A Medicine for Melancholy and Other Stories

  “Worse. Japs and Nazis. Don’t know how my parents put up with me. Tomboy.”

  “Parents learn to shut their ears.”

  A silence.

  “What’s wrong, Mary?” asked Helen.

  Mrs. Morris’s eyes were half closed; her tongue slid slowly, thoughtfully, over her lower lip. “Eh?” She jerked. “Oh, nothing. Just thought about that. Shutting ears and such. Never mind. Where were we?”

  “My boy Tim’s got a crush on some guy named—Drill, I think it was.”

  “Must be a new password. Mink likes him too.”

  “Didn’t know it had got as far as New York. Word of mouth, I imagine. Looks like a scrap drive. I talked to Josephine and she said her kids—that’s in Boston—are wild on this new game. It’s sweeping the country.”

  At that moment Mink trotted into the kitchen to gulp a glass of water. Mrs. Morris turned. “How’re things going?”

  “Almost finished,” said Mink.

  “Swell,” said Mrs. Morris. “What’s that?”

  “A yo-yo,” said Mink. “Watch.”

  She flung the yo-yo down its string. Reaching the end it—It vanished.

  “See?” said Mink. “Ope!” Dibbling her finger, she made the yo-yo reappear and zip up the string.

  “Do that again,” said her mother.

  “Can’t. Zero hour’s five o’clock! ’By.” Mink exited, zipping her yo-yo.

  On the audiovisor, Helen laughed. “Tim brought one of those yo-yos in this morning, but when I got curious he said he wouldn’t show it to me, and when I tried to work it, finally, it wouldn’t work.”

  “You’re not impressionable,” said Mrs. Morris.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Something I thought of. Can I help you, Helen?”

  “I wanted to get that black-and-white cake recipe—”

  The hour drowsed by. The day waned. The sun lowered in the peaceful blue sky. Shadows lengthened on the green lawns. The laughter and excitement continued. One little girl ran away, crying. Mrs. Morris came out the front door.

  “Mink, was that Peggy Ann crying?”

  Mink was bent over in the yard, near the rosebush. “Yeah. She’s a scarebaby. We won’t let her play, now. She’s getting too old to play. I guess she grew up all of a sudden.”

  “Is that why she cried? Nonsense. Give me a civil answer, young lady, or inside you come!”

  Mink whirled in consternation, mixed with irritation. “I can’t quit now. It’s almost time. I’ll be good. I’m sorry.”

  “Did you hit Peggy Ann?”

  “No, honest. You ask her. It was something—well, she’s just a scaredy pants.”

  The ring of children drew in around Mink where she scowled at her work with spoons and a kind of square-shaped arrangement of hammers and pipes. “There and there,” murmured Mink.

  “What’s wrong?” said Mrs. Morris.

  “Drill’s stuck. Halfway. If we could only get him all the way through, it’d be easier. Then all the others could come through after him.”

  “Can I help?”

  “No’m, thanks. I’ll fix it.”

  “All right. I’ll call you for your bath in half an hour. I’m tired of watching you.”

  She went in and sat in the electric relaxing chair, sipping a little beer from a half-empty glass. The chair massaged her back. Children, children. Children love and hate, side by side. Sometimes children loved you, hated you—all in half a second. Strange children, did they ever forget or forgive the whippings and the harsh, strict words of command? She wondered. How can you ever forget or forgive those over and above you, those tall and silly dictators?

  Time passed. A curious, waiting silence came upon the street, deepening.

  Five o’clock. A clock sang softly somewhere in the house in a quiet, musical voice: “Five o’clock—five o’clock. Time’s a-wasting. Five o’clock,” and purred away into silence.

  Zero hour.

  Mrs. Morris chuckled in her throat. Zero hour.

  A beetle car hummed into the driveway. Mr. Morris. Mrs. Morris smiled. Mr. Morris got out of the beetle, locked it and called hello to Mink at her work. Mink ignored him. He laughed and stood for a moment watching the children. Then he walked up the front steps.

  “Hello, darling.”

  “Hello, Henry.”

  She strained forward on the edge of the chair, listening. The children were silent. Too silent.

  He emptied his pipe, refilled it. “Swell day. Makes you glad to be alive.”

  Buzz.

  “What’s that?” asked Henry.

  “I don’t know.” She got up suddenly, her eyes widening. She was going to say something. She stopped it. Ridiculous. Her nerves jumped. “Those children haven’t anything dangerous out there, have they?” she said.

  “Nothing but pipes and hammers. Why?”

  “Nothing electrical?”

  “Heck, no,” said Henry. “I looked.”

  She walked to the kitchen. The buzzing continued. “Just the same, you’d better go tell them to quit. It’s after five. Tell them—” Her eyes widened and narrowed. “Tell them to put off their Invasion until tomorrow.” She laughed, nervously.

  The buzzing grew louder.

  “What are they up to? I’d better go look, all right.”

  The explosion!

  The house shook with dull sound. There were other explosions in other yards on other streets.

  Involuntarily, Mrs. Morris screamed. “Up this way!” she cried senselessly, knowing no sense, no reason. Perhaps she saw something from the corners of her eyes; perhaps she smelled a new odor or heard a new noise. There was no time to argue with Henry to convince him. Let him think her insane. Yes, insane! Shrieking, she ran upstairs. He ran after her to see what she was up to. “In the attic!” she screamed. “That’s where it is!” It was only a poor excuse to get him in the attic in time. Oh, God—in time!

  Another explosion outside. The children screamed with delight, as if at a great fireworks display.

  “It’s not in the attic!” cried Henry. “It’s outside!”

  “No, no!” Wheezing, gasping, she fumbled at the attic door. “I’ll show you. Hurry! I’ll show you!”

  They tumbled into the attic. She slammed the door, locked it, took the key, threw it into a far, cluttered corner.

  She was babbling wild stuff now. It came out of her. All the subconscious suspicion and fear that had gathered secretly all afternoon and fermented like a wine in her. All the little revelations and knowledges and sense that had bothered her all day and which she had logically and carefully and sensibly rejected and censored. Now it exploded in her and shook her to bits.

  “There, there,” she said, sobbing against the door. “We’re safe until tonight. Maybe we can sneak out. Maybe we can escape!”

  Henry blew up too, but for another reason. “Are you crazy? Why’d you throw that key away? Blast it!”

  “Yes, yes, I’m crazy, if it helps, but stay here with me!”

  “I don’t know how I can get out!”

  “Quiet. They’ll hear us. Oh, God, they’ll find us soon enough—”

  Below them, Mink’s voice. The husband stopped. There was a great universal humming and sizzling, a screaming and giggling. Downstairs the audio-televisor buzzed and buzzed insistently, alarmingly, violently. Is that Helen calling? thought Mrs. Morris. And is she calling about what I think she’s calling about?

  Footsteps came into the house. Heavy footsteps.

  “Who’s coming in my house?” demanded Henry angrily. “Who’s tramping around down there?”

  Heavy feet. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty of them. Fifty persons crowding into the house. The humming. The giggling of the children. “This way!” cried Mink, below.

  “Who’s downstairs?” roared Henry. “Who’s there!”

  “Hush. Oh, nononononono!” said his wife, weakly, holding him. “Please, be quiet. They might go away.”

  “Mom?” called Mink. “Dad??
?? A pause. “Where are you?”

  Heavy footsteps, heavy, heavy, very heavy footsteps, came up the stairs. Mink leading them.

  “Mom?” A hesitation. “Dad?” A waiting, a silence.

  Humming. Footsteps toward the attic. Mink’s first.

  They trembled together in silence in the attic, Mr. and Mrs. Morris. For some reason the electric humming, the queer cold light suddenly visible under the door crack, the strange odor, and the alien sound of eagerness in Mink’s voice finally got through to Henry Morris too. He stood, shivering, in the dark silence, his wife beside him.

  “Mom! Dad!”

  Footsteps. A little humming sound. The attic lock melted. The door opened. Mink peered inside, tall blue shadows behind her.

  “Peekaboo,” said Mink.

  The Man

  Captain Hart stood in the door of the rocket. “Why don’t they come?” he said.

  “Who knows?” said Martin, his lieutenant. “Do I know, Captain?”

  “What kind of a place is this, anyway?” The captain lighted a cigar. He tossed the match out into the glittering meadow. The grass started to burn.

  Martin moved to stamp it out with his boot.

  “No,” ordered Captain Hart, “let it burn. Maybe they’ll come see what’s happening then, the ignorant fools.”

  Martin shrugged and withdrew his foot from the spreading fire.

  Captain Hart examined his watch. “An hour ago we landed here, and does the welcoming committee rush out with a brass band to shake our hands? No indeed! Here we ride millions of miles through space and the fine citizens of some silly town on some unknown planet ignore us!” He snorted, tapping his watch. “Well, I’ll just give them five more minutes, and then—”

  “And then what?” asked Martin, ever so politely, watching the captain’s jowls shake.

  “We’ll fly over their blasted city again and scare blazes out of them.” His voice grew quieter. “Do you think, Martin, maybe they didn’t see us land?”

  “They saw us. They looked up as we flew over.”

  “Then why aren’t they running across the field? Are they hiding? Are they yellow?”

  Martin shook his head. “No. Take these binoculars, sir. See for yourself. Everybody’s walking around. They’re not frightened. They—well, they don’t seem to care.”

  Captain Hart placed the binoculars to his tired eyes. Martin looked up and had time to observe the lines and the grooves of irritation, tiredness, nervousness there. Hart looked a million years old; he never slept, he ate little, and drove himself on, on. Now his mouth moved, aged and drear, but sharp, under the held binoculars.

  “Really, Martin, I don’t know why we bother. We build rockets, we go to all the trouble of crossing space, searching for them, and this is what we get. Neglect. Look at those idiots wander about in there. Don’t they realize how big this is? The first space flight to touch their provincial land. How many times does that happen? Are they that blasé?”

  Martin didn’t know.

  Captain Hart gave him back the binoculars wearily. “Why do we do it, Martin? This space travel, I mean. Always on the go. Always searching. Our insides always tight, never any rest.”

  “Maybe we’re looking for peace and quiet. Certainly there’s none on Earth,” said Martin.

  “No, there’s not, is there?” Captain Hart was thoughtful, the fire damped down. “Not since Darwin, eh? Not since everything went by the board, everything we used to believe in, eh? Divine power and all that. And so you think maybe that’s why we’re going out to the stars, eh, Martin? Looking for our lost souls, is that it? Trying to get away from our evil planet to a good one?”

  “Perhaps, sir. Certainly we’re looking for something.”

  Captain Hart cleared his throat and tightened back into sharpness. “Well, right now we’re looking for the mayor of that city there. Run in, tell them who we are, the first rocket expedition to Planet Forty-three in Star System Three. Captain Hart sends his salutations and desires to meet the mayor. On the double!”

  “Yes, sir.” Martin walked slowly across the meadow.

  “Hurry!” snapped the captain.

  “Yes, sir!” Martin trotted away. Then he walked again, smiling to himself.

  The captain had smoked two cigars before Martin returned.

  Martin stopped and looked up into the door of the rocket, swaying, seemingly unable to focus his eyes or think.

  “Well?” snapped Hart. “What happened? Are they coming to welcome us?”

  “No.” Martin had to lean dizzily against the ship.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not important,” said Martin. “Give me a cigarette, please, Captain.” His fingers groped blindly at the rising pack, for he was looking at the golden city and blinking. He lighted one and smoked quietly for a long time.

  “Say something!” cried the captain. “Aren’t they interested in our rocket?”

  Martin said, “What? Oh. The rocket?” He inspected his cigarette. “No, they’re not interested. Seems we came at an inopportune time.”

  “Inopportune time!”

  Martin was patient. “Captain, listen. Something big happened yesterday in that city. It’s so big, so important that we’re second-rate—second fiddle. I’ve got to sit down.” He lost his balance and sat heavily, gasping for air.

  The captain chewed his cigar angrily. “What happened?”

  Martin lifted his head, smoke from the burning cigarette in his fingers, blowing in the wind. “Sir, yesterday, in that city, a remarkable man appeared—good, intelligent, compassionate, and infinitely wise!”

  The captain glared at his lieutenant. “What’s that to do with us?”

  “It’s hard to explain. But he was a man for whom they’d waited a long time—a million years maybe. And yesterday he walked into their city. That’s why today, sir, our rocket landing means nothing.”

  The captain sat down violently. “Who was it? Not Ashley? He didn’t arrive in his rocket before us and steal my glory, did he?” He seized Martin’s arm. His face was pale and dismayed.

  “Not Ashley, sir.”

  “Then it was Burton! I knew it. Burton stole in ahead of us and ruined my landing! You can’t trust anyone any more.”

  “Not Burton, either, sir,” said Martin quietly.

  The captain was incredulous. “There were only three rockets. We were in the lead. This man who got here ahead of us? What was his name!”

  “He didn’t have a name. He doesn’t need one. It would be different on every planet, sir.”

  The captain stared at his lieutenant with hard, cynical eyes.

  “Well, what did he do that was so wonderful that nobody even looks at our ship?”

  “For one thing,” said Martin steadily, “he healed the sick and comforted the poor. He fought hypocrisy and dirty politics and sat among the people, talking, through the day.”

  “Is that so wonderful?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “I don’t get this.” The captain confronted Martin, peered into his face and eyes. “You been drinking, eh?” He was suspicious. He backed away. “I don’t understand.”

  Martin looked at the city. “Captain, if you don’t understand, there’s no way of telling you.”

  The captain followed his gaze. The city was quiet and beautiful and a great peace lay over it. The captain stepped forward, taking his cigar from his lips. He squinted first at Martin, then at the golden spires of the buildings.

  “You don’t mean—you can’t mean—That man you’re talking about couldn’t be—”

  Martin nodded. “That’s what I mean, sir.”

  The captain stood silently, not moving. He drew himself up.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said at last.

  At high noon Captain Hart walked briskly into the city, accompanied by Lieutenant Martin and an assistant who was carrying some electrical equipment. Every once in a while the captain laughed loudly, put his hands on his hips, and shook his head.
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  The mayor of the town confronted him. Martin set up a tripod, screwed a box onto it, and switched on the batteries.

  “Are you the mayor?” The captain jabbed a finger out.

  “I am,” said the mayor.

  The delicate apparatus stood between them, controlled and adjusted by Martin and the assistant. Instantaneous translations from any language were made by the box. The words sounded crisply on the mild air of the city.

  “About this occurrence yesterday,” said the captain. “It occurred?”

  “It did.”

  “You have witnesses?”

  “We have.”

  “May we talk to them?”

  “Talk to any of us,” said the mayor. “We are all witnesses.”

  In an aside to Martin the captain said, “Mass hallucination.” To the mayor, “What did this man—this stranger—look like?”

  “That would be hard to say,” said the mayor, smiling a little.

  “Why would it?”

  “Opinions might differ slightly.”

  “I’d like your opinion, sir, anyway,” said the captain. “Record this,” he snapped to Martin over his shoulder. The lieutenant pressed the button of a hand recorder.

  “Well,” said the mayor of the city, “he was a very gentle and kind man. He was of a great and knowing intelligence.”

  “Yes—yes, I know, I know.” The captain waved his fingers. “Generalizations. I want something specific. What did he look like?”

  “I don’t believe that is important,” replied the mayor.

  “It’s very important,” said the captain sternly. “I want a description of this fellow. If I can’t get it from you, I’ll get it from others.” To Martin, “I’m sure it must have been Burton, pulling one of his practical jokes.”

  Martin would not look him in the face. Martin was coldly silent.

  The captain snapped his fingers. “There was something or other—a healing?”

  “Many healings,” said the mayor.

  “May I see one?”

  “You may,” said the mayor. “My son.” He nodded at a small boy who stepped forward. “He was afflicted with a withered arm. Now, look upon it.”