The Wall
THE WALL
(In Power There Is Death)
John Cavanaugh had been staring at one wall of his room for the past hour. It was a white wall, and he stared at it often. His wall was blank, and his mind became blank as he looked at it. His mind and body seemed limp. He felt as if the bones had dissolved in his flesh. Every muscle relaxed and he sank deep into the chair. He felt as if he were falling asleep, yet his eyes remained open. They were filled with the blank whiteness; then his mind began to empty.
The blankness drained out of his mind and left---nothing. He saw nothing: not the blank wall. He felt nothing. He thought of nothing, not even that he was thinking nothing. He was empty. He remained this way for a period of time: deep in a well or high on a hill of nothing.
Then he recognized a thought. It was neither a voice nor a sound, only a thought. He recognized no words, just the occurrence of a thought. He connected the thought to something. The something was not a picture, not a word. Just something. A sound. His emptiness was filled with a sound, a vibrating jangle.
He automatically reached for the telephone. "Hello?" It had been someone from work. He hung up and tried to lose himself again in the blankness of the wall, but he could not. It wasn't that he'd dozed off; something else had happened. He felt too tired to pursue his ideas, so he went to bed.
The next evening he stared at the wall. This day had been easy for him at the office; he was not as tired as he was last night. He stared at the blankness, trying to think of the blankness. He remembered that he had dozed off. But that night he couldn't relax; his mind was too active.
He slept little the following weekend. There were things to do and places to go. Once he found time to sit in front of the wall, but his eyes were heavy and burning. He tired to stare at the wall, but he fell asleep. A few minutes later he woke with a start. It was no use.
The next day the blankness of the wall was oppressive, and he looked away, discouraged. He didn't feel like looking at the wall.
The next evening, in front of the wall, he felt the blank whiteness in front of him. His body felt as if it had fallen asleep: the blankness fell away, and it was replaced by nothing. He was deep in a well and high on a hill. The well was a well of nothing, and the hill was a hill of nothing.
Someone thought.
He, himself, did not think the thought. Someone else, somewhere, had thought, and the thought was of him. Still the well, still the hill: nothing. Time passed. his eyes were open, but they saw nothing. His ears were alert, but they heard nothing. He felt nothing. Time passed.
A truck rumbled outside, and his eyes focused on the wall. He felt the vibrations of the truck and he heard the noise on the street outside his window. It was quite late, later than he had expected. He went to bed, but before he fell asleep he remembered: someone, somewhere, had thought about him.
"I can't this weekend; I've already made other plans."
"Oh, now, John. That's the second time you've refused."
"I'm sorry. Thanks for the invitation, though."
"We'd have asked you sooner, but we just decided last night to go, and we thought maybe you could join us."
That evening he recalled the conversation. "We thought maybe you could join us;" how strange.
He had to rush to get dressed for the theater. He hadn't forgotten he had the ticket, but time had passed without his being aware of it.
He felt that someone was whispering to him in the taxi.
"Excuse me, please."
"Well, old man, I thought you'd never make it."
"I took a catnap, sort of. I lost track of ... "
"Shh, there go the lights."
The next evening he stared at the wall for a long time. Again, there was something. Something in the midst of all the nothingness. He neither heard anything nor saw anything, but he recognized something.
"I was just coming over to your desk, John."
"You want to ask me something?"
They talked for a minute.
"Say, John, how did you know I wanted to talk to you?"
"Oh, I just had the feeling---just intuition, I guess." He forced himself to smile.
Back at his desk he knew he had recognized something the night before. Without hearing or seeing anything, he had recognized something about his friend.
That evening he glanced at the white wall, and his mind filled with its blankness. He could see the blankness of the wall; he could feel the leather of his chair under him. Again the recognition came. That person was thinking about him. It was not like a dim memory, like the memory of a dream before it slips away entirely.
"Good morning, John."
"Were you working late last night?"
"Yes. It's against my principles to take work home, but I felt I had to get it over with. I can tell you, my wife didn't like it one bit.
"You were working between 10 and 11 last night?"
"Yes, I was. How did you know?"
He couldn't keep his mind on his work, so he stayed late at the office that night. About 6:30 he was busily printing small neat characters when his eyes went out of focus slightly, and he felt someone talking about him. He blinked and tried to focus his eyes. The letters slid about on the paper; now there was another thought, and he could identify the second thought as a woman's. He looked up from his desk. He saw nothing but the familiar surroundings of his office, he heard nothing but the small ticking of his wrist watch, but he felt something---two people were talking about him. There was a laugh somewhere, far away, and then there was silence. He found he could again read what he had written on his paper.
"Good Morning, John."
"Good morning, Fred."
"Anything new on the fortune-telling front?"
"Oh, no. As I said, it was just a lucky guess."
"My wife got quite a kick out of it last night. We were talking--"
"There's no need to laugh at people who make a lucky guess about something." John spoke too loudly.
"Now, John, who's laughing at you? We just thought it was strange. I'm sorry if you thought we were making fun of you." John wanted to shout that they HAD laughed at him.
He left the office early. Through the day he could feel Fred's thoughts. Mostly they were just passing notions, but John felt that Fred was whispering his name behind his back.
He was eating alone that evening when the thoughts returned to him. He was angry that Fred would talk about him at the supper table. First it was Fred alone, then his wife added her ideas, then fuzzy, wispy ideas from children fluttered about him like ragged butterflies. When the two adults were not thinking of him, the children's thoughts continued. He felt the children, in their imaginations, using his powers of "lucky guessing," making a game of him. The thoughts were light and shadowy, until finally they vanished with sleep. John was vaguely annoyed, like a man suffering from a buzz or hum in his ears. He read a few chapters from a book, then went to bed early. He woke in the middle of the night. Someone had had a nightmare about him.
During breakfast the next morning, John again felt the thoughts and words of the family which was strangely near.
"Fred, you shouldn't have told the children about John. You know how impressionable they are. Jean had a frightful dream last night about it. Of course, you didn't hear her, but I had to sit with her until she calmed down."
"Now Marge, there isn't anything strange about John's guessing things, and anyway, kids nowadays---"
Before these thoughts had a chance to dim and fade, others came to him.
"If I were John Cavanaugh, I'd---"
"Mr. Cavanaugh used to tell Jean and me such neat stories. I remember---"
The specific thoughts of the children were replaced by diffuse fantasies. John's hot cereal was tasteless in his mouth. He left it in the bowl and started for the office.
"Billy, remember Mr. Cavanaugh? Well, he told my daddy that---"
"Sandra, wait for me. I want to tell you something real spooky. My daddy's friend Mr. Cavanaugh---"
He tried to do his work despite the voices.
"Say, John, do you have a pen I could borrow for a while?"
"Sure, here."
"Jean Anderson, would you like to tell the class about your daddy's friend Mr. Cavanaugh?"
John hated children: they talked about everything that happened to them. They talked about their dreams and their daddy's odd friends.
"Mr. Cavanaugh, you remember him? He was over a few weeks ago for my husband's birthday? Jean had nightmares about him last night, and I didn't get ANY sleep."
"Mr. Cavanaugh would know Mr. Porter's phone number."
John reached for his telephone listing.
"Gosh, how did you know I wanted a phone number?"
"Didn't you ask me whether---?"
The clerk's mouth gaped in amazement.
The phone rang. John Cavanaugh broke the lead in his pencil. Was that his phone?
"Have you noticed John? He seems nervous. Once he picked up his phone when it wasn't ringing. Now it's ringing, and he just sits there, looking at it."
"Marcia, how did you hear about Mr. Cavanaugh?"
John Cavanaugh hated all women who seemed to have nothing to do but gossip on the phone.
"Isn't it odd how Mr. Cavanaugh---"
John Cavanaugh sat motionless in his chair.
"John, could you step into my office for a minute. You---he doesn't look too well."
"Mr. Jensen, I don't FEEL too well, could---"
Mr. Jensen looked surprised. "John, I didn't say you didn't look well, I---"
"---if John ever said anything to ME---"
"---when Mr. Cavanaugh came in this morning, he---"
John Cavanaugh tried to get to his feet. A thousand alarms were ringing in his brain.
"John !"
"John looks---"
"Mr. Cavanaugh is---"
"---after Mr. Cavanaugh---"
"---was John Cavanaugh---"
Heads turned toward him.
"John !"
"He---"
All eyes were fixed on him. All thoughts were on him.
"He looks like he---"
"---when John---"
"John---he---Mr. Cavanaugh---"
"John Cavanaugh---the one who---man---him---he---John Cavanaugh---John---John---JOHN---"
A million voices shrieked in his ears.
When his body jolted to a halt, the voices stopped.