“Where?”
“Across the street. That woman.”
A large van was moving by. It passed. Mr. Chance couldn’t see the woman now.
“Never mind,” he said.
He woke during the night and listened. Couldn’t hear it. That didn’t mean it wasn’t there. He put on his robe and padded out onto the deck above the garage. It was a moonless night: dark, but full of stars. Mr. Chance tried to make out their zodiacal forms — scorpion, archer, goat. The longer he looked, the more his gaze was filled by the brilliance of these giant sparks. They seemed to glow and wink, to twist, to spin toward him in slow profusion, as if the solar system had exploded and its blazing fragments were drifting down on him in a cascade of dazzling light. Now he heard thunder in the distance, with steady steps advancing. No, not thunder. It was the drum. He could hear it from all directions, like the gradual gathering of some great assembly in the sky. He thought he should go back in, but did not move, not for some time, and stood as though mesmerized beneath the plunging stars.
The next afternoon he drove out along the sawmill road. It had once been a trail through the forest, but then the forest was cut down. The road, now paved, ran between patches of secondary growth that had sprung up among the stumps of the old trees.
He reached the cluster of bungalows and cottages that housed what remained of the Native community. Laundry was strung on clotheslines, old cars sat in the yards, children played in the dirt by the roadside. Mr. Chance slowed and stopped. He looked at the women, at the men. He recognized some, although he realized he didn’t know their names, except for Mr. Bartlett, who was sitting on his front porch.
Mr. Chance got out of his car and approached the old man, who offered him a chair. Mr. Chance didn’t take it. He was looking around, trying to see if he could pick out the people he had noticed — the tall man, the woman in the shawl. He couldn’t see them.
“How’s business?” Mr. Bartlett said politely.
“Just fine,” said Mr. Chance, with a smile. Some of the children were around his automobile. He hoped they wouldn’t touch it. “Actually,” he added, “things aren’t booming right now.” Mr. Bartlett made no comment. “Take Great Hill, for example,” said Mr. Chance. “Three years ago that was a standout property, and we developed it, but now nobody’s buying.”
He paused for a moment. “Well, I know this may be a sensitive subject for you folks. I mean the land suit. But we won it fair and square in court, didn’t we? Tell you what,” he said, in sudden inspiration. “How about you people take it over? Live up there for free. Well, for a modest rental. Those houses need maintenance. They’re going to pieces up there. If you folks would keep them in shape — you know, a nail or two, a dab of paint—”
Mr. Bartlett was solemnly watching him, but still said nothing. Others had come closer, gathering around so gradually that Mr. Chance hadn’t been aware of movement.
“See, this way you could be back there again,” said Mr. Chance. “Not as owners — but you could utilize the place. That would be fine with me, and I know I could sell the idea to my partners.” He waited for a reaction. There was none. Mr. Bartlett and the others were watching him inquisitively, as if his meaning had to be determined in some way other than by his words. “Know what?” said Mr. Chance with enthusiasm. “How about you make it a sort of Indian village? You know — put up a few wigwams, maybe a totem pole, stuff like that? We could get tourists to go up there at something like ten bucks a head, plus parking, and we could split the proceeds, so there’d be something for you and something for us, and nobody comes away empty-handed. How about that?”
No one said anything. Mr. Chance waited for a few moments. “Well,” he said, “think it over. Plenty of time.”
The following week Mr. and Mrs. Chance gave a farewell party for the Dixons and the Fabers, who were leaving, too, and for Harry and Leona Hammond, who had just decided to move to New Orleans, where Harry was becoming a partner in his brother’s construction business. Many friends and acquaintances had been invited. The Chances’ huge living room was crowded. Waiters from the catering service moved about with trays of canapés and drinks.
Mr. Chance, as host, moved from one group to another, smiling and joking. Despite the noise of a score of conversations, he could sense the drumming. He wondered if others were aware of it, but didn’t ask. People were talking about the high-school football team, which had lost its first three games, and about a state environmental investigation, which had found that the town’s water supply was contaminated. A treatment plant would have to be built, which would mean higher taxes.
“We need to attract new business,” said Mr. Chance, and someone laughed. “Hell, John,” said Mr. Dixon, “we can’t keep what we’ve got. This town is going down the tubes.”
“It was fine while it lasted,” said George Faber, who had joined the group. “We’ve made a bundle. You sure have, John. That lumber deal alone would set a man up for life.”
“Well, I’ve still got plenty tied up in Great Hill,” said Mr. Chance. “So do Rob Winston and Jerry Fain. We are damned well going to get it out somehow.” He had to go to the kitchen to get some ice. Back in the living room, he found himself next to Mr. Faber. “Tell me, George,” he remarked, “do you still hear the drumming?”
“The drumming? Well, John, I don’t know if I ever actually heard it,” said Mr. Faber.
“Well, sometimes you can’t really hear it, so you might have missed it.” He chuckled, and nudged Mr. Faber. “I’ve figured it out, George. They move it around. One night it’s down by the bay, and the next it’s in the woods. See what I mean? They hide it.”
“Think so?” remarked Mr. Faber.
Mr. Chance lifted his glass and spoke in a loud voice. “Here’s a toast, everybody. To our friends and neighbors who are moving on. May they find happiness and prosperity wherever they go! And may their places be taken by new friends and neighbors — our future fellow townspeople!”
This raised some mild cheers from the guests, who ceremoniously drank in fellowship.
But as the days and weeks went by, the new people didn’t come.
The air grew colder, the shadows longer. Mr. Chance drove up Great Hill to inspect houses for weathering and vandalism. He had a caretaker who came now and then to do urgent repairs — patch a leaky roof, replace a broken pane — but the project, while still intact, had taken on an oddly insubstantial appearance with its curtainless windows and empty little plots of browning grass, as if it were built of cork and cardboard, which one brisk breeze would blow away.
From the overlook at the brow of the hill, Mr. Chance surveyed the view. It was not an encouraging sight. Even in November there were usually some golfers on the greens and fairways of the country club below, but there weren’t any now. Nor were there many vehicles moving along the streets of the town beyond — and although from this distance Mr. Chance couldn’t see the pedestrians on Main Street, he knew there’d be just a few, if any, for business was slow, slower than ever. Two more stores had closed. Others had cut business hours and reduced staff. Even the trees along Main Street looked despondent, with their branches stripped of leaves.
The wind now came in gusts, making Mr. Chance’s eyes water. Clouds sailed down from the north, sending their shadows racing across the land, darkening everything. Mr. Chance turned his coat collar up. The wind was beating in his ears. It made him step back, unsure of his footing.