Science-Fiction Adventures in Dimension, page 32
Livvy said, indifferently, "I think Dick will be around later. There was something or other he had to do first." She felt as indifferent as she sounded.
Georgette smiled tightly, "Well, Norman's here. That ought to keep you from being lonely, dear. At least, it's turned out that way before."
And as she said so, Norman sauntered in from the kitchen. He had a cocktail shaker in his hand and the rattling of ice cubes castanetted his words, "Line up, you rioting revelers, and get a mixture which will really revel your riots — Why, Livvy!"
He walked toward her, grinning his welcome. "Where've you been keeping yourself? I haven't seen you in twenty years, seems like. What's the matter? Doesn't Dick want anyone else to see you?"
"Fill my glass, Norman," said Georgette sharply.
"Right away," he said, not looking at her. "Do you want one too, Livvy? I'll get you a glass." He turned, and everything happened at once.
Livvy cried, "Watch out!" She saw it coming; even had a vague feeling that all this had happened before, but it played itself out inexorably. His heel caught the edge of the carpet; he lurched, tried to right himself, and lost the cocktail shaker. It seemed to jump out of his hands, and a pint of ice-cold liquor drenched Livvy from shoulder to hem.
She stood there, gasping. The noises muted about her, and for a few intolerable moments she made futile brushing gestures at her gown, while Norman kept repeating, " Damnation!" in rising tones.
Georgette said, coolly, " It's too bad, Livvy. Just one of those things. I imagine the dress can't be very expensive."
Livvy turned and ran. She was in the bedroom, which was at least empty and relatively quiet. By the light of the fringe-shaded lamp on the dresser, she poked among the coats on the bed, looking for her own.
Norman had come in behind her. "Look, Livvy, don't pay any attention to what she said. I'm really devilishly sorry. I'll pay —"
"That's all right. It wasn't your fault." She blinked rapidly and didn't look at him. "I'll just go home and change."
"Are you coming back?"
"I don't know. I don't think so."
"Look, Livvy . . ." His warm fingers were on her shoulders —
Livvy felt a queer tearing sensation deep inside her, as though she were ripping away from clinging cobwebs and —
~ * ~
— and the train noises were back.
Something did go wrong with the time when she was in there — in the slab. It was deep twilight now. The train-lights were on. But it didn't matter. She seemed to be recovering from the wrench inside her.
Norman was rubbing his eyes with thumb and forefinger, "What happened?"
Livvy said, "It just ended. Suddenly."
Norman said, uneasily, "You know, we'll be putting into New Haven soon." He looked at his watch and shook his head.
Livvy said, wonderingly, "You spilled it on me."
"Well, so I did in real life."
"But in real life I was your wife. You ought to have spilled it on Georgette this time. Isn't that queer?" But she was thinking of Norman pursuing her; his hands on her shoulders. . . .
She looked up at him, and said with warm satisfaction, "I wasn't married."
"No, you weren't. But was that Dick Reinhardt you were going around with?"
"Yes."
"You weren't planning to marry him, were you, Livvy?"
"Jealous, Norman?"
Norman looked confused. "Of that? Of a slab of glass? Of course not."
"I don't think I would have married him."
Norman said, "You know, I wish it hadn't ended when it did. There was something that was about to happen, I think." He stopped, then added slowly, "It was as though I would rather have done it to anybody else in the room."
"Even to Georgette."
"I wasn't giving two thoughts to Georgette. You don't believe me, I suppose."
"Maybe I do." She looked up at him. "I've been silly, Norman. Let's — let's live our real life. Let's not play with all the things that just might have been."
But he caught her hands. "No, Livvy. One last time. Let's see what we would have been doing right now. Right now, Livvy! This very minute! If I had married Georgette."
Livvy was a little frightened. "Let's not, Norman." She was thinking of his eyes, smiling hungrily at her as he held the shaker, while Georgette stood beside her, unregarded. She didn't want to know what happened afterward. She just wanted this life now, this good life.
New Haven came and went. Norman said again, "I want to try, Livvy."
She said, "If you want to, Norman." She decided fiercely that it wouldn't matter. Nothing would matter. Her hands reached out and encircled his arm. She held it tightly, and while she held it she thought: nothing in the make-believe can take him from me.
Norman said to the little man, "Set 'em up again."
In the yellow light, the process seemed to be slower. Gently, the frosted slab cleared, like clouds being torn apart and dispersed by an unfelt wind.
Norman was saying, "There's something wrong. That's just the two of us, exactly as we are now."
He was right. Two little figures were sitting in a train on the seats which were furthest toward the front. The field was enlarging now — they were merging into it. Norman's voice was distant and fading.
"It's the same train," he was saying. "The window in back is cracked just as —"
~ * ~
Livvy was blindingly happy. She said, "I wish we were in New York."
hour, darling." Then he said, "I'm going to kiss you." He made a movement, as though he were about to begin.
"Not here! Oh, Norman, people are looking."
Norman drew back. He said, "We should have taken a taxi."
"From Boston to New York?"
"Sure. The privacy would have been worth it."
She laughed, "You're funny when you try to act ardent."
"It isn't an act." His voice was suddenly a little somber. "It's not just an hour, you know. I feel as though I've been waiting five years."
"I do, too."
"Why couldn't I have met you first? It was such a waste."
"Poor Georgette." Livvy sighed.
Norman moved impatiently, "Don't be sorry for her, Livvy. We never really made a go of it. She was glad to get rid of me."
"I know that. That's why I say ' Poor Georgette.' I'm just sorry for her for not being able to appreciate what she had."
"Well, see to it that you do," he said. "See to it that you're immensely appreciative, infinitely appreciative or more than that, see that you're at least half as appreciative as I am of what I've got."
"Or else you'll divorce me, too?"
"Over my dead body," said Norman.
Livvy said, "It's all so strange. I keep thinking: what if you hadn't spilt the cocktails on me that time at the party. You wouldn't have followed me out; you wouldn't have told me; I wouldn't have known. It would have been so different . . . everything."
"Nonsense. It would have been just the same. It would have all happened another time."
"I wonder," said Livvy softly.
Train noises merged into train noises. City lights flickered outside and the atmosphere of New York was about them. The coach was astir with travellers dividing the baggage among themselves.
Livvy was an island in the turmoil until Norman shook her.
She looked at him and said, "The jigsaw pieces fit after all."
He said, "Yes."
She put a hand on his. "But it wasn't good just the same. I was very wrong. I thought that because we had each other, we should have all the possible each others. But all the possibles are none of our business. The real is enough. Do you know what I mean?"
He nodded.
She said, "There are millions of other what-if s. I don't want to know what happened in any of them. I'll never say 'What if' again."
Norman said, "Relax, dear. Here's your coat." And he reached for the suitcases.
Livvy said, with sudden sharpness, "Where's Mr. If?"
Norman turned slowly to the empty seat that faced them. Together they scanned the rest of the coach.
"Maybe," Norman said, "he went into the next coach."
"But why? Besides, he wouldn't leave his hat." And she bent to pick it up.
Norman said, "What hat?" And Livvy stopped, her fingers hovering over nothingness. She said, "It was here — I almost touched it." She straightened and said, "Oh, Norman, what if —"
Norman put a finger on her mouth; "Darling . . ."
She said, "I'm sorry. Here, let me help you with the suitcases."
The train dived into the tunnel beneath Park Avenue, and the noise of the wheels rose to a roar.
>
~ * ~
John D. MacDonald
RING AROUND THE REDHEAD
In the search for adjectives to describe this item, I came up with “spine-tingling,” “suspenseful,” “action-packed.” They all sounded somehow pale and uneventful. Therefore it is best to let Mr. Mac Donald’s yarn about a girl who never was born (on earth) and a murder that didn’t happen give rise to its own adjectives in the reader’s mind.
~ * ~
THE prosecuting attorney was a lean specimen named Amery Heater. The build-up given the murder trial by the newspapers had resulted in a welter of open-mouthed citizens who jammed the golden oak courtroom.
Bill Maloney, the defendant, was sleepy and bored. He knew he had no business being bored. Not with twelve righteous citizens who, under the spell of Amery Heater’s quiet, confidential oratory were beginning to look at Maloney as though he were a fiend among fiends.
The August heat was intense, and flies buzzed around the upper sashes of the dusty windows. The city sounds drifted in the open windows, making it necessary for Amery Heater to raise his voice now and again.
But though Bill Maloney was bored, he was also restless and worried. Mostly he was worried about Justin Marks, his own lawyer.
Marks cared but little for this case. But, being Bill Maloney’s best friend, he couldn’t very well refuse to handle it. Justin Marks was a proper young man with a Dewey mustache and frequent daydreams about Justice Marks of the Supreme Court. He somehow didn’t feel that the Maloney case was going to help him very much.
Particularly with the very able Amery Heater intent on getting the death penalty.
The judge was a puffy old citizen with signs of many good years at the brandy bottle, the hundreds of gallons of which, surprisingly, had done nothing to dim the keenness of eye or brain.
Bill Maloney was a muscular young man with a round face, a round chin, and a look of sleepy skepticism. A sheaf of his coarse, corn-colored hair jutted out over his forehead. His eyes were clear, deep blue.
He stifled a yawn, remembering what Justin Marks had told him about making a good impression on the jury. He singled out a plump lady juror in the front row and winked solemnly at her. She lifted her chin with an audible sniff.
No dice there. Might as well listen to Amery Heater.
“. . . . and we, the prosecution, intend to prove that on the evening of July tenth William Howard Maloney did murderously attack his neighbor, James Finch, and did kill James Finch by crushing his skull. We intend to prove there was a serious dispute between these men, a dispute that had continued for some time. We further intend to prove that the cause of this dispute was the dissolute life being led by the defendant.”
Amery Heater droned on and on. The room was too hot. Bill Maloney slouched in his chair and yawned. He jumped when Justin Marks hissed at him. Then he remembered that he had yawned and he smiled placatingly at the jury. Several of them looked away hurriedly.
Fat little Dr. Koobie took the stand. He was sworn in, and Amery Heater, polite and respectful, asked questions which established Koobie’s name, profession, and presence at the scene of the “murder” some fifty minutes after it had taken place.
“And now, Dr. Koobie, would you please describe in your own words exactly what you found.”
Koobie hitched himself in his chair, pulled his trousers up a little over his chubby knees, and said, “No need to make this technical. I was standing out by the hedge between the two houses. I was on Jim Finch’s side of the hedge. There was a big smear of blood around. Some of it was spattered on the hedge. Barberry, I think. On the ground there was some hunks of brain tissue, none of them bigger than a dime. Also a piece of scalp maybe two inches square. Had Jim’s hair on it, all right. Proved that in the lab. Also found some pieces of bone. Not many.” He smiled peacefully. “Guess old Jim is dead, all right. No question of that. Blood was his and the hair was his.”
Three jurors swallowed visibly, and a fourth began to fan himself vigorously.
Koobie answered a few other questions, and then Justin Marks took over the cross-examination.
“What would you say killed Jim Finch?”
Many people gasped at the question, having assumed that the defense would be that, lacking a body, there was no murder.
Koobie put a fat finger in the corner of his mouth, took it out again. “Couldn’t rightly say.”
“Could a blow from a club or similar weapon have done it?”
“Good Lord, no! Man’s head is a pretty durable thing. You’d have to back him up against a solid concrete wall and bust him with a full swing with a baseball bat and you still wouldn’t do that much hurt. Jim was standing right out in the open.”
“Dr. Koobie, imagine a pair of pliers ten feet long and proportionately thick. If a pair of pliers like that were to have grabbed Mr. Finch by the head, smashing it like a nut in a nutcracker, could it have done that much damage?”
Koobie pulled his nose, tugged on his ear, frowned, and said, “Why, if it clamped down real sudden like, I imagine it could. But where’d Jim go?”
“That’s all, thank you,” Justin Marks said.
Amery Heater called other witnesses. One of them was Anita Hemp-flet.
Amery said, “You live across the road from the defendant?”
Miss Anita Hempflet was fiftyish, big-boned, and of the same general consistency as the dried beef recommended for Canadian canoe trips. Her voice sounded like fingernails on the third-grade blackboard.
“Yes, I do. I’ve lived there thirty-five years. That Maloney person, him sitting right over there, moved in two years ago, and I must say that I . . .”
“You are able to see Mr. Maloney’s house from your windows?”
“Certainly!”
“Now tell the court when it was that you first saw the redheaded woman.”
She licked her lips. “I first saw that ... that woman in May. A right pleasant morning it was, too. Or it was until I saw her. About ten o’clock, I’d say. She was right there in Maloney’s front yard, as bold as brass. Had on some sort of shiny silver thing. You couldn’t call it a dress. Too short for that. Didn’t half cover her the way a lady ought to be covered. Not by half. She was . . .”
“What was she doing?”
“Well, she come out of the house and she stopped and looked around as though she was surprised at where she was. My eyes are good. I could see her face. She looked all around. Then she sort of slouched, like she was going to keel over or something. She walked real slow down toward the gate. Mr. Maloney came running out of the house and I heard him yell to her. She stopped. Then he was making signs to her, for her to go back into the house. Just like she was deaf or something. After a while she went back in. I guessed she probably was made deaf by that awful bomb thing the government lost control of near town three days before that.”
“You didn’t see her again?”
“Oh, I saw her plenty of times. But after that she was always dressed more like a girl should be dressed. Far as I could figure out, Mr. Maloney was buying her clothes in town. It wasn’t right that anything like that should be going on in a nice neighborhood. Mr. Finch didn’t think it was right, either. Runs down property values, you know.”
“In your knowledge, Miss Hempflet, did Mr. Maloney and the deceased ever quarrel?”
“They started quarreling a few days after that woman showed up. Yelling at each other across the hedge. Mr. Finch was always scared of burglars. He had that house fixed up so nobody could get in if he didn’t want them in. A couple of times I saw Bill Maloney pounding on his door and rapping on the windows. Jim wouldn’t pay any attention.”
