THE MIXTURE AS BEFORE
When I first got to know Don Reed he impressed me as the most normal man I had ever met. In fact, even then, with my limited experience--I was 18--he seemed almost too normal. It hardly seemed normal to be that normal.
That was when I was in college. Don was a member of the fraternity that pledged me. He wasn’t a kid, though. He was about 30 then, a short man with sandy hair and a smooth, conventionally handsome face. He lived in town, and he hung around the fraternity house, the Active Grad type. In fact, he was a trustee of the chapter.
You saw him a lot during “rush” time. He was an ideal front man for the freshmen that the fraternity was trying to impress. He was an insurance salesman, and successful Not too successful--that wouldn’t be normal. He didn’t threaten anybody’s ego; in fact, at some level you felt a little sorry for him. With his neat, well-kept clothes and his neat, well-kept face, Don could have stepped out of one of those ads for men’s clothing you see in the magazines. He was the very model of the youngish business or professional man: still young; resigned to, even happy with, his lot; a credit to the community.
Don had a Little Wife, a Nice Girl named Virginia. They had met at college and married on graduation day. They had two children, a boy and a girl. They belonged to a country club--Don shot in the 90s. He belonged to a service club. In fact, I guess a couple of them. But that was normal for an insurance salesman.
I guess nowadays you’d call Don and Virginia the quintessential yuppies.
After I graduated, I never expected to see Don Reed again, but I did. About five years later I ran into him in a restaurant in New York. The moment he came in there was no mistaking him--he hadn’t changed a hair. Behind him trooped Virginia and the two kids. When he spotted me he rushed over and gave me the glad hand.
“By gosh, fella, how’s tricks?” he said.
“Oh, pretty good.”
“What are you doing now?”
“I’m working for an ad agency here in the city, “ I said.
“Is that right!” He paused a moment, gave it a beat. His face became Serious, Thoughtful. “It’s terrible the way we lose track of each other.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
He turned to Virginia. “You remember Bill Wagner.” She said she did. The boy gave me a manly handshake, the girl a self-possessed smile.
“We’ve got to get together more often, “ Don said.
“Yeah, we ought to.”
“Coming back on Homecoming Day this year?”
“Well--if I can make it.”
“You make it this time.” A strong handshake, a level, friendly gaze, and he was off to eat his roast beef--and out of my life again.
I did get back to Homecoming that year. Before long, I realized something was missing. “Where’s Don Reed?” I asked.
The group was suddenly silent. The faces went blank, striving for gravity to mask the excitement and sheer joy beneath. Scandal was in the air.
After a decent pause, Jack Hoffman, a contemporary of mine, cleared his throat and said, “Don disappeared three months ago.”
“Disappeared?”
“Disappeared. Into thin air.”
“Strange,” I said.
I couldn’t conceive of Don disappearing from the face of the earth except through the normal, formal rites of burial, and then only when he had reached the prescribed age according to the actuarial tables.
“It must have been foul play,” someone else.
“The police haven’t found a body,” said someone else.
“It could have been amnesia,” said another.
There was a general nodding of heads. That was a respectable, face-saving, fraternal explanation. But there wasn’t a person there who didn’t strongly suspect that Don Reed had just said the hell with it and taken off in the middle of a Tuesday. And it was a comforting thought, somehow.
During the next few years I often thought of Don Reed. Much more often than I would have had he not done his disappearing act. Things are not what they seem, I would muse. Beneath the most placid, ordinary-seeming stream there lurk strange currents. My thoughts on Don Reed brightened many an hour on commuter trains and within the four walls of my office. Then one day I flew across. the country to San Francisco on business.
I checked into my hotel about two in the afternoon. Then, deciding it was too late to work, I embarked on a stroll about the downtown section of the city. I was walking down Market Street, at loose ends, when suddenly I stopped short, my heart pounding. Coming toward me was Don Reed!
He was dressed in his usual neat business suit, complete with brief case. His expression was as bland and uncomplicated as ever. He hadn’t changed a particle. I started toward him, a shout on my lips. Then I hesitated. Would he welcome a meeting with someone who knew him when? Then he saw me and knew I had recognized him, and the decision was out of my hands. He strode toward me, his hand outstretched and his Hail Fellow smile expanding on his lips.
“Bill Wagner! It’s a small world!”
“Sure is.”
“This calls for a drink!”
“Sure does.”
He steered me into a small tavern nearby and sat me at the end of the bar. It was quiet and cool there. The bartender, a tall, florid man, mixed us a pair of drinks.
Don beamed at me. “What are you doing out here, fella?”
I could restrain my curiosity no longer. “What in hell are you doing out here, may I ask?”
He took a long pull on his drink, then inspected the glass carefully. “Oh, I just got tired of the old squirrel cage routine. I suppose I wanted adventure, new horizons. So I came to San Francisco. I’d always heard it was a romantic town.”
He gave me a sidelong glance. “I”d appreciate it if you kept quiet about seeing me. Virginia has married again, and I’ve got my life here. It wouldn’t be a good thing to drag it all out.”
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
He drank up quickly. Suddenly he seemed anxious to get away. “Well, gotta run,” he said briskly. He thrust out one hand and grasped my elbow with his other one. He flashed his Closing Smile. “We gotta get together more often,” he said. He was halfway to the door before I could answer.
The bartender came over. “Anything else, sir?”
“Yes, another one of these.”
He brought it to me, then settled down on a stool behind the bar opposite me. I was the only customer in the place. He seemed lonely and talkative.
“You a friend of Mr. Cutler’s?”
“Mr. Who? Oh--er, yes, that is, I used to be.”
The bartender nodded. “Nice fellow, Mr. Cutler,” he said. “I wish I had more customers like him, instead of the weirdos I usually get.” He picked up a rag and gave the bar a swipe. “He gives a little tone, a little conservatism to the place. Steady. Know what I mean?”
“I think so.”
“I mean he’s the quiet, well-dressed business type,” the bartender went on. “Insurance agent, married, a couple of kids, lives over in Marin County in a nice split level. Belongs to a country club. Nothing erratic about him. In fact, he’s probably the most normal guy I’ve ever met.”
I finished my drink and motioned for another. “Yeah,” I said, “he’s at least twice as normal as any guy I’ve ever met.”
Thomas Breckenridge Davis woke that Saturday morning with his usual Saturday morning emotional mix--anticipation and trepidation. The horses were running at Aqueduct--that was the anticipation. His wife was waiting in the kitchen--that was the trepidation. Miriam, he ruminated morosely, was, let’s face it, not a good sport. She was even a bit of a bitch. In fact, when he thought about it, he’d give her odds on bitchiness against any 38-year-old on the block; hell, in the whole neighborhood! Why on earth, he wondered as he stretched his long legs beneath the covers, did she marry a gambling man in the first place? He’d never tried to hide it when they were courting. She probably thought she could reform him. She was one of those strong women.
Through the closed doors he could hear her high, whining voice, bending Dennis’ ear. Dennis was a good kid, a lot more like him than like Miriam. He ought to spend more time with the boy. The boy was around his mother too much, might develop some of her up-tight ideas. It would be nice to take the kid out to the track once in awhile; he was eleven, and old enough to get a kick out of watching the bangtails come pounding down the stretch. He shuddered as he thought of the explosion that would cause with Miriam. The very idea shocked him fully awake; he threw the covers off and stood up, tall, crane-thin, a Southern gentleman gone North and to pot. He listened warily for Miriam’s voice as it keened on, and he tiptoed to the chair where his bathrobe lay. He shrugged on the robe, listened a moment for footsteps, then moved quickly to the window. Carefully, he inched it down from the top, climbed up on the radiator, and reached out his long, skinny arm. Tentatively, for a heart-stopping instant, he groped in the overhanging rain trough, then smiled with relief and satisfaction. His wallet was still there, safe from the clutches of Miriam Campbell Davis. He stepped back into the room, grinning as he counted the money. There was $244, his weekly take-home pay from his job as a public relations man for a church foundation, plus four dollars left over from the previous week. He had, last night, by retreating strategically to the corner grocer for a pack of cigarettes, to the bathroom to read, to bed early, managed to forestall her demands for house money, rent money, clothing money, and the other depressing uses she found for the stuff. But between Aqueduct and where he stood now she was still to be negotiated. She would not be denied this morning, clothed in her righteousness, the avenging angel poised to strike him down in all his wickedness.
He got on his clothes, working up a head of defensive indignation. He went to the door and pulled it ajar. “Miriam,” he called, “where in the hell have you put my muffler? It’s going to be cold today.” No answer. Northern women with their goddam lack of respect! “Dammit, Miriam, did you hear me?” “It’s in the bottom drawer of the bureau,” came her voice, toneless, put-upon.
He yanked the drawer open, scooped out the muffler, and gave the drawer a good slam just for the hell of it. Then he squared his shoulders, drew a deep breath, and strode down the hall into the kitchen, ready for blood. Dennis was sitting at the table, spooning up oatmeal and reading a science-fiction magazine. He reached over and rumpled the boy’s hair. “Hi, son, how’s everything in outer space this morning?”
Dennis looked up and smiled. “Coming around the last turn, Dad.”
The kid had a real sense of humor; a good kid. Miriam glanced up sharply from the stove. “Dennis,” she said, “you simply must go now. You’ll be late for your lesson.”
“What would you rather be, son,” Tom said, sitting down, “a piano player or a horse player?”
“Come, Dennis,” Miriam said quickly, coming at the boy with a jacket, “I’m paying good money for those lessons and I don’t want you to be late.” She hustled him out the door, closed it, and waited until his steps could no longer be heard.
“What are you trying to do,” she snapped, “make a gambler out of the boy!”
“Ah, come on, Miriam, I was just kidding with him.”
“Well I don’t like that kind of talk.” She turned the fire up under a pan and took two eggs from a box on the stove. She turned toward h im, the eggs in her hand. “Another thing, where is the house money this week?”
He stared out the window, silent.
“Did you hear me!"
Sighing, he dug into his pocket and cam up with his billfold. He peeled out five $20 bills and lay them on the table. She looked at him questioningly, came over and picked them up. “There’s only $100 here,” she said. “Where’s the other $100?”
He shrugged. “That’s all I can afford this week.”
“What?” she exclaimed. “I don’t believe it! How do you think I’m going to pay the house bills with half the money you’re supposed to give me?”
He hesitated, then took another $20 bill from his wallet and tossed it on the table. “That’s it for this week,” he said.
Splat! She dashed the eggs to the floor. “You’ve lost the rest of your pay, haven’t you! You’ve gambled it away!”
Deliberately, he met her eyes, then stared elaborately at the eggs, swimming on the linoleum. “You’re always saying I’m emotionally unstable,” he drawled. “Who’s emotionally unstable now?”
“Where is the rest of the money?” she said, her face white, her voice shaking. “There’s the dentist...” His heart was pounding but he managed to keep his voice steady as he broke in, “I’ll have plenty of money for you tonight.”
“Yes, like you had plenty of money when we lost our home and had to move into this crummy apartment.” That did it. He didn’t have to take that sort of thing. He got up slowly, a stoic expression on his face. “I don’t have to stay here and listen to this.” “Don’t you leave without giving us the money we’re entitled to!” she exclaimed, the tears beginning to well.
He opened a closet, took out a coat and put it on. “I’ll leave with whatever I damn well feel like leaving with.” And he opened the door that led out of the apartment.
Trembling, she took an egg from the box beside her and threw it. It hit him between the shoulder blades, spreading yellow like a sun on the coat’s gray fabric. He paused momentarily, assessing the damage, then went out the door without turning.
***
A quartet of swans sailed gracefully across the blue pong that set like a sapphire in the lush green infield. Across the track, in the distance, Tom could see rows of suburban houses, dullness incarnate. But here, at this magic brown oval with the great steel grandstand looming over it, was excitement, catharsis, Life with a capital L.
He found a seat high in the stands, next to an exit and close to the betting windows. He tore off the front page of one of the newspapers he had bought on the way in and tucked it carefully into the seat to reserve it during his excursions to the windows. Then he sat down and gave himself over to the deliciousness of contemplation.
He opened his program and cast a knowing eye down the entries in the first and second races, recognizing a few old friends among the horses and jockeys. Some had been true blue, others had let him down badly, and some had done both. He held no rancor for bygone disappointments; all he asked was, what are you going to do today, friends?
He opened the newspapers and folded them to the racing pages, comparing the opinions of the handicappers. But this was of only subsidiary, even academic, interest to Tom Davis. He considered himself his own best handicapper. If you want a thing done right, do it yourself. Having duly noted what the newspaper boys were picking, he opened the Daily Racing Form and got down to the serious business of doing it himself. He was deep in his study of past performances, ancestry, and other aspects of the careers of the horses and men involved when he heard a cough reverberating down his pleasant little well of solitude. Reluctantly, he raised his head and focused on the world outside. The nose came from a fat man in a windbreaker who wanted to get by him.
“Excuse me,’ the fat man said.
“Sure thing,” Tom said, twisting his knees sideways and folding them in.
The fat man angled his buttocks past Tom’s face and settled, overflowing, into the next seat. He too unfolded a library of newspapers, scratch sheets and other impedimenta.
After a minute of study he turned to Tom and said in a gravelly voice, “Looks like a chocolate ice cream and pie day to me.”
Tom shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, “this Nine horse looks like a cinch in the first race, if he’s in form.”
The fat man looked at the tote board in the infield. “Eight to one,” he said. “I’m going to string along with the favorite, myself.”
“Chacun a son gout,” Tom said. That ought to shut him up. It did, for two minutes. Then:
“Who do you like in the Second?”
“Solid Glory,” Tom said, sighing. “Number 11. He’s paying 12 to 1.”
“You sure like your long shots.”
Tom jabbed a finger at the Racing Form. “This horse is ready to win. He’s never won a race in his life, but he’s always close up there. That’s what I like, a horse that doesn’t quit.”
The fat man peered at the page. “He hasn’t raced for eight months,” he said. “Maybe there’s something wrong with him.”
“I don’t think so. I think they’ve been picking a spot for him, and this is it.”
“Lotsa luck,” the fat man said.
The horses for the First race, a $3,500 claimer, were parading now in front of the grandstand. Tom looked for the Number Nine horse--Dowdeley-Dow. He was a big gelding, but there seemed nothing wrong with his running parts. Tome Davis grunted and made his decision. He had in his pocket his $128 stake, and in his breast a deep resentment of Miriam’s conservative views and meddling ways. He got up, went to the $10 window and put $50 on Dowdeley-Dow in the First and Solid Glory in the Second. Then he went back to his seat and waited for fate to unravel.
“Whattaya got in the First?” the fat man rasped.
“Number Nine.”
“I got Number Two.”
“That’s what makes horse races.”
The gelding got off to a fast start but fell back to third place at the first turn and even farther by the half-way mark. Tom, with the rest of the crowd, got to his feet as the field came into the long straightaway.
“Come on, Dowdeley-Dow!” he yelled into the mob roar. And as though heeding a call from on high, Dowdely-Dow started moving up, past the fifth horse, past the fourth, past the third.
“Hit him, hit him!” Tom shouted to the jockey. And the jockey hit him, and he won by a quarter of a length.
“Wow!” Tom yelled. He found himself clutching his neighbor’s fat arm. “Wow, I sure booted that one home!”
“You sure did, buddy,” the fat man said. Jealousy, admiration and curiosity struggled in his broad, pasty face. “Who’d you say you got in the next?”
“Solid Glory.”
“But you’re nuts. Look at the board. They’ve got him at 15 to 1 now.”
“Great," Tom said. “Let those odds go up. They’re playing right into my hands.”
He went down to the payoff window and cashed in his tickets, and with $400 in his pocket sat down on the wide steel steps to plot his next move. After awhile, he went out and checked the odds board again, noting that Solid Glory was now up to 18 to 1. He watched the horses parade, then went to the $50 window and put $300 on two other horses, including the favorite, just in case Solid Glory’s glory proved something less than solid. The he went back to his seat.
The fat man looked at him. “Solid Glory?” he asked. Tom nodded curtly. He was in no mood to chatter. The bell sounded, closing the betting, and almost simultaneously over the loudspeaker came the announcer’s cry, “They’re off!”
Solid Glory got off to a fast start to lead the field, but Tom’s heart sank. He started yelling before anyone else, “Hold him in, hold him in! Don’t let him run himself out!”
The jockey ignored him and had the horse two lengths ahead at the first turn.
“Oh God,” Tom moaned, “I can’t watch it.”
“Take it easy,” said the fat man, “I got two bucks on him myself.”
Tom looked away “He’ll never make it,” he said, “he’ll never make it.”
The crowd was getting to its feet now, and Tom could hear the announcer calling the horses’ positions as they rounded the second turn. Solid Glory was still in the lead. He looked again and saw the horse was in front by a length. But two horses were pressing him. Tom jumped up on his seat and started screaming, “Come on, Solid Glory! Come on, keep running! Come on, baby, you’ve had a long rest. Come on, this one is yours!”
They were in the stretch now, and Solid Glory was ahead by half a length.
“Come on, baby, “ Tom cried, “don’t quit, don’t quit!” The horse crossed the finished line a quarter of a length ahead. The favorite ran third.
Tom slumped in his seat, gasping for breath. He felt a wave of nausea flood over him. The fat man was pounding him on the back. “You had it figured right, pal, you had it figured right!”
An awed, melancholy “Oooooh” rose from the crowd as the price went up on the board--$35.80 for a two dollar bet. There was a pause, then the board flashed the Daily Double price--$52. Tom Davis had won $11,250.
He sat numbly, trembling as though he had a chill, the sweat standing out clammily all over his body. He sat a long time, wondering if he ought to call it a day. This would bail them out financially. They could even buy another house. Still... The bell for the next race went off before he rose and went down to cash in his tickets. They paid him in $100 bills, 112 lovely pictures of Benjamin Franklin. He looked around warily and put them in an inside pocket. Then he made his way back to his seat.
“Hey, champ,” the fat man greeted him, “how much did you have on that nag, anyway?”
“I had a bit,” Tom replied. “I’m ahead for the day.” “So am I. Pick me another.”
It would be criminal, Tom decided, to quit now. His luck was in as it never had been. This was the luckiest day of his life, and he was going to make the most of it. But perhaps it was a moment for caution, for probing and reconnaissance before the headlong advance. He switched tactics and bet on the favorite, putting down $2,000 on the nose. The horse won, and Tom was ahead another $5,000.
He decided he couldn’t lose, and put half his total winnings on a horse in the Fifth. At the last moment, he was attacked by a grisly feeling that maybe he could lose after all, and laid a couple of insurances bets on other horses. He lost his big bet, but one of the cover bets came through, so he lost only $4,000. He lost on the next race, too, but in the Eighth he ignored the favorite and picked a horse that came from nowhere to pay 9 to 1. With one race left, he had $16,000 in his pocket.
He came back to his seat, and with 20 minutes to go before post time, settled down to make his fortune. Another long shot and he’d be fixed for life. They could buy a house in a good neighborhood. There’d be no question about Dennis’ education--the kid could be a doctor or a lawyer or whatever he wanted to be. For once and for all, it would get Miriam off his back. He smiled. What a shock it would be to her when he showed her he was a winner--a real winner. A big winner. She wouldn't be able to stand it. That in itself spurred him to reintensify his communion with the Racing Form. He’d had a couple of losses today, sure, but they were tactical losses, small setbacks. He was certain this was His Day. This was his day to get rich. To let it go by only a lousy $16,000 to the good would be like spitting in the face of Lady Luck. Feverishly, he checked the performances of the horses in the final race. It was a mile-and-a-half claiming race for three-year-olds who hadn’t won a race for the last two months. There were ten horses. He bet on a horse called Nuclear Fission.
He went to the $100 window and put down the $16 ,000, slowly dealing out the $100 bills. The tickets spewed out of the machine jerkily, taking more than a minute. The awed attendant counted them, then counted them again.
“Hurry up,” Tom said, “the race is about to start.” The attendant passed them to him in four neatly rubber banded packets of 40 tickets each. He stuffed them into his pockets and ran up the stairs to his seat. “Who you got this time?” the fat man asked him, but Tom didn’t answer. He didn’t hear; his soul was beamed across the track to the starting gate, merging with that of a horse named Nuclear Fission. The bell sounded, the gate flew up, the loudspeaker squawked, “They’re off!”
It was dusk, and the crowd had thinned. Cars could be heard starting up in the huge parking lot next to the grandstand. There was a air of casualness among those scattered bettors still in the stands. But Tom Davis stood gripping the back of the seat in front of him as though his life depended on which of these horses in this tag-end race ran faster than the others. The final odds on Nuclear Fission were 15 to 1. He was carrying very few bettors on his back, but one of them was going for a quarter of a million dollars.
Tom stood silently as Nuclear Fission rounded the first turn. She was on the rail--her inside position had influenced Tom in his pick--but she was back in the bunch. A horse named Bazaar, the favorite, had burst into the lead at the start, and was now in front by three lengths. Tome stared, rigid.
“Who you on, pal?” the fat man asked casually. “You got another long shot?”
Tom closed his eyes. He heard a gathering shout, and opened them to see Nuclear Fission breaking out of the pack, gaining on the lead horse. He began to shout hysterically, “Run, run, run, run!”
She was coming up fast. They pounded in front of the grandstand with Nuclear Fission only a half-length behind.
“Come on, Nuclear Fission, catch that horse!” Tom screamed.
Down at the other end of the long stands they crossed the finish line, in a dead heat. The crowd waited.
“I think she won,” the fat man said, “I think she made it.”
A red sign, “PHOTO,” flashed on the board. Tom breathed out heavily, his fists clenched.
“I think you won, pal, “ the fat man said, “I think you got it.”
Suddenly the figure “5” flashed on the board. It was Nuclear Fission’s number. Tom felt the fat man pounding him on the back. “You won, pal, you won again!” he was shouting hoarsely, “You just can’t miss!”
Tom sat into his seat. He felt sick. But he had won. He was rich. And it was time to go. He felt almost sad that it was all over. He was about to get up and cash in his tickets when an ominous voice came over the loudspeaker. “Hold all tickets, hold all tickets...”
“Good God, what now?” asked the fat man.
They waited a moment, and the voice went on, “Jockey Sandino on Bazaar contends that Jockey Braulio on Nuclear Fission committed an interference foul in the stretch. Please hold all tickets until the judges make a decision.”
The “5” on the board began flashing on and off rapidly. Tom stared at it as though hypnotized. If it stayed on, he was rich. If it stayed off, he was penniless, without even his pitiful week’s pay.
The fat man got up and brushed past Tom, but remained standing in the aisle, watching the tote board. “Don’t worry, pal,” he said, “this is your lucky day.”
Only a few people remained in the stands now, those who held tickets on the first two horses, and a few curious others. They waited five minutes, watching the “5” flashing on and off. Suddenly it stopped, shining forth steadily and brightly through the dusk. “It’s up!” the fat man shouted. “You’ve won!” He looked down at Tom, but Tom Davis made no move. Tom Davis was dead.
***
Miriam Davis sat in the dim little living room, gazing dully at the sputtering log fire in the dusty fireplace. The logs were green, and she had to keep feeding the fire with newspapers to keep it alive, but it took some of the chill from the room this damp fall evening. The flue was faulty, and the acrid smell of wood smoke hung in the room, not bracing and pleasant as it would have been outdoors, but stifling. The sharpness made her eyes smart, and she hardly knew whether her tears were from the smoke or for Tom. She had held herself rigid after theat terrible phone call, three days ago. The had taken him to the morgue. The ride there in the police car, the identification--she’d never forget that horrible day. But she had controlled herself. She had refused the sedatives they had offered her, and the company of a police nurse home. She had kept her grief to herself. Dennis had taken it harder, outwardly; he cried all night, that night. Yet, she wondered, why should he have? He didn’t have the burden of guilt she did. His last contact with Tom hadn’t been a flung egg.
Dennis was all she had now. Tom was gone forever. Weak, misguided though he had been, it was as though a chain had snapped when that call came. She desperately wanted Dennis to remember his father in his best light. His charm, his companionship--when he didn’t have his nose buried in a racing form. The funeral this afternoon had been a grim one. She hadn’t realized how few people they knew. how few friends they had. None of Tom's family had come up from Virginia, and none of hers had come down from Vermont. She couldn’t blame her family, of course; they’d hardly known Tom, and what they had known they hadn’t liked. She and Dennis and a few of Tom's office associates had followed the hearse and watched the body lowered into the grave. The rest was cold drizzle and loneliness.
She glanced at a paper bag on the table. It was all that was left of Tom, really; his personal effects. The police had given them to her at the morgue. Perhaps she should give them to Dennis now, while the memory of his father was still fresh. She got up, went over to the table, and picked up the bag. She had taken the money out of it earlier--$24.38--Tom’s legacy to his wife and son. Now she pulled out his wristwatch--Dennis could wear that. There was his college ring--it was a memento. There was his cufflinks and tie bar--no, they were in the shape of horses’ heads--no need to stress that side of him with Dennis. There were--oh yes, these racing tickets. There were four packs of them. She turned them over in her hands, with loathing. These, she knew, were what you got for your money at the races. If you won, you could turn them in; but much more often, you just tore them up. Her mind strayed back to the only time she had ever gone to a race track. It had been with Tom, when they were courting. She had almost blocked it out of her memory. But she could remember how he tore up his tickets when his horses lost--like tearing up money. She remembered the bits of tickets floating down from the upper tier of the grandstand--wealth thrown to the winds. But when he had won, he hadn't torn up his tickets. He cashed them in.
She weighed the four packs of tickets in her hands, then went to the armchair beside the fire and sat down contemplatively. The doctor had told her Tom was dead when the ambulance arrived at the track. But exactly when had he died? During the race of after it? If he had died after it, wouldn’t he have torn up the tickets? There were an awful lot of them, too, that was another thing.
She turned them over in her hands and looked at them more closely. Suddenly she sat bolt upright. She got to her feet and took them over to the table, ripping the rubber bands off them and thrusting them under the light. She felt slightly faint. These tickets said $100 on them! Feverishly, she began to cont them. There were 40 in each pack, 160 in all.
Unbelievingly, she let them riffle through her fingers. It seemed impossible, but these tickets must have cost $16,000. Where on earth would Tom get that kind of money?
She shook her head. It wasn’t impossible. He could have gotten lucky. He was just the sort to plunge--everything or nothing. She sat down at the table and studied the tickets. They were identical. On each was printed--”Oct.31--Ninth Race--No.5.” Along the border was stamped--”Win--Cash If First Only.” She sat immobile for a long time, then got up, went to the phone and looked up a number in the telephone book. She dialed it and waited a moment, then said, “Could you give me the sports department, please?”
When a male voice said, “Sports desk,’ she asked hesitantly, “Could you give me some information about which horse won a race last Saturday?”
“What race?” the voice asked.
“The Ninth Race at Aqueduct.”
There was a long pause, then the voice said, “That race was won by a horse called Nuclear Fission. Paid 15 to 1.”
Miriam took a deep breath. She could feel her heart begin to pound. “What was the number of the horse?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“Number 5.”
Slowly, she hung up the phone and collapsed into a chair. These 160 little squares of pasteboard were worth almost a quarter of a million dollars! Even after the income tax was deducted there would still be a small fortune. Enough to educate Dennis, and to keep her for the rest of her life. All she had to do was take them to the track and cash them in. And yet...this was tainted money. It stood for everything she was against, everything she had tried to protect Dennis from. Sometimes the boy seemed very much like his father, too much so. The lack of discipline--how many piano lessons had she paid for that he had skipped, or went to unprepared? The way he mooned over science-fiction stories and other cheap, manufactured daydreams. his very charm, like his father’s, and the way he was beginning to be conscious of it and let it work for him. She glanced at the pile of tickets on the table and grimaced. There would be articles in the newspapers about the mad who had died winning security for his wife and son. They would make a hero of Tom. Dennis would be a hero too, to his friends. If she cashed these tickets she could already see him slinking around with a racing form in his pocket, slipping it out to study it surreptitiously. He would be better off reading science fiction books.
She looked at the fire, which had just hit a dry spot in a log and was sending flame licking up toward the flue. She got up, went to the table and picked up the pile of tickets. She walked to the fire and stood over it, the tickets in her hands. After a long moment, she too the tickets back to the table, and dropped them into the paper bag. She sighed, then nodded in decision. She stepped to Dennis’ door, and knocked.
“Yes, Mother?”
“Would you come into the living room, Dear, I want to give you some things.”
She sat him down at the table. She have him the watch and the ring, and her heart went out to him as he struggled to keep his face from crumpling.
“Don’t cry, Dear," she murmured.
“I can’t help it,” Dennis sobbed.
“I know,” she said, “we’ll miss your father terribly. He was a fine man in many ways...” She hesitated, then squared her shoulders. She must say this, she must do this. “...but he had one very, very bad fault, and you know what it was--gambling. Because of that need of his to gamble we lost our house and many other things...and not just material things.”
She reached into the paper bag lying before them on the table and took out two tickets. “Do you know what these are?” she asked.
Dennis shook his head.
“They’re racing tickets. They’re worth $100 each. I mean, that’s what your father paid for them. It was the last thing he did in his life, bet $200 on a horse. And he lost. These tickets are worthless, not worth the cheap cardboard they’re printed on!” She got to her feet and went to the fire place. She tore the two tickets into small pieces and threw them into the fire. The fire blazed, and her shoulders slumped as she watched those golden bits of paper turn into ash. She could feel the tears coming, and made no effort to hold them back. She wanted Dennis to remember this moment.
Later, she would take the rest of the tickets and quietly cash them. Then one day she would invent a rich and distant relative who would providentially die and leave Dennis and her a fortune. But now, it was a lesson time--time to provide Dennis with a lesson he’d never forget. She let the light from the fire dance on her contorted face, and shook her head bitterly. “Never be a gambler, Son,” she cried, “all horseplayers die broke!”
THE END
One hundred miles south of Paris, Jackson stood beside the black-topped road in a dusty, dead French village, and wondered if he would ever get out of the place. Six hours before, at precisely noon, a garrulous French refrigerator repairman had let him off there, assuring him he would be in the South of France by dark. Since then, a dozen cars had gone by, their drivers making vague, apologetic motions, or staring ahead grimly, or disdainfully, or simply sailing by in a world of their own.
The blistering August sun was lower now, and within the stone houses Jackson could hear the clink of plates and cutlery. The boy who had practiced so intently a game with two iron balls, across the street all afternoon, was gone now. The young housewives who had passed in and out of the houses, pushing baby carriages, going to market and coming back, shouting at their children, until Jackson began to feel he almost knew them, were out of sight, in the houses. An end of afternoon hush had settled over the place, as though the world were pausing, shifting into the new tempo of evening. Jackson took a hitch at his wrinkled khaki pants, settled himself onto his suitcase and ruefully took stock of the situation. It was unlikely there would be any traffic during the dinner hour; he might as well walk back to the center of town and find a restaurant. It grated on him to take even a step in the direction he had come.
Hitchhiking to Jackson was a sport as well as a way to get somewhere, and it seemed a defeat to go backward. He shrugged, smiling inwardly as he realized the Gallicism of the gesture. He rose, lifted his bag and turned. The he paused, his heart quickening in hope. For down the road, still in the center of the village, he could see a vehicle coming. It grew with disquieting quickness, pluming dust behind it and scattering chickens before. Jackson could see now it was a jeep. Hastily he put his bag down. He raised his thumb and arranged his features ingratiatingly, petitioning. It was a man alone, a good prospect.
Yet, with a sudden clutch of unease, Jackson realized the car was doing fifty down the narrow, tree-lined street. A maniacal French driver, he thought. But he was in no position to be choosy. He leaned toward the oncoming car, thumb outstretched, playing the driver hopefully like a fisherman casting for a trout.
He had him! The jeep was slowing, rocking from side to side as it careened to a halt. A shirt-sleeved, strong-featured man, about thirty, leaned across the seat, white teeth gleaming in his sunburnt face. “Allons! Allons!” he shouted, grinning. Jackson picked up his bag and hurried toward the jeep, almost disbelieving his luck, fearful the man would start up again without him. He heaved the heavy bag onto the floor and climbed in. Suddenly the man reached forward, grasped the suitcase by its handle and lifted it lightly to the back seat. Jackson hesitated almost imperceptibly in the act of lowering himself into the seat. A fear of strength, he thought, and he noted the man’s corded forearms and the smooth, muscular set of his shoulders.
The man turned back toward Jackson, smiling. “Where are you going?” he asked in French.
“A Marseilles.”
“Vous etes American?”
“Oui.” Jackson struggled to think out the French phrases. “Je suis touriste. Je suis venu a Paris.”
“Ah, Paris,” the man relied. “Belle, n’est ce pas?” He thrust out his hand. “I am called Jacques Corbet. I am a wine salesman.” He yanked the gearshift toward him and stepped on the accelerator. The wheels spun in the gravel road shoulder, then caught the pavement and the jeep jerked ahead. Within a hundred yards they were doing fifty.
Corbet turned slightly, the wind tousling his thick, black curly hair. “You have the luck,” he said. “I will take you to Marseilles.”
There was an abrupt twist in the road as it dipped down and through a narrow stone railroad underpass. Corbet flipped the wheel, weaving into the dark passage and out into the light without the slightest slackening of speed. Jackson looked down at his hands and saw that they were trembling. He jammed them onto his knees and let out a deep breath.
“You will be in Marseilles by morning,” Corbet shouted over the wind.
“If we make it,” Jackson muttered.
An hour later they were clattering through the narrow, cobblestone streets of Lyon. Corbet used the French system of urban driving--let the pedestrian beware--and Jackson marveled at the agility, and at the lack of rancor, with which people scattered before them. Suddenly Corbet jammed on the brakes, almost sending Jackson over the windshield.
“Come in with me and have a drink,” he said.
He swung himself out of the car and strode into a small, dim bistro, moving with the quick, light step of a professional athlete. Jackson sensed a slight stir as they threaded their way between the tables to one in the rear, and noted that the bartender came out from behind the bar to take their order, calling Corbet by name. Corbet ordered anisette for both of them.
“You seem to be known here,” Jackson said. “One of your customers?”
Corbet shook his head. “No,” he replied, “I sell only to large places--hotels, fashionable restaurants.” He paused, then smiled modestly. “I am known well in this part of France. Until two years ago I was a boxer. There was much publicity, of course. I was quite good. I have fought for the middleweight championship of Europe. I fought Marcel Cerdan twice.” He shrugged. “Each time he beat me. But he did not knock me out.”
“You retired, then?” Jackson asked.
Corbet smiled. “You have not noticed?” He turned full face toward Jackson. “One of the eyes is glass. It is a good imitation, no?”
“Very good,” Jackson replied. “I would never have guessed.”
“I lost it in my last fight,” Corbet said. “Against Charles Villemanche. He is a very good man. A very hard hitter. Over and over he jabbed the eye. I think he jabbed me one hundred times that night. I could barely see.” Again he threw Jackson his quick, charming smile. “But I did not go down. In the last rounds the referee, my seconds, everyone wanted to stop the fight.” He drew himself stiff in his chair, his mobile face now grim. “I told them I would kill myself if they stopped the fight.” He shrugged. “En bien, after the fight I lost the eye, and now I am a wine sales-man. But I was never knocked out!”
Jackson contemplated his drink carefully. “There must be great satisfaction in having such courage,” he murmured. He felt a flush of embarrassment as he said this extravagant thing, yet he would not have taken it back.
Corbet shrugged again. “One learns bravery," he said. “During the war I was in the Resistance. I was captured by the Boche, and...” he paused. “But enough of that...” He turned toward the bar and raised two fingers, and the bartender brought them two more drinks.
Corbet raised his glass in a toast. “To a more pleasant subject,” he said, smiling. “To my wife.” They drank, and he pulled a wallet from his pocket, flipped it open and extended it toward Jackson. Jackson leaned forward to peer through the dim at a picture of a woman.
“She is beautiful, no?” Corbet said.
Jackson nodded, but he could tell little from the dark, fuzzy snapshot. Corbet gave the picture a long look, then put the wallet back into his pocket. He smiled at Jackson. “You will meet her,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Yes. We live in a small village on the road to Marseilles. We will be there about midnight. She will cook some eggs for us. She is a very good cook. Then I will take you on.”
“I will be happy to meet her,” Jackson said.
“You have never seen such a beautiful woman,” Corbet replied. Impatiently, he tossed off his drink.
Jackson did the same, then followed him out to the jeep.
Soon they were out of Lyon and bouncing along on the main highway to the South of France. Corbet drove even more furiously now. “I wish to spend some time with my wife,” he said to Jackson. “You understand.”
They drove two hours along the almost trafficless road. The evening light grew murky over the rolling country side, turned purple with the last flush of day, and blackened into night. Half asleep, Jackson gazed ahead at the dim white ribbon of road, lying deserted under a full moon. He steeled back to catch a nap. Then they came over a small rise and he sat bolt upright. For, half a mile ahead, he could see a black blot against the highway.
“What is that?” he asked haltingly.
Corbet slowed the jeep. “Perhaps someone in trouble,” he replied.
As they came closer the blackness resolved itself into the outline of a standing automobile, and dark figures took shape around it. Jackson found himself mentally urging Corbet to drive by at full speed, but the Frenchman pulled to a stop behind the car. The figures ran toward them out of the night. Then Jackson smiled in relief. They were kids--teenagers--two boys and two girls.
“What is wrong?” Corbet called.
“Thank you for stopping,” one of the boys said. Then sheepishly, “We are out of petrol. Would you take us to the next village?”
“That will not be necessary,” Corbet said. “I have plenty. Look.” He reached behind the seat and lifted easily an olive drab five gallon container of gas. He grinned at Jackson. “The can is from the American Army.” Then, lifting his hand in mock reassurance. “But the petrol is my own.”
He swung himself out of the seat and carried the container to the stalled car, unscrewed the cap of the tank, and started pouring the gas.
The boys shifted uneasily. “Monsieur, if you please,” one of them said, “do not put it all in. Only a litre or two. That is all the money we have.”
“Money!” Corbet exclaimed. “I do not want your money. You may have it all, and you are welcome.”
“But--won’t you take something?”
“No, no,” Corbet said, waving away the bills the boy held out timidly. “We are glad to help you.” He smiled, and lowered his voice. “Spend it on the girls.”
Suddenly Jackson, sitting in the jeep, became aware of the whine of tires in the quiet night. Twisting around, he saw a truck come over the rise behind them and bear down on them at full speed. The beam of its headlight grew from dim to bright to brilliant, and its klaxon horn split the stillness. Jackson realized the jeep was blocking the road and he scrambled out. But one hundred feet away the truck began to slow and finally stopped behind the jeep, its horn blaring in wild protest.
Corbet smiled into the blinding lights. “One moment, my friend,” he called.
Suddenly a stream of obscenity burst from within the cab of the truck. Jackson’s understanding was limited, but he was aware of the vileness of the tirade when he saw the girls turn away and the youths stir indignantly. Corbet’s face went white. He drew his lips back over his teeth in a snarl, standing rigid, as though struck.
“Come down out of there,” he said, coldly, dangerously.
There was a stirring in the cab. Then its door opened and a huge hulk of a man climbed out. He stood facing Corbet, and spat toward him, his mouth twisted in amused contempt.
Corbet was inches shorter than the man and fifty pounds lighter, but he moved forward like a challenged tiger. He reached up and slapped him across the face, hard. The man gasped, then swung a heavy arm in a clumsy, roundhouse swing. Corbet’s hands moved to quickly Jackson could not follow them. The truck driver jerked forward convulsively, clutching his middle. Corbet set his feet solidly on the cement and pounded the man’s jaw, putting his weight behind each punch, knowingly, professionally. The driver slumped, but Corbet crowded him against the side of the truck, propping him up. Then he went to work on the man’s face, cruelly, methodically, breaking down cartilage and bone. There was a hysteria in his movements. Jackson felt a sudden surge of terror. “Stop it!” he cried.
Corbet showed no sign of hearing. He flailed the truck driver with an animal-like ferocity. The man groaned, trying ineffectually to turn away, his face pulpy and bleeding.
Jackson stared at the white-faced youths. Then, together, they stepped forward. One tried to crook his arm around Corbet’s throat, caught an elbow in the stomach and slumped back, gasping. But Jackson managed to grasp one of Corbet’s arms and the second youth got the other. Heaving, they pulled Corbet away. The driver dropped to the road, unconscious. Suddenly Jackson felt the rigidity go out of Corbet’s lithe body. He shook his head, like a man coming out of a trance. He stared at Jackson, then at the prostrate man beside the truck, as though unable to comprehend what he had done.
One of the youths spoke. “It will be better if you go,” he said. “We will take him to a doctor.” Jackson hesitated, then guided Corbet, unprotesting, to the jeep. Corbet half stumbled in behind the wheel. He sat slumped, staring bleakly at the others. “You go on,” one of the boys urged. “We will take care of him.”
Corbet nodded jerkily, then stepped on the starter and drove ahead, his eyes fixed on the horizon. They drove several miles in embarrassed silence. Then Corbet murmured, “What must you think of me.”
“Forget it,” Jackson said. “You just got excited.”
Corbet turned hesitantly toward Jackson. “I could not stand the insult,” he said weakly, apologetically.
“Sure,” Jackson said.
“I am not a cruel man,” Corbet pursued, “but my temper, it is formidable. I am another person.”
“Forget it,” Jackson said. Then, in a tone of false heartiness, “You are anxious to see your wife, no doubt.”
Corbet grasped at the straw of conversation. “Ah yes, yes! I have not seen her for three weeks. She is so beautiful.” Tenderness shone in his face. “But she is lonely. She is a Parisian--a Champs d’Elysee girl. I met her when I was a famous boxer. But now we live quietly. There is little to do in our small village and she misses me very much.” In a burst of elation he leaned over and slapped Jackson’s knee. “But we will be there soon!” he cried.
“You do not have to take me home with you,” Jackson said, with what he thought was tact. “I can get another ride.” But as soon as he said the words he regretted them. For Corbet turned away, his lips compressed, offended. Jackson realized that in the eyes of this warm-hearted man a hitchhiker was a guest, and that he had behaved rudely.
“Of course, if it is no inconvenience,” he added hastily, “I will be glad to go with you.”
Corbet smiled. “You will not be bored,” he said. “After we have eaten, I will show you my trophies of the war. I have many things--guns, insignia, medals. I think you will find them interesting.”
Jackson murmured politely.
Corbet pressed the accelerator down even further and the jeep leaped ahead. “We will be there within an hour,” he said.
They drove fifty miles through the now flat countryside, passing in and out of silent towns, their shutters closed tight against the night. Then they came to another market center, no different from the rest, and Corbet said, “This is my village.”
They turned off the main highway and sped up a winding dirt road until they came to an old stone house set apart from the others. Corbet leaned forward and turned off the motor. “We are here,” he said. Then they saw a light in a side window and he frowned. “It is odd she is not asleep,” he said. “I pray she is not ill.”
They walked up a crushed stone path to a rear door and Corbet pressed the latch. It was locked. He knocked, and Jackson heard a stirring within. There was a long wait. Then a young woman opened the door. She stood a moment, blinking into the dark, the light behind her playing in an aura around her blonde hair. Then she stepped aside, and Jackson could see her face. She had the exquisitely formed features of a model, yet unusually large gray eyes and high cheekbones prevented the face from being merely conventionally pretty. She was, as Jackson decided, truly beautiful.
She was staring at them, startled, clutching a robe tightly around her slender, curved body. “Jacques,” she breathed, “you frightened me!”
Corbet laughed. “I meant to surprise you. I thought I must show my friend my beautiful wife.”
They went into the room, a bare European kitchen, lit by a single bulb hanging low by a cord from the ceiling. Jackson brushed against it and the long shadows swung with it. They took seats around a table.
“Smile, Marie,” Corbet boomed, “or our guest will think you are not happy to see him.”
Marie nodded formally to Jackson. “You are hungry, m’sieu?” she asked in a low, breathless tone. “I will cook some eggs.” She went to the stove and threw a large chunk of lard into a pan. Jackson noticed her hands shook as she turned the fire up.
She turned back toward the men and smiled for the first time, a small, tight contraction of the lips. “Are you going to stay, Jacques?” she asked.
“No, we must be on our way soon.” He rose. “I will get some wine,” he said, and left the room.
“I hope I am no trouble,” Jackson said.
She shook her head. “You have come far?” she asked.
“I started at Calais. I am an American. A tourist.”
They sat through a minute of silence. Embarrassed, Jackson glanced up toward the light. With surprise, he noticed it was wreathed in smoke. He sniffed. It smelled like cigar smoke. Suddenly he realized that the woman was staring at him, her face stiff and bloodless.
“The smoke,” she said quaveringly, “it is from the pan.”
He looked toward the stove. The grease was beginning to sputter, and a thin column of smoke was rising from it. She went over hastily and turned the fire up. The smoke ballooned.
“Yes, Madame Corbet, I know it is from the pan,” Jackson said slowly.
He heard Corbet returning and his pulse leapt. Corbet came in, carrying a dusty bottle under his arm. Marie brought out some glasses and Corbet poured each full. He tilted his head back and drank. Suddenly he paused, gazing up toward the light. Slowly he put his glass down. A vein stood out in his forehead and his eyes went wild, unbelieving. Slowly, as though forcing the words past his lips, he said, “It is smoky in here. Open the door.”
Marie moved quickly to the door and threw it ajar. “It is from the grease, “ she said in a high, taut voice.
Corbet sat motionless, staring ahead. He waved away the plate Marie offered him. Jackson ate with effort, forcing each mouthful down his dry, constricted throat. When he finished he rose. “I will go now,” he said. “You do not need to take me further.”
Corbet started like a man awakened. “I said I would take you to Marseilles, and I will do it!” he said fiercely. He rose abruptly and strode to the door. He put his hand on the latch, then turned slowly and gave Marie a look--a look of love and hate and remembrance and discovery. Marie tried to meet his gaze, but her eyes wavered and she looked away. “Goodbye, Jacques,” she said.
Corbet whirled and strode down the path to the jeep. Jackson followed him hesitantly, then, at a brusque gesture from the Frenchman, stepped in. Corbet drove down he twisting road like a man pursued, his face blank and his jaws clenched. Soon they were speeding between the silent houses of the village, past the palely sputtering street lamps. Then they were at the main highway, and Corbet stopped. Suddenly he gave a gasping cry, and hunched over, his head in his hands, sobbing.
Jackson sat in acute distress, wishing there were something to say, and knowing there was not. After a moment he climbed out of the car and said softly, “I will stay here tonight--in a hotel. You need not go on.” Quickly, he turned and walked away. Corbet sat motionless, seemingly unhearing. Jackson walked a short distance down the street, then slid into the shadow of a building. He felt a vague shame at leaving Corbet, as though he had deserted him, and he stood there a long minute, watching.
Suddenly Corbet jerked erect. There was a clash of gears and a squeal of tires as the car leapt ahead.
Then Corbet swung it around in the highway and headed back up the road toward his house, the roar of the exhaust growing fainter and fainter in the night. Slowly, Jackson bent to pick up his suitcase. The interlude was over. But he felt a disquiet that he could not ignore. The classic impulse of the innocent bystander--don’t get involved--was strong within him, yet he felt a closeness to this man, Corbet--the hearty, tender, violent man--and he knew it might be in his power to prevent tragedy.
He walked on down the empty street, past the small shops, his suitcase swinging against his leg, urging him on--away. Then he became aware of an open, lighted door among the closed, dark ones. He stopped before it and looked in, and he realized it was the police station. He stood a minute on the pavement, undecided. Then he went in.
A slender man with a narrow, alert face looked up at him from behind an ancient desk. “Oui, m’sieu?” he said, with a mildness that Jackson, the American, never failed to find incongruous in a cop.
Jackson hesitated, feeling a fool He forced out the words, “Do you know Jacques Corbet?”
“Certainenment.”
“I--I was at his home tonight, “ Jackson stammered. “There--there may be trouble.”
The man’s eyelids flickered. “You mean his wife?”
“Yes.”
“Where is Jacques now?”
“When I left him he was driving back there.”
The man rose. “I will go there immediately.” He threw a shrewd glance at Jackson. “Do you know Marie?”
Jackson flushed, knowing what the man meant. “No. I am a hitchhiker. I--I am a friend of Jacques.”
“Then would you come with me?” the policeman asked. “There may be a need for two of us.” Jackson followed the man into the street and they got into a small car parked in front of the station. Then they were driving up the moonlit road toward the house of Jacques Corbet. Jackson cold hear his heart pound, and he wondered crazily if the policeman could hear it too. Then the road took a final turn and the house loomed stark and black against the sky. Jackson drew in his breath as they pulled up before the place.
“I--I would prefer to remain here unless you need me,” he said haltingly. “It may be nothing. It probably is nothing. And then it is best that I remain here.” The policeman turned to him and opened his lips, but the words were never spoken. For at that moment a shot rang out within the house--a sharp, echoing, terrifying shot.
Both men froze. The policeman jerked open the door of the car, leaped out and ran up the path. Jackson hesitated an instant, then followed h im, an immense reluctance dragging at each step. He heard the man pound on the door, and saw a sudden rectangle of yellow light as he threw it open. And framed within it he saw Marie, slumped beside the table, her blonde hair falling in disarray across her face.
Then he was at the door, and she looked up and saw him. There was a glassiness in her immense eyes, and her bloodless lips twitched convulsively, as though if she opened them she would start screaming and never stop.
“Are you hurt?” Jackson breathed.
She shook her head.
“Where is Jacques?” the policeman said.
Slowly she turned and nodded toward the next room.
The policeman stepped quickly across the kitchen and peered into the semi-dark beyond. Jackson forced himself to follow him, and to look. His stomach tightened. He felt sick.
The room was a bedroom, Corbet lay crumpled against the far wall, his head lolling loose and grotesque, his eyes staring in death. In his still clenched hand, Jackson could see a huge Luger, and behind his head a spreading dark stain on the wall.
Jackson stood silently a moment, then turned back into the kitchen, straining his smarting eyes against the light. Stiffly, he went outside and walked slowly up the path toward the car.
THE END
I WAS RAPED IN A FLYING SAUCER
He was penciled in for the last hour of the day, Mr. Twigg. Not exactly a walk-in, but a last minute appointment, a new patient. Dr. Kaufman had felt a mix of emotions when his secretary, Maureen, had informed him, in the middle of the afternoon, that she had filled his last appointment hour, which had been vacated when Mrs. Philoren called in sick.
“She’s sick, all right, “ Dr. Kaufman had mused silently. “Sick, sick, sick.” But she was also very well heeled, and paid his $125 an h our fee without a murmur. “Did you tell him it would be $125?” Kaufman asked.
“Oh, yes,” Maureen replied. “Not a murmur.” Kaufman sighed. Anyone who would pay $125 to talk with him for an hour must be crazy, he thought. But then, if they weren’t, why would they be coming in the first place?
And so, at 7 p.m., when because of Mrs. Philoren’s defecting he should be well on his way to the first of four martinis on the club car to Darien, Dr. Kevin Kaufman, psychiatrist, sat in his office on the fourteenth floor-- actually the thirteenth but it was numbered 14-- in a high rise building overlooking Second Avenue, in the center of the world’s craziest city. Not completely the catbird seat, he reflected, but ‘twould serve.
At 7:05, the doctor glanced toward the sideboard in the corner of his office, whereon unobtrusively perched the makings of a first martini. He formed a plan of action. He would make a martini, drink it, and if Whatever-His-Name-Was...he glanced at his secretary’s note-- oh yes, Twigg-- hadn’t shown by the time he finished it, it would be goodnight New York, hello Connecticut, and screw you, Mr. Twigg, wherever you are.
He was about to disengage his ample cheeks from the cushioned chair when he heard the outer door open. He sighed. He could taste that martini, smell that martini, feel that martini. His very aura was on fire for that martini. But duty beckoned. He called through the slightly open door of his inner office, “Is that you, Mr. Twigg?”
For a moment, there was no reply. He started to get to his feet. “Mr. Twigg?” Then he heard the outer door close.
Wait a minute, you sonovabitch! he thought. This was an insult--to keep him overtime and then not have the courtesy to say hello. That was too much. Besides, there was $125 at stake. He had an annual gross of $200,000, yes, but it was the principle of the thing. He hurried to the outer door and flung it open. down the hall he saw a retreating figure, a man in a three-piece suit and conservative hat, carrying an attache case.
“Hey!” called Dr. Kaufman. “Sir!”
The figure hesitated, then stopped and slowly turned. The man looked like his tax consultant, but wasn’t. Just a type.
“Are you Mr. Twigg?”
Like a prisoner at the dock pleading guilty to a charge of first degree murder with aggravated assault, the man nodded.
Dr. Kaufman flashed his this-isn’t-going-to-hurt-all-that-much smile. "Well come in,” he said, “this isn’t going to hurt all that much.”
“Yes, doctor,” the man said meekly.
A moment later they were sitting opposite each other, in easy chairs. Dr. Kaufman did not believe in putting a desk between himself and his clients. The clipboard he held was the only indication that he was the doctor and the other the patient.
“What is troubling you, Mr. Twigg?” he asked.
“You won’t believe this, Doctor,” said Twigg in a tight, constrained voice.
Why do they always say that? Kaufman thought. Jesus, isn’t there any originality in the world? Making a determined effort to keep the sigh out of his voice, he said, “Try me, Mr. Twigg.”
The man picked a bit of invisible lint from his neat suit. He cleared his throat. “Shall I come right to the point, Doctor?”
“Please do.”
“Well, I was raped in a flying saucer.”
Kaufman nodded. Another UFO nut. They seemed to be all over the place. Mrs. Borders, who claimed little men who looked like Woody Allen had shanghaied her aboard a UFO and stuck a needle into her navel. Mr. Von Equity, who said aliens had spirited him aboard their craft and inserted a tiny, bead-like beeper into his head.
“Can you hear it?” Dr. Kaufman had asked Von Equity.
“No, but they can, “ Von Equity had replied.
“Tell me more, Mr. Twigg,” Dr. Kaufman said, feigning interest.
“Not raped just once, Doctor, but many times!”
Kaufman nodded. “I understand, Mr. Twigg. When did you first begin noticing these, er...incidents?”
“The first one happened when I was twelve.”
Kaufman nodded again. Puberty. It figures. Fear of masturbation. Crazy alternatives. If Hitler had just jerked off we might not have had...Oh, well. “Give me the details, Mr. Twigg,” he said in his most soothing voice.
“I was out in the back yard bouncing a ball against the side of my house. I used to do that to annoy my mother. She hated me.”
“Yes, and...?”
“I saw a little man come through the bushes toward me. At first I thought he was a neighbor, and that the noise was annoying him too. But then I saw two more behind him. They all looked alike.”
“What did they look like?”
“Sort of like Woody Allen.”
Dr. Kaufman’s head bobbed slightly and he stared at Mr. Twigg, who, under the intense scrutiny, began to look even more uncomfortable. Kaufman felt he ought to try to lighten the situation. For a moment, he wished Maureen were in the outer office. She held a brown belt in karate. He tried a witticism.
“What did you say to them--That’s funny, you don’t look Jewish?”
Twigg stared at him. No humor, Kaufman noted.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be flippant. It’s just that I was startled. I have another patient who has told me something of the same sort.”
“You...you mean you have another patient who...?”
Kaufman held up his hand. “I’m sorry, I’m speaking out of turn. I can’t discuss my other patients.” He sighed. “It’s late and I’m getting rather tired.”
Twigg continued his rather glassy-eyed stare.
“Say, would you like a drink?” Kaufman said suddenly. “I know it’s not Kosher, but...” he murmured lamely, “It’s late.”
“No, thank you.”
“Mind if I have one?”
“No.”
Kaufman made a ceremony of mixing the martini. At the last moment, he decided to leave out the vermouth altogether.
“Well,” he said, as heartily as he dared, “you were in the backyard with four Woody...I mean...four aliens. Or were they really the neighbors?”
“If only they had been!” Twigg exclaimed. “No, they were aliens.”
“They took me aboard their ship, which was parked in the Mayhews’ yard. The Mayhews were in Utah, visiting the Mormon Temple. They were Mormons.”
“What happened in the UFO?”
Ungrammatical speech had always annoyed Kaufman. Laid, indeed! His secret ambition was to be a science-fiction writer. In fact, he was currently taking a correspondence course in short story writing, and had rented a post office box at Grand Central Station to keep it quiet. He knew Serena, his wife, would open any envelopes in plain brown wrappers that came to the house.
“And, Mr. Twigg, what happened after they lay you on the table?”
“They brought in a female and she got on top of me.”
Twigg looked stricken. “It was my first sexual experience.”
Well, that’s original, Kaufman thought, quite different from a whorehouse as a sophomore in college, his own experience.
“What was the female like? How did you know she was female?”
“We had an Encyclopedia Britannica. I knew what the female parts looked like.”
“She was one of the aliens, I presume,” Kaufman said. He hesitated, and took a sip of his drink. He was taking this story seriously! But the man was so plausible, so matter of fact. And there was Mrs. Borders, with her Woody Allens.
“Did you find the woman...er, the creature...repulsive?”
Twigg’s eyes began to cloud. Kaufman reached for the Kleenex on his desk and offered him the box. Twigg dabbed at his eyes.
“Mother always said that sex was dirty. She kept telling me that all the time. ‘ Be a good boy,’ she would say.”
“How about your father? What did he say?”
“He never said anything. When I was seventeen he ran off with a travel agent. They got cut-rate tickets to Mexico, and have never been seen since. Like B. Traven.”
“Who?” asked Dr. Kaufman.
“B.Traven.”
“Oh,” Kaufman said, taking another sip. “What did this female alien look like?” he asked.
“Like the men. She was short, about four feet tall. Her arms and legs were very thin. Her skin was grayish. She had no hair on her head, or...” Mr. Twigg blushed.
“I understand, no pubic hair.”
“She had a big, dome-like head, with a triangular face becoming narrower down toward the chin. Sort of like...”
Dr. Kaufman held up his hand and took a gulp of his drink. “Yes, I know, like a certain well-known entertainer.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Twigg. “Woody Allen.”
“And this was a traumatic experience for you, Mr. Twigg?”
“Oh yes, yes! Well, not entirely.”
Aha, Kaufman thought, now we’re on more familiar ground. A conflict. A sexual conflict with just an added little twist. “Well,” he said, “what happened when you returned to...to the real world?”
“I went on through high school and college and studied accounting. I’m a tax consultant.”
“Are you married?”
“No, I never married.”
A possible article in some prestigious psychological journal began to take shape in Dr. Kaufman’s mind. Perhaps even a write-up in Psychology Today. The man who was obsessed with the notion that he had lost his virginity to an alien female, who in the process had said goodbye to whatever interest he had in human females. Dr. Ruth might have started this way. Just one lucky break. Look at Joyce Brothers.
“But,” Kaufman said, putting down his martini and taking a new interest in Mr. Twigg, “but you said you had had many experiences on UFOs. Were they all with the same female?”
“No, no, that’s part of my problem. I...I’m a very conservative man, Dr. Kaufman. I do things very much by the book.”
“You believe in monogamy, then?”
“I’m not sure I believe in sex at all.”
“Somebody’s got to do it,” Dr. Kaufman said.
“Maybe, but not me.”
Kaufman nodded, and reached for his martini. Mother said it was dirty, he thought.
“Have the aliens been, er...subjecting you to many of their females? When did you have your next experience?”
“Twelve years later, when I was 24. I had just passed my CPA exam and had set up an office in my garage.”
“At the same house where they had abducted you the first time?”
“Yes, I was living there with Mother. I still am.”
“How convenient for them,” Kaufman said. “They didn’t have to go looking for you.”
“Oh, that wouldn’t have mattered to them,” Twigg said. “They put a beeper in my head. They’d find me no matter where I went.”
“Excuse me,” Dr. Kaufman said, “would you mind if I made myself another drink?”
He was back in his chair promptly, having skipped not only the vermouth but also the ice. “Go on, Mr. Twigg,” he said. “You’re going to tell me they forced you to have intercourse with another alien female?”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean, not exactly?”
“Well, she was alien, but she was different.”
“Different how?”
Mr. Twigg hesitated. “This is very embarrassing for me,” he murmured.
“Of course it is,” Kaufman said soothingly, “but remember, I’m a doctor, you can tell me anything.”
“Well, she was a little stockier than the other aliens. Their arms and legs were like match sticks. Also she had some sparse hair.”
“Hair? Where?”
Mrs Twigg lowered his eyes. “Well, on her head, and...”
“I understand, I understand!” Kaufman said hastily. He had never yet had a patient die of embarrassment, but there was always a first time.
“Were the other aliens,” he asked, “also different?”
“No, just the woman...I mean female.”
“And what happened?”
“Same thing. Sexual intercourse. They had a way of forcing me to have an erection.”
“O course,” Kaufman said. “And then they let you go?”
Twigg nodded.
“When did you see them again?”
“Twelve years later, when I was thirty-six."
“Same routine, except a different female?”
“Yes. She seemed even more human, a real mix of their race and ours. For one thing, she had small breasts, and plenty of hair. On her head and...”
“I understand,” Dr. Kaufman said. “How long ago was this third experience?”
“Twelve years ago.”
Kaufman hesitated. Was he taking this too seriously, this mad tale? “When,” he asked, “was your next experience, if any.”
“Last Tuesday.”
Dr. Kaufman drained his glass. Describe it, please.”
“Same thing. I was working over a tax form in my office when I became aware of the aliens standing behind me. As before, I became helpless to move on my own volition. I rose and followed them out to their space vehicle and went inside.”
“And the same thing happened, they laid you on a table?”
“Yes, and suddenly the light dawned.”
“What do you mean?”
“When they brought the woman in, I almost fainted.”
“Why?”
“Because she looked almost human."
“Almost human?”
“Yes, and I realized what they were doing.”
“What?”
“I noticed something that had occurred to me twelve years ago, but that I had buried in my unconscious. I believe that’s what you call it, isn’t it Doctor?”
“Yes.”
“This latest woman looked...” Mr. Twigg reached for another Kleenex, touched his eyes and blew his nose.
Get on with it, man, Kaufman thought, get on with it! “She looked like what, Mr. Twigg?” he prompted.
“She...she looked like my Mother. That is, if my Mother ever took her clothes off.”
Hmm, a new twist on the Oedipus, Kaufman thought, leaning back in his chair. “But,” he said, “she obviously wasn’t your mother, so there’s no need for you to feel guilty. It’s not as though you were committing some sort of incest.”
“But don’t you see!” cried Mr. Twigg, sitting bolt upright, his eyes wild. Again, Kaufman wished that Maureen were in the outer office. “Don’t you see!” cried Twigg, utterly distraught. “They looked like my Mother because Ilook like my mother. No incest, my ass! These were my daughters I was screwing!”
“That’s impossible!” shouted Dr. Kaufman, leaping to his feet, “that’s impossible!”
“All right,” shouted Mr. Twigg. “Not my daughters, if you want to be technical! My daughter! My granddaughter! My great-granddaughter! My great-great-granddaughter! My...”
“Enough,” cried Dr. Kaufman,” don’t anticipate! Anyway, you couldn’t help it. They were forcing you to do this. You were, in effect, being raped. You shouldn’t hold yourself guilty.”
Mr Twigg raised his clenched fists above his head, then began beating his skull. In his long experience, Dr. Kaufman had had countless patients who had figuratively beaten themselves over the head, but this was the first time he had seen it done literally.
“But that’s it,” cried the frantic man, “that’s it! I was getting so I was looking forward to these dates every twelve years. I was getting to like it!"
Dr. Kaufman stared at his patient for a long moment. The psychiatrist’s face twisted as though he were about to break into tears. Then he lunged toward the sideboard. This time he didn’t use a glass.
THE END
