Baby Is Three (11 page)

“And there’s—but why go on? The point is that the mushrooming schools of therapy show that we know we’re sick; that we’re anxious—but not yet anxious enough,
en masse—
to do something about it, and that we’re willing to attack the problem on all salients and sectors.”

“What kind of work have you been doing recently?” Edie asked.

“Electro-encephalographics, mostly. The size and shape of brainwave
graphs will show a great deal once we get enough of them. And—did you know there’s a measurable change in volume of the fingertips that follows brainwave incidence very closely in disturbed cases? Fascinating stuff. But sometimes I feel it’s the merest dull nudging at the real problems involved. Sometimes I feel like a hard-working contour cartographer trying to record the height and grade of ocean waves. Every time you duplicate an observation to check it, there’s a valley where there was a mountain a second ago.

“And sometimes I feel that if we could just turn and look in the right direction, we’d see what’s doing it to us, plain as day. Here we sit with our psychological bottle of arnica and our therapeutic cold compresses, trying to cure up an attack of lumps on the headbone. And if we could only turn and look in the right place, there would be an invisible maniac with a stick, beating us over the head, whom we’d never detected before.”

“You sound depressed.”

“Oh, I’m not, really,” he said. He stood up and stretched. “But I almost wish I’d get away from that recurrent thought of looking in a new direction; of correlating neurosis with a virus disorder. Find the virus and cure the disease. It’s panacea; wishful thinking. I’m probably getting lazy.”

“Not you, Jon.” His ex-wife smiled at him. “Perhaps you have the answer, subconsciously, but what you’ve learned won’t let it come out.”

“Very astute. What made you say that?”

“It’s a thing you used to say all the time.”

He laughed and helped her up. “Edie, do you have to get up early tomorrow?”

“I’m unemployed. Didn’t I tell you?”

“I didn’t ask,” he said ruefully. “My God, I talk a lot. Would you like to see my new lab?”

“I’d love to! Oh, I’d love it. Will it be—all right?”

“All right? Of course it—oh. I see what you mean. Priscilla. Where is she, anyway?”

“She went out. I thought you noticed. With that man who plays the guitar. Irving.” She nodded toward the discarded instrument.

“I hadn’t noticed,” he said. Over his features slipped the poker expression of the consulting psychologist. “Who did you come with?”

“The same one. Irving. Jon, I hope Priscilla can take care of herself.”

“Let’s go,” he said.

Faintly, and with exasperation, Ril’s thought came stumblingly through to Ryl and Rul:

“How can a thinking being be so stupid? Have you ever heard a more accurate description of the Pa’ak virus than that? ‘Cultivating our little traumas and anxieties like plowed fields to increase their yield, and then feeding off them.’ And ‘a new direction.’ Why haven’t these people at least extrapolated the idea of energy life? They know that matter and energy are the same. An energy virus is such a logical thing for them to think of!”

And Rul’s response: “They can no more isolate their experiments from their neuroses than they can isolate their measuring instruments from gravity. Have patience. When we are able to unite again, we will have the strength to inform them.”

Ril sent: “Patience? How much more time do you think we have before they start to spread the virus through this whole sector of the cosmos? They are improving rockets, aren’t they? We should have sent for reinforcements. But then—how could we know we’d be trapped like this in separate entities which refuse to merge?”

“We couldn’t,” Ryl answered. “We still have so much to learn about these creatures. Sending for reinforcements would solve nothing.”

“And we have so little time,” Rul mourned. “Once they leave Earth, the Pa’ak pestilence will no longer be isolated.”

Ril responded: “Unless they are cured of the disease before they leave.”

“Or prevented from leaving,” Ryl pointed out. “An atomic war would lower the level of culture. If there is no choice, we could force them to fight—we have the power—and thus reduce their technology to the point where space flight would be impossible.”

It was a frightening idea. They broke contact in trembling silence.
They had a drink, and then coffee, and now Irving was leading her homeward. She hadn’t wanted to go through the park, but it was late and he assured her that it was much shorter this way. “There are plenty of places through here where you can cut corners.” It was easier not to argue. Irving commanded a flood of language at low pitch and high intensity that she could do without just now. She was tired and bored and extremely angry.

It was bad enough that Jon had deserted her for that bit of flotsam from his past. It was worse that she should have walked right past him with her hat on without his even looking up. What was worst of all was that she had let herself be so angry. She had no claims on Jonathan Prince. They were more than friends, certainly, but not any more than that.

“Who’s the girl you came to the party with, Irving?” she asked.

“Oh, her. Someone trying to get a job at the plant. She’s a real bright girl. Electronics engineer—can you imagine?”

“And—”

He glanced down at her. “And what? I found out she was a cold fish, that’s all.”

Oh, she thought. So you ditched her because you thought she was a cold fish, and scooped me up. And what does that make me? Aloud she said, “These paths wind around the park so. Are you sure it’s going to take us out on the downtown side?”

“I know everything about these woods.” He peered. “This way.”

They turned off the blacktop walk and took a graveled path away to the right. The path was brilliantly lit by a street-lamp at the crossing of the walks, and the light followed the path in a straight band through the undergrowth. It seemed so safe … and then Irving turned off to still another path. She turned with him, unthinking, and blinked her eyes against a sudden, oppressive darkness.

It was a small cul de sac, completely surrounded by heavy undergrowth. As her eyes became accustomed to the dim light that filtered through the trees, she saw benches and two picnic tables. A wonderful, secluded, restful little spot, she thought—for a picnic.

“How do you like this?” whispered Irving hoarsely. He sounded as if he had been running.

“I don’t,” she said immediately. “It’s late, Irving. This isn’t getting either of us anywhere.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. He put his arms around her. She leaned away from him with her head averted, swung her handbag back and up at his face. He caught her wrist deftly and turned it behind her.

“Don’t,” she gasped. “Don’t …”

“You’ve made your little protest like a real lady, honey, so it’s on the record. Now save us some time and trouble. Let’s get to it.”

She kicked him. He gasped but stood solidly. There was a sharp click behind her. “Hear that?” he said. “That’s my switch-blade. Push a button and zip!—seven inches of nice sharp steel. Now don’t you move or make a sound, sweetheart, and this’ll be fun for both of us.”

Locking her against him with his left arm, he reached slowly up under the hem of her short jacket. She felt the knife against her back. It slipped coldly between her skin and the back of her low-cut dress. “Don’t you move,” he said again. The knife turned, sawed a little and the back strap of her brassiere parted. The knife was removed; she heard it click again. He dropped it in his jacket pocket.

“Now,” he breathed, “doesn’t that feel better, lamb-pie?”

She filled her lungs to scream, and instantly his hard hand was clamped over her mouth. It was a big hand, and the thumb was artfully placed so that she couldn’t get her mouth open wide enough to use her teeth on it.

“Let’s not wrestle,” he said, his voice really gentle, pleading. “It just doesn’t make sense. I’d as soon kill you as not—you know that.”

She stood trembling violently, her eyes rolled up almost out of sight. Her mouth sagged open when he kissed it. Then he screamed.

His arms whipped away from her and she fell. She lay looking dully up at him. He stood straight in the dim light, stretched, his face up and twisted with pain. He had both hands, apparently, on one of his back pockets. He whirled around and her eyes followed him.

There was someone else standing there … someone in black. Someone who looked like a high-school teacher Priscilla had once had. Gray hair, thin, wattled face.

Moving without haste but with great purpose, the spinsterish
apparition stooped, raised her skirts daintily and kicked Irving accurately in the groin. He emitted a croaking sound and dropped to a crouch, and began a small series of agonizing grunts. The old lady stepped forward as if she were dancing a minuet, put out one sensible shoe and shoved. Irving went down on his knees and elbows, his head hanging.

“Get out,” said the old lady crisply.
“Now.”
She clapped her hands once. The sound stiffened Irving. With a long, breathy groan he staggered to his feet, turned stupidly to get his bearings and hobbled rapidly away.

“Come on, dear.” The woman got her hands under Priscilla’s armpits and helped her up. She half-carried the girl over to one of the picnic tables and seated her on the bench. With an arm around Priscilla’s shoulders, she held her upright while she put a large black handbag on the table. Out of it she rummaged a voluminous handkerchief which she thrust into Priscilla’s hands. “Now, you sit there and cry a while.”

Priscilla said, still trembling,” I can’t,” and burst into tears.

When it was over she blew her nose weakly. “I don’t … know what to say to you. I—he would have killed me.”

“No, he wouldn’t. Now while I’m alive and carry a hatpin.”

“Who are you?”

“A friend. If you’ll believe that, child, that’s good enough for me and it’ll have to be good enough for you.”

“I believe that,” said Priscilla. She drew a long, shuddering breath. “How can I ever thank you?”

“By paying attention to what I tell you. But you must tell me some things first. How did you ever get yourself mixed up with such an animal? You surely have better sense than that.”

“Please don’t scold … I was silly, that’s all.”

“You were in a tizzy, you mean. You were, weren’t you?”

“Well,” sniffed Priscilla, “yes. You see, I work with this doctor, and he and I—it isn’t anything formal, you understand, but we work so well together and laugh at the same things, and it’s … nice. And then he—”

“Go on.”

“He was married once. Years ago. And he saw her tonight. And he didn’t look at me any more. I guess I’m foolish, but I got all upset.”

“Why?”

“I told you. He just wanted to talk to her. He forgot I was alive.”

“That isn’t why. You were upset because you were afraid he’d get together with her again.”

“I—I suppose so.”

“Do you want to marry him?”

“Why, I—I don’t … No, I wouldn’t. It isn’t that.”

The old lady nodded. “You think if he married her again—or anyone else—that it would make a big difference in the work you do together, in the way he treats you?”

“I … don’t suppose there would be any difference, no,” Priscilla said thoughtfully. “I’d never thought it through.”

“And,” continued the old lady relentlessly, “have you thought through any other possible course of action he could have taken tonight? He was married to her for some time. He apparently hasn’t seen her for years. It must have been a small shock to him to find her there. Now, what else might he have done? ‘Goodness gracious, there’s my old used-up wife. Priscilla, let’s dance.’ Is that what you expected?”

At last she giggled. “You’re wonderful. And you’re right, you are so absolutely right. I have been sil—Oh!”

“What is it?”

“You called me Priscilla. How did you know my name? Who are you?”

“A friend. Come along, girl; you can’t sit here all night.” She drew the startled girl to her feet. “Here, let me look at you. Your lipstick’s smeared. Over here. That’s better. Can you button that jacket? I think perhaps you should. Not that it should matter if your bust
does
show, the way you brazen things dress nowadays. There now, come along.”

She hurried Priscilla through the park, and when they reached the street, turned north. Priscilla tugged at the black sleeve. “Please—wait. I live
that
way.” She pointed.

“I know, I know. But you’re not going home just yet. Come along, child!”

“Where are you—we—going?”

“You’ll see. Now listen to me. Do you trust me?”

“Oh, my goodness, yes!”

“Very well. When we get where we’re going, you’ll go inside alone. Don’t worry now, it’s perfectly safe. Once you’re inside you’ll do something very stupid indeed.”

“I will?”

“You will. You’ll turn around and try to leave. Now, then, I want you to understand that you must
not
leave. I shall be standing outside to see that you don’t.”

“But I—But why? What am I supposed … where …”

“Hush, child! You do as you’re told and you’ll be all right.”

Priscilla walked along in silence for a time. Then she said, “All right.” The old lady turned to look into the softest-smiling, most trusting face she had ever seen. She put her arm around Priscilla’s shoulders and squeezed.

“You’ll do,” she said.

Henry Faulkner sat in a booth, far from the belly-thumping juke box and the knot of people chattering away at the head end of the bar. Henry’s elbows were on the table and his thumbs, fitted carefully into the bony arches over his eyelids, supported the weight of his head. The cafe went round and round like a Czerny etude, but with a horizontal axis. The walls moved upward in front of him and down behind him, and he felt very ill. Once he had forced down three beers, and that was his established capacity; it had bloated him horribly and he’d had a backache in the morning. Tonight he’d had four double ryes.

“There he shtood,” he said to one of the blonde girls who sat opposite, “nex’ to the conductor, watching the orch’stra, an’ sometimes he’d beat time wiz arms. When the last movement ended, th’ audience rozhe up as one man an’ roared. An’ there he shtood, nex’ to the conductor—”