Lovecraft Country Read online

  DEDICATION

  FOR HAROLD AND RITA

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Lovecraft Country

  Dreams of the Which House

  Abdullah’s Book

  Hippolyta Disturbs the Universe

  Jekyll In Hyde Park

  The Narrow House

  Horace and the Devil Doll

  The Mark of Cain

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Matt Ruff

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  LOVECRAFT COUNTRY

  JIM CROW MILE—A unit of measurement, peculiar to colored motorists, comprising both physical distance and random helpings of fear, paranoia, frustration, and outrage. Its amorphous nature makes exact travel times impossible to calculate, and its violence puts the traveler’s good health and sanity constantly at hazard.

  —The Safe Negro Travel Guide, Summer 1954 edition

  Atticus was almost home when the state trooper pulled him over.

  He’d left Jacksonville two days before in a secondhand ’48 Cadillac Coupe that he’d bought with the last of his Army pay. The first day he drove 450 miles, eating and drinking from a basket he’d packed in advance, stopping the car only to get gas. At one of the gas stops the colored restroom was out of order, and when the attendant refused him the key to the whites’ room, Atticus was forced to urinate in the bushes behind the station.

  He spent the night in Chattanooga. The Safe Negro Travel Guide had listings for four hotels and a motel, all in the same part of the city. Atticus chose the motel, which had an attached 24-hour diner. The price of the room, as promised by the Guide, was three dollars.

  In the diner the next morning he consulted a road atlas. He had another six hundred miles to go to Chicago. Midway along his intended route was the city of Louisville, Kentucky, which according to the Guide had a restaurant that would serve him lunch. Atticus considered it, but any inclination to further delay his homecoming was overwhelmed by a desire to put the South behind him, so after he finished breakfast he got the basket from his car and had the diner cook fill it with sandwiches and Cokes and cold fried chicken.

  Around one p.m. he reached the Ohio River, which marked the border between Kentucky and Indiana. As he crossed the water on a bridge named for a dead slave owner, Atticus cocked his arm out the window and bade Jim Crow farewell with a raised middle finger. A white driver coming the other way saw the gesture and shouted something vile, but Atticus just laughed and stepped on the gas, and so passed into the North.

  An hour later along a stretch of farmland the Cadillac blew a tire. Atticus wrestled the car to a safe stop at the roadside and got out to put on the spare, but the spare was flat, too. He was frustrated by this—he’d checked the spare before setting out, and it had seemed fine then—but however much he frowned at it, the spare remained resolute in its flatness. A Southern tire, Atticus thought: Jim Crow’s revenge.

  Behind him for at least ten miles there was nothing but fields and woods, but looking ahead on the road he could see, perhaps two miles distant, a cluster of buildings. Taking The Safe Negro Travel Guide with him, he started walking. There was traffic on the road, and at first as he walked he tried waving down vehicles that were headed his way, but the drivers all either ignored him or sped up to get past him, and eventually he gave up and just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

  He came to the first of the buildings. The sign out front said JANSSEN’S AUTO REPAIR, and Atticus thought he might be in luck until he saw the Confederate flag hanging above the garage entrance. That was almost enough to make him keep walking, but he decided he had to try.

  Inside the garage were two white men: a little fellow with a peach-fuzz mustache who sat on a high stool reading a magazine, and a much bigger man who was bent under the open hood of a pickup truck. As Atticus entered, the little man looked up from his magazine and made a rude sucking sound between his teeth.

  “Excuse me,” Atticus said. This got the attention of the big man. As he straightened up and turned around, Atticus saw he had a tattoo of what looked like a wolf’s head on his forearm.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” Atticus said, “but I’ve had some trouble. I need to buy a tire.”

  The big man glared at him for a moment, then said flatly: “No.”

  “I can see you’re busy,” said Atticus, as if that might be the problem. “I’m not asking you to change it for me. Just sell me the tire, and I’ll—”

  “No.”

  “I don’t understand. You don’t want my money? You don’t have to do anything, just—”

  “No.” The big man crossed his arms. “You need me to say it another fifty times? Because I will.”

  And Atticus, fuming now, said: “That’s a Wolfhound tattoo, right? Twenty-seventh Infantry regiment?” He fingered the service pin on his own lapel. “I was with the 24th Infantry. We fought alongside the 27th across most of Korea.”

  “I wasn’t in Korea,” the big man said. “I was at Guadalcanal, and Luzon. And there weren’t any niggers there.”

  With that he bent under the truck hood again, his back both a dismissal and an invitation. Leaving Atticus to decide which way he wanted to take it. The collective indignities of the past months in Florida made it a closer call than Atticus liked. The little man on the stool was still looking at him, and if he’d said anything or even cracked a smile Atticus would have gone in swinging. But the little man, perhaps sensing how quickly he could lose his teeth even with the big man to protect him, did not smile or speak, and Atticus stalked off with his fists at his sides.

  Across the road was a general store with a pay phone on its front porch. Atticus looked in the Guide and found a listing for a Negro-owned garage in Indianapolis, some fifty miles away. He placed the call and explained his predicament to the mechanic who answered. The mechanic was sympathetic and agreed to come help, but warned that it would be a while. “That’s OK,” Atticus said. “I’ll be here.”

  He hung up and noticed the old woman inside the general store watching him nervously through the screen door. Once again, he chose to turn and walk away.

  He went back to the car. In the trunk beside the useless spare was a cardboard box filled with battered paperbacks. Atticus selected a copy of Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles. He sat in the Cadillac and read about the “rocket summer” of 1999, when winter’s snows were melted by the exhaust from a Mars-bound spacecraft. He imagined himself aboard, rising into the sky on a jet of fire, leaving North and South behind forever.

  Four hours passed. He read all of The Martian Chronicles. He drank warm Coke and ate a sandwich, but mindful of the gaze of passing motorists, he did not touch the fried chicken. He perspired in the breezeless June heat. When his bladder could no longer be ignored, he waited for a lull in the traffic and went behind a sycamore that grew by the roadside.

  It was after seven o’clock when the tow truck arrived. The driver, a gray-haired, light-skinned Negro, introduced himself as Earl Maybree. “Earl, just Earl,” he insisted, when Atticus tried to call him Mr. Maybree. He lifted the replacement tire from the rear of the tow truck. “Let’s get you back on your way.”

  With the two of them working together it took less than ten minutes. The simplicity of it, and the thought of the afternoon just wasted for no good reason, started Atticus fuming again. He stepped away from the car to compose himself, pretending to study the sun now hanging low on the horizon.

  “How far do you have to go?” Earl asked him.

  “Chicago.”

  Earl raised an eyebrow. “Tonight?”

  “Well . . . That was the plan.”

  �
�Tell you what,” Earl said. “I’m done for the day. Why don’t you come home with me, let my wife fix you a real dinner. Maybe rest awhile.”

  “No, sir, I couldn’t.”

  “Sure you could. It’s on your way. And I wouldn’t want you to leave Indiana thinkin’ it’s all bad people.”

  Earl lived in the colored district around Indiana Avenue northwest of the state capitol building. His house was a narrow wooden two-story with a tiny patch of grass out front. When they arrived the sun had set and clouds were blowing in from the north, hastening the darkness. In the street, a stickball game was in progress, but now the mothers of the players were calling them inside.

  Earl and Atticus went inside too. Earl’s wife, Mavis, greeted Atticus warmly and showed him where he could wash up. Despite the welcome, Atticus was apprehensive sitting down at the kitchen table, for many of the obvious topics of dinner conversation—his service in Korea; his stay in Jacksonville; today’s events; and most of all his father in Chicago—were things he didn’t really care to talk about. But after they’d said grace, Earl surprised him by asking what he’d thought of The Martian Chronicles. “I saw you had it in the car.”

  So they talked about Ray Bradbury, and Robert Heinlein, and Isaac Asimov, all of whom Earl liked; and L. Ron Hubbard, whom he didn’t; and the Tom Swift series, which Earl had loved when he was young but which embarrassed him now, both for the books’ depiction of Negroes and for the fact that as a boy he hadn’t noticed it, despite his father’s repeated attempts to point it out to him. “Yeah, my pop had some problems with my reading choices too,” Atticus said.

  Mavis said little during the meal, seeming content to listen and to refill Atticus’s plate whenever it was in danger of being emptied. By the time they finished dessert it was full dark and rain was drumming on the kitchen window. “Well,” Mavis spoke up at last. “You can’t drive any farther tonight in this.” Atticus, past the point of even token resistance, allowed himself to be led upstairs to the spare bedroom. There on the dresser was a photograph of a young man in uniform. A black ribbon had been tied around a corner of the frame. “Our Dennis,” Mavis said, or so Atticus thought. But as she began to put fresh sheets on the bed, she added: “He died in the forest,” and Atticus realized she was talking about the Ardennes.

  Atticus lay in bed with a book Earl had offered him: more Bradbury, a short story collection called Dark Carnival. It was a nice gesture but not really the best bedtime fare. After reading one story about a vampire family reunion and another, very strange tale about a man who had his skeleton removed, Atticus shut the book, gazed for a moment at the Arkham House imprint on its spine, and set it aside. He reached for his trousers and got out the letter from his father. Reading it over again, he touched a finger to a word written near the bottom of the page. “Arkham,” he whispered.

  The rain stopped at three in the morning. Atticus opened his eyes in the silence, unsure at first what country he was in. He dressed in the dark and crept downstairs, thinking to leave a note, but Earl was awake, sitting at the kitchen table with a cigarette.

  “Sneakin’ out?” Earl said to Atticus.

  “Yes, sir. I appreciate the hospitality, but I need to get home.”

  Earl nodded and made a little shooing gesture with his cigarette hand.

  “Tell Mrs. Maybree thank you for me. Tell her I said goodbye.”

  Earl made the shooing gesture again. Atticus got in his car and drove off through the dark and still-damp streets, feeling like the ghost in whose bed he had slept.

  By first light he was well to the north. He passed a sign reading CHICAGO—52. The state trooper was parked on the shoulder on the opposite side of the road. The trooper had been napping, and had Atticus come even five minutes earlier he might have passed by unnoticed, but in the pink dawnlight the trooper sat up blinking and yawning. He saw Atticus driving by and came fully alert.

  Atticus watched in the rearview as the patrol car made a U-turn onto the road. He got the Cadillac’s registration and bill of sale from the glove box and put them on the passenger seat along with his driver’s license, everything in plain sight so there’d be no confusion about what he was reaching for. Lights flashed in the rearview and the police siren came on. Atticus pulled over, rolled down his window, and as he’d been taught to do in his very first driving lesson, gripped the top of the steering wheel with both hands.

  The trooper took his time getting out of the patrol car, stopping to stretch before ambling up alongside the Cadillac.

  “Is this your car?” he began.

  “Yes, sir,” Atticus said. Without taking his hands off the wheel, he inclined his head towards the papers in the passenger seat.

  “Show me.”

  Atticus handed him the documents.

  “Atticus Turner,” the state trooper said, reading the name off his license. “You know why I stopped you?”

  “No, sir,” Atticus lied.

  “You weren’t speeding,” the trooper assured him. “But when I saw your license plate, I got worried you might be lost. Florida is the other way.”

  Atticus gripped the wheel a little tighter. “I’m going to Chicago. Sir.”

  “What for?”

  “Family. My dad needs me.”

  “But you live in Florida?”

  “I’ve been working down in Jacksonville. Since I got out of the service.”

  The trooper yawned without bothering to cover his mouth. “Been working, or still working?”

  “Sir?”

  “Are you going back to Florida?”

  “No, sir. I don’t plan to.”

  “You don’t plan to. So you’re staying in Chicago?”

  “For a while.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know. As long as my father needs me.”

  “And then what?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t decided.”

  “You haven’t decided.” The trooper frowned. “But you’re just passing through, here. Right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Atticus said, resisting the temptation to add, “if you’ll let me.”

  Still frowning, the trooper shoved the documents back through the window. Atticus replaced them on the passenger seat. “What’s in there?” the trooper asked next, pointing at the basket on the floor.

  “What’s left of my lunch, from yesterday.”

  “What about in back? Anything in the trunk?”

  “Just my clothes,” Atticus said. “My Army uniform. Some books.”

  “What kind of books?”

  “Science fiction, mostly.”

  “Science fiction? And this is your car?”

  “Officer—”

  “Step out.” The trooper moved back from the door and placed a hand on the butt of his revolver. Atticus got out of the car, slowly. Standing, he was an inch taller than the trooper; his reward for this impertinence was to be spun around, shoved up against the Cadillac, and roughly frisked. “All right,” said the trooper. “Open the trunk.”

  The trooper pawed through Atticus’s clothes first, patting down the sides of his duffel bag as if it too were a black man braced against a car. Then he turned to the books, dumping the box out into the trunk. Atticus tried not to care, telling himself paperbacks were meant to be abused, but it was hard, like watching friends get knocked around.

  “What’s this?” The trooper picked up a gift-wrapped object that had been at the bottom of the box.

  “Another book,” Atticus said. “It’s a present for my uncle.”

  The trooper tore off the wrapping paper, revealing a hardbound volume. “A Princess of Mars.” He looked sideways at Atticus. “Your uncle likes princesses, does he?” He tossed the book into the box, Atticus dying a little as it landed splayed open, bending pages.

  The trooper circled the Cadillac. When he opened the passenger door, Atticus thought he was going after The Martian Chronicles, which was still up front somewhere. But the trooper came up holding The Safe Negro Travel Guide. He
thumbed through it, at first puzzled and then astonished. “These addresses,” he said. “These are all places that serve colored people?” Atticus nodded. “Well,” said the trooper, “if that doesn’t beat everything . . .” He squinted at the Guide edge-on. “Not very thick, is it?” Atticus didn’t respond to that.

  “All right,” the trooper said finally. “I’m going to let you go. But I’m keeping this guidebook. Don’t worry,” he added, forestalling the objection that Atticus knew better than to make, “you won’t need it anymore. You say you’re going to Chicago? Well, between here and there, there’s no place that you want to stop. Understood?”

  Atticus understood.

  The main office of the Safe Negro Travel Company (George Berry, proprietor) was in Washington Park on Chicago’s South Side. Atticus parked in front of the Freemasons’ temple next door and sat watching the early morning pedestrians and the drivers going by, not a white face among them. There were streets in Jacksonville where you’d rarely see a white person either, but this street, this neighborhood, was home—had, once upon a time, been Atticus’s whole world—and it soothed him like nothing save his mother’s voice could. As he relaxed, the ball inside him unwinding by slow degrees, he reflected that the state trooper had been right: Here, he needed no guide.

  The travel office was still closed at this hour, but Atticus could see a light on in the apartment above it. Rather than ring the buzzer, he went around to the alley and climbed the fire escape to knock at the kitchen door. From within he heard the scrape of a chair and the rasp of the door bolt. The door opened halfway and Uncle George peered out warily. But when he saw who it was he cried out “Hey!” and threw the door wide, drawing Atticus into a tight embrace.

  “Hey yourself,” Atticus said laughing, returning the hug.

  “Man, it’s good to see you!” Stepping back, George gripped Atticus by the shoulders and looked him up and down. “When did you get back?”

  “Just rolled in now.”

  “Well come on inside.”

  Entering the kitchen, Atticus was struck by the funhouse sensation that had dogged him on his only other visit home since joining the military. Though he’d reached his full growth—just—before enlisting, in his strongest memories of this place he’d been a much smaller person, so that the room seemed to have shrunk. When his uncle had shut the door and turned to embrace him a second time, Atticus realized George had shrunk too, though in George’s case that just meant they were now the same height.