It’s okay, Mac. You can turn on the light.
Hi, I thought you’d be asleep.
Well, I was, sort of. How was it?
Okay.
Mac?
Mm?
I want to tell
Christ, am I ever beat. What?
Oh – nothing
You okay, Stacey?
Yeh, I’m okay
Kids all right?
Yeh, they’re all right
Well, good night then.
Good night Mac
Stacey, neatly and matronly dressed, her gloves in hand, adjusts the despised veil on her white straw hat, pulling it down over her forehead and eyebrows as though she intends it to act as a disguise. She hesitates in the doorway of the large chair-filled hall, but the pressure of other people carries her forward and in. She chooses an aisle seat quickly, keeping her head down until she is sitting. But the precaution has been unnecessary. There are too many people around. Mac couldn’t possibly have noticed her. When she cranes her neck and peers over head tops, she cannot even see him. The platform at the front is decorated with gilded wicker baskets full of white roses. In between the baskets are tall white shields, each bearing one golden letter to form a word.
RICHALIFE
At the back of the platform there is a white velvet curtain, descending from the ceiling. A small gilt structure, a cross between a podium and a pulpit, stands in the middle of the stage, with microphone attachments.
Then Stacey spots Mac’s auburn brush-cut. He is sitting in the third row from the front, with all the other salesmen. Stacey twists and squints, trying to see around the magnolia-covered hat of the woman directly in front of her. Finally she manages to focus on Mac. His tallness is hunched a little, and while she watches, he puts up a hand and runs it over his hair. Stacey turns away, unable to look.
— When he does that, is it like me looking in the mirror to make sure I’m really there? What’s he thinking? It may not be any of my business, but I’d like to know anyway. What if he starts coughing? Everyone will look at him. Maybe it would embarrass me more than it would him. Would he be livid if he knew I’d come? Well, come on, fellows, what are we waiting for? Let’s get the show on the road, eh?
The audience is mainly middle-aged, half men and half women. They sit quietly, for the most part, not looking at one another.
— Maybe they’d all like to be incognito. I know damn well I would. I’d like to have a woolly muffler or a long trailing length of chiffon wrapped around my pan. If somebody like Bertha Garvey should chance to stroll in, I would crawl under the seat, so help me. Here we are – action at last.
The white velvet curtains part, revealing another section of stage on which six girls are gathered around a microphone. Their costumes are modest to a degree, long loose-fitting white robes, toga-like, with the Greek key design slanting diagonally across each bosom. The girls’ hair ranges from white-blonde to honey, all long and straight. The hall grows still, the whispers die, the ticking coughs are subdued, the feet compose themselves. When the audience is ready, the girls begin to sing, not loudly or jazzily, but in clear treble voices like a clutch of meadow larks.
Richness is a quality of living,
Richness quells the trouble and the strife,
Richness is the being and the giving,
Anyone can reach a Richalife.
Stacey surreptitiously slips out of her purse one of the tranquilizers Doctor Spender has given her for her pulsing-head condition, conceals it in her handkerchief and slips it into her mouth under the pretext of blowing her nose.
— Lucky for me I always could swallow pills without water. Well, well. Listen to that. They sure aren’t what I would have expected. I thought it would be all zing-twanging and go-go-go. But unless you go to the hangouts of the young, I guess you only find that kind of noisy stuff in churches now. Those little birds aren’t even refined. They’re refeened. Has Mac got his eye on them? Well, naturally, what do you expect, Stacey? All the same. You bastard, Clifford MacAindra, they’re young enough to be your daughters.
The white curtain closes and the girls disappear. The audience sits uncertainly, not knowing whether applause is expected or not. Sporadic and nervous clapping breaks out like acne in isolated and obvious areas, then quickly fades.
Thor walks onto the platform alone and takes his place behind the gilt stand. A sprinkling of female exclamations can be heard, and he smiles a trifle, acknowledging them. This evening he is approximately seven feet tall. His newly laundered mane is accentuated by the spotlight which now comes to rest just above his head. He has abandoned his midnight blue in favor of a suit of silver, some luminous material that has the look of frost sheening on windows and patterning into faint ferns or snow flowers transferred from the farthest reaches of the polestar. But when he talks, his voice is not distant or un approachable. The reverse. He talks with the people, not at them. His voice is warm, friendly, sincere.
You heard the girls, here, singing about richness. Well, richness is something we all hear a lot about these days, don’t we? Yes, we surely do, and sometimes we begin to wonder what it means, don’t we? Well, sure do all know it means money in the bank. I guess there isn’t one of us who doesn’t know that. But that’s not all it means. No, that definitely is not all it means, friends. It means response, happiness, a healthy mind in a healthy body. Wouldn’t you agree? You, sir, right there, would you agree? You would? Well, you’re right. Yes, richness means a healthy mind in a healthy body. But just how do we go about getting this? That’s what I used to ask myself. That was in the old B.R. days – before Richalife. I’m not asking you to believe a whole lot of printed data. I only want to tell you what happened to me personally. I’m not trying to sell you anything, either. Believe me, the kind of person who feels he’s being pressured into anything – We don’t want him. We only want people who can believe that the human body and the human spirit can be changed, changed beyond belief, in the short space of one month. Amazing? Certainly it’s amazing. But it can happen. I know. Because it happened to me. You know something? Once upon a time I could barely face the morning without three cups of coffee and as many cigarettes. Then I started reaching for a Richalife instead. And that is just what I got – A RICHER LIFE. Take my memory, for instance. My memory potential was hardly being tapped at all, before. Alertness-wise, the change A.R. – after Richalife – was really gratifying. I always had a good memory, mind you. Good, but not what you would call really excellent. Now I think I can honestly and truthfully say it’s reached the excellent mark. I don’t claim that the depth changes happened overnight. No, I wouldn’t claim that. Even Richalife can’t reach the deep cells of the mind instantly. When I began, just over a year ago, it took – oh, I should say about three or four weeks, approximately, before the depth changes were really well established. These very slight depression feelings I used to get – they were alleviated almost right straight off, definitely alleviated, but it must have been more or less a month before they totally disappeared. Yes, totally disappeared. Another thing, now
Stacey sits sifting her memory. Then it comes back.
Thor’s apartment. Stacey with a thimbleful of sherry, feeling like a savage drinker, her feet slithering silkily on the skins of stillborn monkeys. They were alleviated almost right straight off
— Well, I’m buggered. Does he just press his navel and the record switches on? No. Worse. It’s the Martians. Must be.
We will begin with one creature, Zuq tells the assembled Council of Spirit Sires. He must of course look as nearly human as possible. He must have a blood-like substance (red, mind, not the proper polka-dotted purple to which we are accustomed), a substance which will flow if he is accidentally cut. The control shaft, in order to escape possible detection in case of severe and unpredictable wounding, must be buried deeply in what would be his left lung if he were an earthman. The first transmitted messages from his – as it were – mouth will be of a simple nature. We will then – I am speaking out of my
many years of research and accumulated knowledge – we will then put into effect what I term the lemming syndrome.
Stacey squirms on her chair. The hall is growing sultry. She discovers to her surprise that Thor has stopped talking and is being loudly applauded. The white velvet curtains are sneaking apart, and the girls, with their arms lightly but not pervertedly around each other’s shoulders, begin a soft humming which grows into a croon.
Peace of mind
Can be combined
With vigor
Peace of mind
Can be combined
With fun
Beside Stacey, an old man with a red neck like a retired prairie farmer looks hopefully and steadfastly ahead. His expression changes from concealed to open yearning, the yearning for rain in drought. Stacey glances quickly to the stage and sees the reason. The choir has vanished again, and now there is only one girl, a different one, on the stage with Thor. Her white dress is street-length but it bears the same Greek key design along the straight neckline. Her skin is extremely pale, and her features are delicate, severe, withdrawn, a girl from a medieval tomb carving. It is the girl Mac was talking to, or who was talking so earnestly to Mac, the night of the party. Thor takes her by the hand and leads her over to the microphone.
Now, ladies and gentlemen, it gives me real pleasure to introduce this charming young lady to you. Miss Delores Appleton.
He leaves her. The girl stands there, staring out at the upturned faces. Her hand goes up and she touches her visible collarbone. Then quickly she pulls the hand away and it returns limply to her side. A moment of silence. The audience is frightened, frightened for her that she may not be able to speak a word. She looks towards Thor, and he nods. Her face slowly unfreezes. She grasps the mike and begins to talk in a high bell-voice, rapid, tinkling.
Well, really, all I want to tell you is just about my own personal experience. I mean, that’s all we can say for sure, isn’t it, our own personal experience. I grew up in a small town, like, and when I came to the city I was sort of nervous. I mean I had never lived in the city before and I didn’t know what might. I mean you never know who you might and what they might. And then it got so I couldn’t sleep very well nights and at the office they started saying why did I look so tired out but it was only because I wasn’t sleeping that well and so on. Well things sort of went from bad to worse, like, and then I heard about Mr. Thorlakson and Richalife and I thought why not so I tried it and it worked. I mean, my anxieties and this nervousness I had, well they just were so much alleviated and I went to tell Mr. Thorlakson about it and now I am working in his office and well that’s about all I guess
Her voice ends in a small chime of laughter. The audience claps mightily. The girl walks offstage swiftly.
— Supposing that had been Katie? It doesn’t bear thinking about. Who is she? What could her parents have been like? She can’t be more then eighteen or twenty. Somebody ought to do something, but then again, she claims she’s fine. Everything is all right for her now.
Stacey looks to see where the girl has gone. For a moment she cannot see, and then she finds the pallid hair and the Greek keys. The girl is sitting beside Mac, and he has one arm around her, not casually but tightly, like a wall against the world.
Dear Mother – Well here it is June and less than a month till summer holidays – horrors! Although I guess Rachel will be glad. Her free season starts when mine finishes. But I have to admit the kids are pretty good generally these days – the boys already making plans for putting up tent in back yard and sleeping there – mighty woodsmen and all that – perfectly safe, Mother, so don’t panic –
Stacey puts down her pen and gazes at what she has written.
— I wonder what would happen if just for once I put down what was really happening? Dear Mother – There must be some way of talking to kids but I don’t seem usually to find it. Yeh, sometimes, and then I say There there, and they’re partially restored, whatever was wrong. But Duncan said I don’t do anything right, Mum, meaning it, and Mac was helping Ian with his arithmetic a day or so ago and bawled him out for carelessness but Ian is the opposite of careless maybe he didn’t understand what he was supposed to be doing but then Ian all inclenched came out to the kitchen and said Dad never makes mistakes, believing it. I don’t know what to do. I worry. I get afraid. I drink too much. I get unreasonably angry. The valleys under my eyes look like permanent blue-black ink even though I get enough sleep, and my hips are nobody’s business. I think Mac has fallen for that girl and who could blame him I guess and I really think I wouldn’t be so blamed mad about it if I could go and do the same thing myself with some guy but how and anyway I think this is a despicable reaction. After that evening at the rally I phoned the hairdresser and made an appointment to have my hair dyed. Bleached and then dyed fair, not ash blond, just fair. And when I got there, she said You sure you really want to, Mrs. MacAindra? And I looked in the damn mirror and said Uh – well, I guess maybe not. Not even the strength of my neuroses, if you would believe it. Please write immediately and let me know what was actually in your mind all those years because I haven’t a clue and it’s only now that this bothers me, now that I’m not seen either. Love, Stacey. P.S. Did you ever dance? No, that wouldn’t be feasible, that kind of letter. She’d say to Rachel, I can’t think what Stacey can possibly mean. She’d be upset for days.
Stacey picks up her pen again.
Oh, nearly forgot. Jen sings now. At least a step towards speech. Mac loves his new job and is doing awfully well. He’s given me the old Chev. Everything is fine. Hope you are okay. Love, Stacey.
She puts the page in an envelope, addresses and stamps it, and goes out to the letterbox at the corner. Julian and Bertha Garvey have driven out for the day to visit Julian’s sister and have taken Jen along, ostensibly for the ride but actually because conversation is difficult there and Jen provides some possibility of amused distraction. Stacey is alone and it feels peculiar to her. She is wearing black slacks, a yellow sweater and sandals, and as she reaches the end of Bluejay Crescent, she looks back at it and feels disconnected, younger, separate. —Hey, it’s a nice feeling. Yet I feel I oughtn’t to feel glad. When Jen goes to school, though, I could take a job. I used to be quite good. I guess my shorthand is rusty, but I could brush it up.
The chief architect’s office is large but not at all flashy. No plastic plants or phony veneer for him. Andrew Delver, of Delver & Plumb, has designed every piece of furniture here, and it is all both functional and beautiful, sleek cool lines. She answers the bell’s summons. God, Stacey, what a mess we’re in with these contracts. Think you can make sense of my notes and get me four copies by lunchtime? Of course, Mr. Delver. Andrew, Andrew, for God’s sake woman – it’s about time you called me that – you’re a love – I don’t know what I’d do without you to cope
The truck hoots and draws up to the curb beside Stacey. She looks up and sees the grinning black-haired driver leaning out of the window. Buckle Fennick.
Hi Stacey
Hi
Where you going?
Just to the letterbox.
Hop in. I’ll give you a lift.
It’s not that far.
Where’s Jen?
Bertha’s got her this afternoon.
Hey, got a holiday? Climb in. I gotta take a few things out to Coquitlam. Coming right back. C’mon along, why doncha?
Stacey looks back at Bluejay Crescent, seeing it recede. Then, without thinking or knowing she is going to do it, she climbs into the truck beside Buckle.
Within seconds, it seems to her, they are in a mainstream of traffic and Buckle is manipulating the big truck in and out, weaving in a fast and inexorable pattern of sound and movement, intimidating the vulnerable cars, flying and swinging along the highway.
Haven’t seen you for awhile, Buckle.
Naw. Want to know why?
Why?
Buckle increases speed. The highway shivers past, honking, obstacle-laden. Buckle crou
ches over the wheel, like a jockey.
Well, I thought Mac was kinda busy
He’s always glad to see you. You know that.
Yeh?
What’s the matter, Buckle?
Mac and me have known each other a long time.
I know.
Since the war.
Yes.
We went all through Italy together.
My God, Buckle, I know that.
— Does that mean Mac’s got to live with you on his door step for the rest of his life? No, that’s mean. Mac wouldn’t say that. How many friends has Buckle got? One, maybe. How do I know?
Yeh, well I’m coming from Ace this day, see, on my way out and up north, and I happen to pass near where Mac’s office is, see, and he’s walking along the street with this Thor guy, so naturally I give him the old sign on the horn – beep beep beep BLAT, V for Victory. He looks up all right. That’s all. No Hi or wave, nothing like that. He doesn’t know me.
Buckle, he didn’t mean
Shit, Stacey
Maybe he didn’t see
He saw.
Well, I’m sorry. What can I say? Don’t take it so hard. His mind was likely on the job. It’s never on anything else now. He works all the time, like something was after him.
Stacey hears the vehemence in someone’s voice that is coming from her mouth.
— Traitor. How can you speak about Mac to anyone else? It’s no one else’s business. Not even Buckle’s. Especially not Buckle’s. Shut up shut up shut up. If you don’t, it’ll all come out and then
The house is burning. Everything and everyone in it. Nothing can put out the flames. The house wasn’t fire-resistant. One match was all it took.
Buckle has momentarily taken his eyes off the road and Stacey sees him sizing her up.
Buckle, for God’s sake the road
He laughs and looks again at the wheeling metallic ballet ahead.
Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.