, could tell you in spades where Poe got his raven. The banshee wind rattling the eaves, murky shapes lurking in the gathering gloom; those gleaming inhuman, all-seeing eyes could only mean one thing. Unquestionably, somewhere along the line, Poe must have run afoul of an Indiana Personal Property Tax a.s.sessor.

Even at this remove the very word "a.s.sessor" sends thin, jangling squeaks of fear through many a Hoosier nervous system. One sure way to clear the street of random Mankind in an Indiana hamlet is simply to bellow at the top of the voice: "The a.s.sessor is coming!"

Instantly a palpable wave of chill dread causes doors to slam, windows to darken, and souls to quake.

The Indiana Personal Property Tax was very very personal. In theory it was also very basic and simple. All personal property was evaluated and taxed. personal. In theory it was also very basic and simple. All personal property was evaluated and taxed. All All personal property: footstools, footb.a.l.l.s, fielders' mitts, and eggbeaters. Everything. The evaluating was done by a specter called the a.s.sessor, who came to call, like the raven, and stared with bleak unblinking eyes. What was even more deadly was that the a.s.sessor was appointed from among the neighborhood itself. Brother against brother, hand to hand, the eternal war of State versus Man was waged. Every two years or so the lines were drawn. personal property: footstools, footb.a.l.l.s, fielders' mitts, and eggbeaters. Everything. The evaluating was done by a specter called the a.s.sessor, who came to call, like the raven, and stared with bleak unblinking eyes. What was even more deadly was that the a.s.sessor was appointed from among the neighborhood itself. Brother against brother, hand to hand, the eternal war of State versus Man was waged. Every two years or so the lines were drawn.

Very few people actually paid the taxes, and there were always rumors of impending doom. Brown envelopes arrived in mailboxes periodically, throwing panic into murky kitchens, but few actually paid. Nonetheless, the a.s.sessor came, with clipboard and ruthless eye.

Year after year the forms were filled; the arid, flat envelopes hidden away in dresser drawers unopened, while the tiny cancer of fear grew heavier and heavier and then waned as no lightning bolts from the State House appeared and life went on.

The a.s.sessor, however, produced some stark moments of truth. A knock on the door; a hush while my mother crept through the living room to peek between the curtains, a strangled whisper: "The a.s.sessor! For crying out loud, quick. Unplug the radio! Take it down to the coal bin! Hurry up!"

More than one four-year-old kid was crushed under a refrigerator that was being quickly grappled down the back stairs into the bas.e.m.e.nt.

My mother, after the first shock, hissed: "Don't open your trap! Don't say a word, either of you! Do you understand? Not a WORD WORD!"

In came the a.s.sessor, scanning our worn Oriental rug as he nodded curtly and began to put a price on our world.

"How old is the rug? How long have you had that umbrella stand made out of the hollowed foot of an elephant? How much did it cost? New, that is. I don't have that bridge lamp on last year's list. New, eh? How much is that Flexible Flyer over there worth?"

All over the house, room after room, closet after closet they went, my mother keeping up a running counterpoint: "Oh, why that's just an old thing. My sister was going to throw it out and I just thought I'd bring it home. Didn't cost anything. We got that refrigerator at the Salvation Army. It burns out all the time and makes a funny noise. This is the first time in months that it's stopped making that funny noise."

"Sounds pretty good to me. Sounds good."

"I can't understand it. We can't even sleep when it's going. We're thinking of giving it away. It's not worth the four dollars we paid for it. What a gyp!"

"Sounds pretty good."

He made a note on his clipboard, smiled thinly, and moved on. He never even bothered to remove his lumpy gray hat.

We had a prop radio that we showed the a.s.sessor every time he came. Our real radio with the magnificent Gothic Cathedral cabinet was lurking under piles of old tires in the bas.e.m.e.nt. We showed him an old battery set that Uncle Tom had had and that was surplus from the Civil War. It had received some of the very first messages that Marconi had tapped out, using a magnetized railroad spike and Edison jars. My mother extolled its virtues: "It's a sentimental friend of the family. But it's our radio. It uses dry cells and has a propeller on the side that is wind-driven. Since the creek dried up, the battery doesn't work. We get nothing but whistles. But my husband likes it."

"Hmmmmm. That's a genuine Crosley Bandbox. Beautiful carved cabinet there. Bird's-eye oak. Looks hand-rubbed."

"Look where the mice ate out the back here. See, I stick this Sears Roebuck catalog behind so n.o.body can see it."

She banged the cabinet hollowly, hoping it would crack. Another enigmatic smile, and then the rug: "Say, that's not a bad-looking rug you have there. Oriental, isn't it?"

"Now wait a minute. Look, here's the place where the hole was burned, where Uncle Carl dropped his pipe and burnt the hole in there. Where the beer was spilled."

She moved the rickety, moth-eaten overstuffed davenport back to show him the place that she tried to hide from the rest of the world.

"Oh well, they could fix that. A couple of dollars and they'll reweave that like nothing. Oriental, isn't it?"

He plucked at the fringe, fingering it appreciatively like a connoisseur of fine linens and tapestries or an Armenian rug dealer coming across a rare find. My mother's panic rose.

"Say, that's a nice picture up there. Look at that-a sailboat, isn't it? That's a lovely picture. It's an original, isn't it?"

My mother fended off this blow: "Original my foot! Original Woolworth."

On it went, my mother systematically degrading our lives by simply telling the truth. She invented nothing. Before the a.s.sessor came, we always pretended that the holes in the rug didn't exist and the picture wasn't an original Woolworth; the refrigerator not a crummy piece of tin that soured milk and curdled cream. Here she was, laying it down-the truth. And I am hearing it; a kid. Who loved his home and the things in it.

"No, Ma! Ma, it's our refrigerator! It has great ice cubes! And our great rug! I lay on it and follow the pattern with my eyes! It's a beautiful rug! With gold fringe! Ma, it's not a terrible rug!!"

Finally the a.s.sessor closed his book.

"Well, that's it. You're not doing too bad."

His feet dragged over our threadbare carpet, the worn linoleum, and out into the cold for another two years. The a.s.sessor had come and gone.

A few hours later my father got the full report as he breezed in through the kitchen door, smelling of the outside and the office.

"What's new?"

"The a.s.sessor was here."

"WHAT!"

He stopped in his tracks, his face suddenly white.

"The a.s.sessor was here."

The yellow light bulb grew dimmer. The refrigerator sighed deeply, going into action with a squeak of the pulley and thump of the compressor. The floor shook. Over the roar my father shouted: "Who was it?"

"That tall thin man who lives in that brick house on the other side of the Schwartzes. Around the back, over the garage."

"Oh, I've seen him around."

He slowly removed his overcoat and plumped down in the one kitchen chair that was not broken somewhere, somehow.

"Did you get the radio in the coal bin before he got in?"

"Yep."

"D'you think he saw it down there?"

"I don't know. He looked in the coal bin." There was a terrible fear that somehow somebody would get the impression that we lived like human beings.

"What's for supper?"

"Meat loaf."

Gradually the chill thawed. Finally it faded out completely as the months went by. Then, out of the blue, without so much as a murmur of thunder on the horizon, the hammer fell.

It was a crackling sunny clear-eyed Friday afternoon. Our mosquito swarm of kids slowly worked its way toward home, kicking, hollering, throwing stuff, looking for junk, drifting like rain through the alleys, over fences, under porches, down innumerable shortcuts; Schwartz, Flick, Alex, Junior Kissel, me, and a covey of lesser satellites.

At last we reached the block, ready to rush in to individual houses, grab some Graham crackers or fig newtons and out the back doors to begin whatever game was being played at that moment in time. Throwing rocks was an important way of getting home. Rocks were thrown at a regular established set of targets-Mrs. Schaeffer's birdhouse, Pulaski's Coca-Cola sign, and every telephone pole that got in our way. Our arms were sharp and rubbery and the rocks bounced and clanged. Every night the sparrows, robins, and wrens ducked and dodged, squawking raucously, urging us on, taunting, a barrel-rolling and skittering through the ambient air amid a hail of whizzing clinkers.

Occasionally a lucky shot shattered an insulator high up amid the crisscrossing tangle of telephone wires and then a frenzied roar of flight up the alley, out of the danger zone. Particularly delectable were the posters that festooned fence posts, garages, and telephone poles. Fat-faced seekers of county office were constantly peppered with a steady barrage of anything that could be picked up and hurled.

"Watch me get old Corngra.s.s. In the ear!"

ZZzzzziiiizzzzz...THWONK!

"Wowie, what a lucky shot!"

"Lucky! That's the third night in a row I got him. Lucky! Watch THIS THIS!"

ZZZiiizzz K-THONK BONK K-THONK BONK!

Another blow for Anarchy was struck. Old Corngra.s.s had run for mayor for as long as anyone could remember, each year using the same stolid, toad-like portrait; hair precisely parted with a thin, naked line down the middle of his skull, rimless gla.s.ses gleaming dully before beady, staring eyes. He never made it, maybe because he was so easy to hit with rocks.

Now we were on home turf.

"Watch me get that red one."

ZZizzzz-the rock whistled past a new red cardboard poster, small, compact, with no picture.

ZZzzziiizzz SSSSSiissss Whooosh Three projectiles simultaneously bracketed the target. All missed. We drifted idly toward the telephone pole, unaware of the disaster that was about to strike us all.

Flick arched an apple core toward the sign. It splatted on the post a few inches high. Schwartz slanted a bottle cap upward, curving nicely, trailing after a pa.s.sing bluejay who yawked distainfully and continued on.

I don't know who read it first. Maybe we all did; black print on red poster card.

SHERIFFS SALETO BE SOLD AT AUCTION. TOMORROW AT ELEVEN AM ON THE PREMISES AT 8745 CLEVELAND STREET THE GOODS AND TOTAL CHATTELS OF LUDLOW L. KISSEL OF THAT ADDRESS WILL BE AUCTIONED AT SHERIFF'S SALE. THE SUM REALIZED TO DEFRAY DEFAULTED PERSONAL PROPERTY TAXES. THE SALE WILL BE PUBLIC, COMMENCING AT ELEVEN AM. BY ORDER OF THE a.s.sESSOR'S OFFICE.BUREAU OF TAXATION, STATE OF INDIANA.

That was all. It was enough. None of us had ever seen a sign like this before, but our instincts, deep and animal-like, told us that it was serious; a dangerous sign. Other dangerous signs showed up from time to time on front porches and screen doors. QUARANTINED-DIPHTHERIA. SCARLET FEVER. SMALLPOX QUARANTINED-DIPHTHERIA. SCARLET FEVER. SMALLPOX. This wAS one of those, but different, somehow worse. one of those, but different, somehow worse.

The neighborhood was unusually quiet, we noticed for the first time. Flick dropped a rock at his feet with a hollow clunk. Junior Kissel, without a word, turned and ran, cutting across the street, up the sidewalk, disappearing toward his house. Halfway down the block another identical sign gleamed in the bright sunshine. Schwartz, in an odd scared voice, broke the silence: "What's an auction?"

"I don't know. Some kind of card game or something," Flick answered.

"Maybe it's like on the radio. That Lucky Strike auctioneer...." Schwartz said.

"I don't think so," I said.

We broke up and headed for home, through the quiet hushed neighborhood. My mother was down in the bas.e.m.e.nt, wringing out the wash in the gray, murky gloom, the concrete floor around her wet and flecked with patches of dank soapsuds. The old Thor washing machine muttered as it squeezed the clammy water from overalls, pillow cases, and housedresses. Her face was red from the steam and soap as she bent over the basket, twisting each garment for the final drops. Weak sunlight filtered in through the narrow bas.e.m.e.nt, ground-level windows fading out in the perpetual dark of the bas.e.m.e.nt.

"Ma, what's an auction?"

She straightened up, never missing a beat as she snaked a long, heavy bedsheet through the rubber rollers.

"What's a what?"

"What's an auction?"

"An auction?"

"Yeah, what's an auction?"

"Why?"

She was talking in her half-hearing, hardly listening, working, answering-silly-questions MOTHER MOTHER voice. voice.

"Well, there's a sign on the telephone pole that says they're going to have an auction at Mr. Kissel's house. The Sheriff is going to be there."

The sheet squished on for what seemed like a long time. Suddenly she reached over quickly, snapping off the washer with a movement she had used for years. The bas.e.m.e.nt was deathly still. She turned and looked right at me. Her voice sounded strange.

"What did you say? What was that? What are you talking about?"

"There's a sign on the telephone post that says they're having an auction at Mr. Kissel's house. With the Sheriff. And it says...." Now I was scared.

She rushed up the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs, wiping her hands on her ap.r.o.n as she went.

"Don't leave the house until I come back."

She was gone, out the back door. I was alone in the kitchen now, looking out the window over at the Kissel's house where she had gone. Another lady, tall, skinny Mrs. Anderson crossed the alley and disappeared into the house. No kids played in the yards. No radios were turned on as they always were. My kid brother came up through the back door into the kitchen where I stood on tiptoes, watching the Kissel house.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I don't know. Mom said not to go out."