She said, “It was she you married.”
He stared at her for a moment and then one side of his mouth quirked a little. He said lightly, “I didn’t really, Olivia. You’re still my wife, you know. Just think about it for a few minutes.”
She turned to him. “Yes, you married me--because I fell in your lap. If I hadn’t, you would have married Georgette. If she hadn’t wanted you, you would have married someone else. You would have married anybody. So much for your jigsaw-puzzle pieces.”
Norman said very slowly, “Well--I’ll--be--darned!” He put both hands to his head and smoothed down the straight hair over his ears where it had a tendency to tuft up. For the moment it gave him the appearance of trying to hold his head together. He said, “Now, look here, Liwy, you’re making a silly fuss over a stupid magician’s trick. You can’t blame me for something I haven’t done.”
“You would have done it.”
“How do you know?”
“You’ve seen it.”
“I’ve seen a ridiculous piece of--of hypnotism, I suppose.” His voice suddenly raised itself into anger. He turned to the little man opposite. “Off with you, Mr. If, or whatever your name is. Get out of here. We don’t want you. Get out before I throw your little trick out the window and you after it.”
Liwy yanked at his elbow. “Stop it. Stop it! You’re in a crowded train.”
The little man shrank back into the comer of the seat as far as he could go and held his little black bag behind him. Norman looked at him, then at Liwy, then at the elderly lady across the way who was regarding him with patent disapproval.
He turned pink and bit back a pungent remark. They rode in frozen silence to and through New London.
Fifteen minutes past New London, Norman said, “Liwy!”
She said nothing. She was looking out the window but saw nothing but the glass.
He said again, “Liwy! Liwy! Answer me!”
She said dully, “What do you want?”
He said, “Look, this is all nonsense. I don’t know how the fellow does it, but even granting it’s legitimate, you’re not being fair. Why stop where you did? Suppose I had married Georgette, do you suppose you would have stayed single? For all I know, you were already married at the time of my supposed wedding. Maybe that’s why I married Georgette.”
“I wasn’t married.”
“How do you know?”
“I would have been able to tell. I knew what my own thoughts were.”
“Then you would have been married within the next year.”
Liwy grew angrier. The fact that a sane remnant within her clamored at the unreason of her anger did not soothe her. It irritated her further, instead. She said, “And if I did, it would be no business of yours, certainly.”
“Of course it wouldn’t. But it would make the point that in the world of reality we can’t be held responsible for the ‘what ifs.’ “
Liwy’s nostrils flared. She said nothing.
Norman said, “Look! You remember the big New Year’s celebration at Winnie’s place year before last?”
“I certainly do. You spilled a keg of alcohol all over me.”
“That’s beside the point, and besides, it was only a cocktail shaker’s worth. What I’m trying to say is that Winnie is just about your best friend and had been long before you married me.”
“What of it?”
“Georgette was a good friend of hers too, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then. You and Georgette would have gone to the party regardless of which one of you I had married. I would have had nothing to do with it. Let him show us the party as it would have been if I had married Georgette, and I’ll bet you’d be there with either your fiancé or your husband.”
Liwy hesitated. She felt honestly afraid of just that.
He said, “Are you afraid to take the chance?”
And that, of course, decided her. She turned on him furiously. “No, I’m not! And I hope I am married. There’s no reason I should pine for you. What’s more, I’d like to see what happens when you spill the shaker all over
Georgette. She’ll fill both your ears for you, and in public, too. I know her. Maybe you’ll see a certain difference in the jigsaw pieces then.” She faced forward and crossed her arms angrily and firmly across her chest.
Norman looked across at the little man, but there was no need to say anything. The glass slab was on his lap already. The sun slanted in from the west, and the white foam of hair that topped his head was edged with pink.
Norman said tensely, “Ready?”
Liwy nodded and let the noise of the train slide away again.
Liwy stood, a little flushed with recent cold, in the doorway. She had just removed her coat, with its sprinkling of snow, and her bare arms were still rebelling at the touch of open air.
She answered the shouts that greeted her with “Happy New Years” of her own, raising her voice to make herself heard over the squealing of the radio. Georgette’s shrill tones were almost the first thing she heard upon entering, and now she steered toward her. She hadn’t seen Georgette, or Norman, in weeks.
Georgette lifted an eyebrow, a mannerism she had lately cultivated, and said, “Isn’t anyone with you, Olivia?” Her eyes swept the immediate surroundings and then returned to Liwy.
Liwy 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 that will really revel your riots-- Why, Liwy!”
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, Liwy? I’ll get you a glass.” He turned, and everything happened at once.
Liwy 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 Liwy 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, Liwy. Just one of those things. I imagine the dress can’t be very expensive.”
Liwy 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, Liwy, 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, Liwy . . .” His warm fingers were on her shoulders--
Liwy 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?”
Liwy 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.
Liwy 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, Liwy?”
“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, Liwy. One last time. Let’s see what we would have been doing right now, Liwy! This very minute! If I had married Georgette.”
Liwy 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, Liwy.”
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 farthest 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--”
Liwy was blindingly happy. She said, “I wish we were in New York.”
He said, “It will be less than an 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,” Liwy sighed.
Norman moved impatiently. “Don’t be sorry for her, Liwy. 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.
Liwy 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 Liwy 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 travelers dividing the baggage among themselves.
Liwy 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 ifs. 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.
Liwy 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 Liwy 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.
---
As long as I mentioned the parlor psychoanalyst in the introduction to “What If--,” I may as well go on to those fellows who analyze stories in Freudian fashion.
Given a Freudian cast of mind and sufficient ingenuity, it is possible, I think, to translate any collection of words (rational, irrational, or nonsensical) into sexual symbolism, and then prate learnedly about the writer’s unconscious.
I have said this before and I’ll say it again. I don’t know what is in my unconscious mind and I don’t care. I don’t even know for sure that I have one.
I am told that the contents of one’s unconscious may so distort his personality that he can only straighten out by a close study of those hidden mental factors under the guidance of an analyst.
Maybe so, but the only thing about myself that I consider to be severe enough to warrant psychoanalytic treatment is my compulsion to write. Perhaps if I vacuumed my mentality and got rid of the compulsion, I could spend more time sleeping in the sun and playing golf, or whatever it is that people do who have nothing better to do.
But I don’t want to, thank you. I know all about my compulsion and I like it and intend to keep it. Someone else can have my ticket for sleeping in the sun and playing golf.
So I hope no one ever has the impulse to psychoanalyze my stories and come to me with a complete explanation of my compulsions and hangups and neuroses and expect me to be tearfully grateful. I’m not in the market. Nor am I interested in the hidden mean
ings of my stories. If you find them, keep them.
Which brings me to “Sally.” It is well known that the average American male loves his car with a pseudosexual passion, and who am I to be un-American?
Anyone reading “Sally” can sense that I feel strongly attracted to the heroine of the story and that this probably reflects something of my own life. Toward the end of the story, in fact, Sally does something which will allow the amateur Freudian a field day. (Oh, find it for yourself; it won’t be hard.) The sexual symbolism is blatant and the parlor psychoanalyst can chuckle himself to death with what he win be sure exists in my unconscious mind.
Except that he will be quite wrong, because none of that was put in by my unconscious mind. It was all carefully and deliberately inserted by my conscious mind, because I wanted to.
First appearance--Fantastic, May-June, 1953. Copyright, 1953, by Ziff-Davis Publishing Company.
Sally
Sally was coming down the lake road, so I waved to her and called her by name. I always liked to see Sally. I liked all of them, you understand, but Sally’s the prettiest one of the lot. There just isn’t any question about it.
She moved a little faster when I waved to her. Nothing undignified. She was never that. She moved just enough faster to show that she was glad to see me, too.
I turned to the man standing beside me. “That’s Sally,” I said.
He smiled at me and nodded.
Mrs. Hester had brought him in. She said, “This is Mr. Gellhorn, Jake. You remember he sent you the letter asking for an appointment.”
That was just talk, really. I have a million things to do around the Farm, and one thing I just can’t waste my time on is mail. That’s why I have Mrs. Hester around. She lives pretty close by, she’s good at attending to foolishness without running to me about it, and most of all, she likes Sally and the rest. Some people don’t.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Gellhorn,” I said.
“Raymond f. Gellhorn,” he said, and gave me his hand, which I shook and gave back.
He was a largish fellow, half a head taller than I and wider, too. He was about half my age, thirtyish. He had black hair, plastered down slick, with a part in the middle, and a thin mustache, very neatly trimmed. His jawbones got big under his ears and made him look as if he had a slight case of mumps. On video he’d be a natural to play the villain, so I assumed he was a nice fellow. It goes to show that video can’t be wrong all the time.