“Bub,” his father said, “listen to me. I don’t want you hanging around that crazy old lady any more. Do you hear me? I don’t care how many cookies she gives you. You come home too tired! No more of that. You hear me?”
Bubber looked down at the floor, leaning against the door. His heart beat heavily, laboured. “I told her I’d come back,” he muttered.
“You can go once more,” May said, going into the dining-room, “but only once more. Tell her you won’t be able to come back again, though. You make sure you tell her nice. Now go upstairs and get washed up.”
“After dinner better have him lie down,” Ralf said, looking up the stairs, watching Bubber climb slowly, his hand on the bannister. He shook his head. “I don’t like it,” he murmured. “I don’t want him going there any more. There’s something strange about that old lady.”
“Well, it’ll be the last time,” May said.
Wednesday was warm and sunny. Bubber strode along, his hands in his pockets. He stopped in front of McVane’s drug store for a minute, looking speculatively at the comic books. At the soda fountain a woman was drinking a big chocolate soda. The sight of it made Bubber’s mouth water. That settled it. He turned and continued on his way, even increasing his pace a little.
A few minutes later he came up on to the grey sagging porch and rang the bell. Below him the weeds blew and rustled with the wind. It was almost four o’clock; he could not stay too long. But then, it was the last time anyhow.
The door opened. Mrs. Drew’s wrinkled face broke into smiles. “Come in, Bernard. It’s good to see you standing there. It makes me feel so young again to have you come visit.”
He went inside, looking around.
“I’ll start the cookies. I didn’t know if you were coming.” She padded into the kitchen. “I’ll get them started right away. You sit down on the couch.”
Bubber went over and sat down. He noticed that the table and lamp were gone; the chair was right up next to the couch. He was looking at the chair in perplexity when Mrs. Drew came rustling back into the room.
“They’re in the oven. I had the batter all ready. Now.” She sat down in the chair with a sigh. “Well, how did it go today? How was school?”
“Fine.”
She nodded. How plump he was, the little boy, sitting just a little distance from her, his cheeks red and full! She could touch him, he was so close. Her aged heart thumped. Ah, to be young again. Youth was so much. It was everything. What did the world mean to the old? When all the world is old, lad…
“Do you want to read to me, Bernard?” she asked presently.
“I didn’t bring any books.”
“Oh.” She nodded. “Well, I have some books,” she said quickly. “I’ll get them.”
She got up, crossing to the bookcase. As she opened the doors, Bubber said, “Mrs. Drew, my father says I can’t come here any more. He says this is the last time. I thought I’d tell you.”
She stopped, standing rigid. Everything seemed to leap around her, the room twisting furiously. She took a harsh, frightened breath. “Bernard, you’re—you’re not coming back?”
“No, my father says not to.”
There was silence. The old lady took a book at random and came slowly back to her chair. After a while she passed the book to him, her hands trembling. The boy took it without expression, looking at its cover.
“Please, read, Bernard. Please.”
“All right.” He opened the book. “Where’ll I start?”
“Anywhere. Anywhere, Bernard.”
He began to read. It was something by Trollope; she only half heard the words. She put her hand to her forehead, the dry skin, brittle and thin, like old paper. She trembled with anguish. The last time?
Bubber read on, slowly, monotonously. Against the window a fly buzzed. Outside the sun began to set, the air turning cool. A few clouds came up, and the wind in the trees rushed furiously.
The old lady sat, close by the boy, closer than ever, hearing him read, the sound of his voice, sensing him close by. Was this really the last time? Terror rose up in her and she pushed it back. The last time! She gazed at him, the boy sitting so close to her. After a time she reached out her thin, dry hand. She took a deep breath. He would never be back. There would be no more times, no more. This was the last time he would sit there.
She touched his arm.
Bubber looked up. “What is it?” he murmured.
“You don’t mind if I touch your arm, do you?”
“No, I guess not.” He went on reading. The old lady could feel the youngness of him, flowing between her fingers, through her arm. A pulsating, vibrating youngness, so close to her. It had never been that close, where she could actually touch it. The feel of life made her dizzy, unsteady.
And presently it began to happen, as before. She closed her eyes, letting it move over her, filling her up, carried into her by the sound of the voice and the feel of the arm. The change, the glow, was coming over her, the warm, rising feeling. She was blooming again, filling with life, swelling into richness, as she had been, once, long ago.
She looked down at her arms. Rounded, they were, and the nails clear. Her hair. Black again, heavy and black against her neck. She touched her cheek. The wrinkles had gone, the skin pliant and soft.
Joy filled her, a growing bursting joy. She stared around her, at the room. She smiled, feeling her firm teeth and gums, red lips, strong white teeth. Suddenly she got to her feet, her body secure and confident. She turned a little, lithe, quick circle.
Bubber stopped reading. “Are the cookies ready?” he said.
“I’ll see.” Her voice was alive, deep with a quality that had dried out many years before. Now it was there again, her voice, throaty and sensual. She walked quickly to the kitchen and J opened the oven. She took out the cookies and put them on top of the stove.
“All ready,” she called gaily. “Come and get them.”
Bubber came past her, his gaze fastened on the sight of the cookies. He did not even notice the woman by the door.
Mrs. Drew hurried from the kitchen. She went into the bedroom, closing the door after her. Then she turned, gazing into the full-length mirror on the door. Young—she was young again, filled out with the sap of vigorous youth. She took a deep breath, her steady bosom swelling. Her eyes flashed, and she smiled. She spun, her skirts flying. Young and lovely.
And this time it had not gone away.
She opened the door. Bubber had filled his mouth and his pockets. He was standing in the centre of the living-room, his face fat and dull, a dead white.
“What’s the matter?” Mrs. Drew said.
“I’m going.”
: “All right, Bernard. And thanks for coming to read to me.”
She laid her hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps I’ll see you again some time.”
“My father—”
“I know.” She laughed gaily, opening the door for him. “Goodbye, Bernard. Good-bye.”
She watched him go slowly down the steps, one at a time. Then she closed the door and skipped back into the bedroom. She unfastened her dress and stepped out of it, the worn grey fabric suddenly distasteful to her. For a brief second she gazed at her full, rounded body, her hands on her hips.
She laughed with excitement, turning a little, her eyes bright. What a wonderful body, bursting with life. A swelling breast—she touched herself. The flesh was firm. There was so much, so many things to do! She gazed about her, breathing quickly. So many things! She started the water running in the bathtub and then went to tie her hair up.
The wind blew around him as he trudged home. It was late, the sun had set and the sky overhead was dark and cloudy. The wind that blew and nudged against him was cold, and it penetrated through his clothing, chilling him. The boy felt tired, his head ached, and he stopped every few minutes, rubbing his forehead and resting, his heart labouring. He left Elm Street and went up Pine Street. The wind screeched around him, pushing him from side to side. He
shook his head, trying to clear it. How weary he was, how tired his arms and legs were. He felt the wind hammering at him, pushing and plucking at him.
He took a breath and went on, his head down. At the comer he stopped, holding on to a lamp-post. The sky was quite dark, the street lights were beginning to come on. At last he went on, walking as best he could.
“Where is that boy?” May Surle said, going out on the porch for the tenth time. Ralf flicked on the light and they stood together. “What an awful wind.”
The wind whistled and lashed at the porch. The two of them looked up and down the dark street, but they could see nothing but a few newspapers and trash being blown along.
“Let’s go inside,” Ralf said. “He sure is going to get a licking when he gets home.”
They sat down at the dinner table. Presently May put down her fork. “Listen! Do you hear something?”
Ralf listened.
Outside, against the front door, there was a faint sound, a tapping sound. He stood up. The wind howled outside, blowing the shades in the room upstairs. “I’ll go see what it is,” he said.
He went to the door and opened it. Something grey, something grey and dry was blowing up against the porch, carried by the wind. He stared at it, but he could not make it out. A bundle of weeds, weeds and rags blown by the wind, perhaps.
The bundle bounced against his legs. He watched it drift past him, against the wall of the house. Then he closed the door again slowly.
“What was it?” May called.
“Just the wind,” Ralf Surle said.
EXHIBIT PIECE
“That’s a strange suit you have on; the robot pubtrans driver observed. It slid back its door and came to rest at the kerb. “What are the little round things?”
“Those are buttons,” George Miller explained. “They are partly functional, partly ornamental. This is an archaic suit of the twentieth century. I wear it because of the nature of my employment.”
He paid the robot, grabbed up his brief-case, and hurried along the ramp to the History Agency. The main building was already” open for the day; robed men and women wandered everywhere. Miller entered a PRIVATE lift, squeezed between two immense controllers from the pre-Christian division, and in a moment was on his way to his own level, the Middle Twentieth Century.
“Gorning,” he murmured, as Controller Fleming met him at the atomic engine exhibit.
“Gorning,” Fleming responded brusquely. “Look here, Miller. Let’s have this out once and for all. What if everyone dressed like you? The Government sets up strict rules for dress. Can’t you forget your damn anachronisms once in awhile? What in God’s name is that thing in your hand? It looks like a squashed Jurassic lizard.”
“This is an alligator hide brief-case,” Miller explained. “I carry my study spools in it. “The brief-case was an authority symbol of the managerial class of the later twentieth century.” He unzipped the brief-case. “Try to understand, Fleming. By accustoming myself to everyday objects of my research period I transform my relation from mere intellectual curiosity to genuine empathy. You have frequently noticed I pronounce certain words oddly. The accent is that of an American business man of the Eisenhower administration. Dig me?”
“Eh?” Fleming muttered.
“Dig me was a twentieth century expression.” Miller laid out his study spools on his desk. “Was there anything you wanted? If not I’ll begin today’s work. I’ve uncovered fascinating evidence to indicate that although twentieth-century Americans laid their own floor tiles, they did not weave their own clothing. I wish to alter my exhibits on this matter.”
“There’s no fanatic like an academician,” Fleming grated. “You’re two hundred years behind times. Immersed in your relics and artifacts. Your damn authentic replicas of discarded trivia.”
“I love my work,” Miller answered mildly.
“Nobody complains about your work. But there are other things than work. You’re a political-social unit here in this society. Take warning, Miller! The Board has reports on your eccentricities. They approve devotion to work…” His eyes narrowed significantly. “But you go too far.”
“My first loyalty is to my art,” Miller said.
“Your what? What does that mean?”
“A twentieth-century term.” There was undisguised superiority on Miller’s face. “You’re nothing but a minor bureaucrat in a vast machine. You’re a function of an impersonal cultural totality. You have no standards of your own. In the twentieth century men had personal standards of workmanship. Artistic craft. Pride of accomplishment. These words mean nothing to you. You have no soul—another concept from the golden days of the twentieth century when men were free and could speak their minds.”
“Beware, Miller!” Fleming blanched nervously and lowered his voice. “You damn scholars. Come up out of your tapes and face reality. You’ll get us all in trouble, talking this way. Idolize the past, if you want. But remember—it’s gone and buried. Times change. Society progresses.” He gestured impatiently at the exhibits that occupied the level. “That’s only an imperfect replica.”
“You impugn my research?” Miller was seething. “This exhibit is absolutely accurate! I correct it to all new data. There isn’t anything I don’t know about the twentieth century.”
Fleming shook his head. “It’s no use.” He turned and stalked wearily off the level on to the descent ramp.
Miller straightened his collar and bright “hand-painted neck. tie. He smoothed down his blue pin-stripe coat, expertly lit a pipeful of two-century-old tobacco, and returned to his spools,
Why didn’t Fleming leave him alone? Fleming, the officious representative of the great hierarchy that spread like a sticky grey web over the whole planet. Into each industrial, professional, and residential unit. Ah, the freedom of the twentieth century! He slowed his tape scanner a moment, and a dreamy look slid over his features. The exciting age of virility and individuality, when men were men…
It was just about then, just as he was settling deep in the beauty of his research, that he heard the inexplicable sounds. came from the centre of his exhibit, from within the intricate, carefully regulated interior.
Somebody was in his exhibit.
He could hear them back there, back in the depths. Somebody or something had gone past the safety barrier set up to keep the public out. Miller snapped off his tape scanner and got slowly to his feet. He was shaking all over as he moved cautiously towards the exhibit. He killed the barrier and climbed the railing on to a concrete pavement. A few curious visitors blinked, as the small, oddly dressed man crept among the authentic replicas of the twentieth century that made up the exhibit and disappeared within.
Breathing hard, Miller advanced up the pavement and on to a tended gravel path. Maybe it was one of the other theorists, a minion of the Board, snooping around looking for something with which to discredit him. An inaccuracy here—a trifling error of no consequence there. Sweat came out on his forehead; anger became terror. To his right was a flower bed. Paul Scarlet roses and low-growing pansies. Then the moist green lawn. The gleaming white garage, with its door half up. The sleek rear of a 1954 Buick—and then the house itself.
He’d have to be careful. If it was somebody from the Board he’d be up against the official hierarchy. Maybe it was somebody big. Maybe even Edwin Carnap, President of the Board, the highest ranking official in the N’York branch of the World Directorate. Shakily, Miller climbed the three cement steps. Now he was on the porch of the twentieth-century house that made the centre of the exhibit.
It was a nice little house; if he had lived back in those days he would have wanted one of his own. Three bedrooms, a ranch bungalow. He pushed open the front door and the living-room. Fireplace at one end. Dark wine-coloured carpets. Modern couch and easy chair. Low hardwood glass-topped coffee table. Copper ashtrays. A cigarette lighter and a stack of magazines. Sleek plastic and steel floor lamps. A bookcase. Television set. Picture window overlooking the front ga
rden. He crossed the room to the hall.
The house was amazingly complete. Below his feet the floor radiated a faint aura of warmth. He peered into the first bedroom. A woman’s boudoir. Silk bed cover. White starched sheets. Heavy drapes. A vanity table. Bottles and jars. Huge round mirror. Clothes visible within the closet. A dressing gown thrown over the back of a chair. Slippers. Nylon hose carefully placed at the foot of the bed.
Miller moved down the hall and peered into the next room. Brightly painted wallpaper; clowns and elephants and tightrope walkers. The children’s room. Two little beds for the two boys. Model aeroplanes. A dresser with a radio on it, pair of combs, school books, pennants, a No Parking sign, snapshots stuck in the mirror. A postage stamp album.
Nobody there, either.
Miller peered in the modern bathroom, even into the yellow-tiled shower. He passed through the dining-room, glanced down the basements stairs where the washing machine and dryer were. Then he opened the back door and examined the back yard. A lawn, and the incinerator. A couple of small trees and then the three-dimensional projected backdrop of other houses receding off into incredibly convincing blue hills. And still no one. The yard was empty—deserted; He closed the door and started back.
From the kitchen came laughter.
A woman’s laugh. The clink of spoons and dishes. And smells. It took him a moment to identify them, scholar that he was. Bacon and coffee. And hot cakes. Somebody was eating breakfast. A twentieth-century breakfast.
He made his way down the hall, past a man’s bedroom, shoes and clothing strewn about, to the entrance of the kitchen.
A handsome late-thirtyish woman and two teen-age boys were sitting around the little chrome and plastic breakfast table. They had finished eating; the two boys were fidgeting impatiently. Sunlight filtered through the window over the sink. The electric clock read half past eight. The radio was chirping merrily in the corner. A big pot of black coffee rested in the centre of the table, surrounded by empty plates and milk glasses and silverware.
The woman had on a white blouse and checkered tweed skirt. Both boys wore faded blue jeans, sweatshirts, and tennis shoes. As yet they hadn’t noticed him. Miller stood frozen at the doorway, while laughter and small talk bubbled around him.