Complete Short Fiction, page 423
“Marietta and I were married as scheduled, and it wasn’t long before we were able to guess that my father would be born in due course—though, naturally, Marietta didn’t think of it in that way.”
His account was interrupted. A woman said acidly, “Are we to understand, Mr. Maynard, that you actually went through with the marriage and that that poor girl is now going to have a baby?”
Maynard said mildly, “All this happened back in the early 1900s.”
The woman’s color was high. “I think this is the most outrageous thing I have ever heard.”
Maynard gazed quizzically at his audience. “How do the rest of you feel about this? Do you feel that a man hasn’t the moral right to insure that he be born?”
“Well—” a man began doubtfully.
Maynard said, “Don’t you think I’d better finish the story before we talk?”
“My troubles,” he went on, “began almost immediately. Marietta wanted to know where I went to when I disappeared. She was damnably inquisitive about my past. Where had I been? What places had I visited? What made me leave home in the first place? Since I was not Joseph Maynard it wasn’t long before I felt like a hen-pecked husband. I had intended to stick with her at least until the baby was born, with only occasional journeys to the twentieth century. But she followed me around the house. Twice, she almost caught me using the clock. I grew alarmed; then I realized that Joseph Maynard would have to vanish again from his age, this time forever.
“After Si, what would be the point in my insuring my eventual birth if that was all I succeeded in doing? I had a life to live in 1967 and afterwards. There was even the problem of getting married again and having children who would carry on the line into the future.
“In the end I made the break. There was nothing else to do.”
For a second time he was interrupted. “Mister Maynard,” said the same woman who had previously spoken, “do you mean to sit there and tell us that you deserted that poor girl and her unborn baby?”
Maynard spread his hands helplessly. “What else? After all, she was well looked after. I even told myself that she might eventually marry the bubbling young man—though quite frankly I didn’t like the idea.”
“Why didn’t you bring her up here?”
“Because,” said Terry Maynard, “I wanted the baby back there.”
The woman was white-faced and so angry that she stammered. “Mr. Maynard, I don’t know whether I care to remain any longer under your roof.”
Maynard was astonished. “Madam, do you believe this story?”
She blinked at that and said, “Oh!” Then she leaned back and laughed in an embarrassed fashion. Several people laughed at her, uncertainly.
Maynard went on. “You can’t imagine how guilty I felt. Every time I looked at a pretty girl the specter of Marietta would rise up before me. And I had a hard time convincing myself that she probably died somewhere in the 1940s or even earlier. And yet, after only four months, I couldn’t clearly remember what she looked lie.
“Then one night at a party I met Joan. She reminded me instantly of Marietta. And that was all I needed, I guess. I have to admit that she was the aggressor in the courtship. I was glad of that, however, as I’m not sure I would have taken the plunge if there hadn’t been someone like Joan pushing at me.
“We were married, and as is the custom I carried her across the threshold of the old house. After I had set her down, she stood looking at me for a long time with the oddest expression on her face. At last she said in a low voice, “Terry, I have a confession to make.’
“ ‘Yes?’ I couldn’t imagine what it might be.
“ ‘Terry, there’s a reason why I rushed you into this marriage.’
“That gave me a sinking sensation. I had heard of girls marrying hastily for certain reasons.
“ ‘Terry, I’m going to have a baby.’
“Having said that, she came over and slapped me in the face. I don’t think I’ve ever been more bewildered in my life.”
He paused, and looked around the room. People were staring at each other uncomfortably. Finally, the woman who had already been critical said with satisfaction, “Served you right.”
“You think I deserved a deal like that?”
“Anybody,” began the woman, “who will pull the kind of stunt—”
“But, look, madam,” Maynard protested, “I discovered that unless I became my own grandfather, I would never be born. What would you have done in my position?”
“Sounds like bigamy to me,” said a man. “Understand, I don’t condone any woman trying to saddle a man with her illegitimate child. Joan, I’m surprised at you.” He was an old friend of the Maynards who was hearing the story for the first time.
Joan murmured, “A woman can get just so desperate.” Maynard said, “Is it bigamy if the first wife has presumably been dead for a generation?” He broke off. “Besides, I had to think of the whole human race.”
“What do you mean?” Several people spoke simultaneously.
“Try,” was the earnest answer, “to imagine the forces that are at work in this time-travel process. I’m no scientist, but I have a picture of the whole world of matter moving through time according to an orderly law of energy.
“Beside that force, the atomic bomb can’t be more than a faint flicker of light in endless darkness. Suppose at a certain moment in the grand progression of space-time, a baby would fail to appear where a baby should have been. Since this particular baby grew up to be my father, if he, as the original baby, had not been born, would he and I continue to exist? And if we didn’t, would our sudden disappearance affect the rest of the universe?”
Maynard leaned forward and said solemnly, “I think it would affect everything else. I think the entire universe would simply have vanished—poof!—gone instantly as if it had never been. The balance of life and existence must be immeasurably delicate. Put a strain on it, break the weakest link, and the whole structure crumbles. Could I, suspecting that possibility, have done other than I did?”
He shrugged, spread his hands questioningly, and leaned back.
There was silence. Then a man said, “Well, it looks to me as if you both got what you deserved.” He frowned at Joan. “I’ve known you spasmodically for three years, and I don’t recall any baby. Did it die, and if so, why bring out the family wash and hang it out in the front yard?”
Maynard said, “Joan, you’d better finish this story.”
His wife glanced at her watch. “Do you think there’s time, dear? It’s twenty minutes to midnight. People like to celebrate the New Year.”
“You can make it brief,” said Maynard.
Joan said, “Actually, Terry’s fear that his inquisitive Marietta would see him go into the future or come back from it was justified. As it happened, she saw him disappear. If you’ll think that over, you’ll realize that it had to take place that way. If she had seen him come back, she would in her hysteria have confronted him. As it was, she had time for a period of terrible turmoil and then for gradual recovery.
“No wonder she followed him around like a nervous hen. She had a burden of unspoken words to pour forth, but she dared not speak them. Several times, then, she saw him come and leave. The experience became less terrifying with repetition; and finally she grew curious. One day, when he got up before she awakened, leaving a note on his pillow to the effect that he would be gone for two days, she dressed for travel, taking with her all the money in the house, and went down to the clock. She had previously examined it and formed a theory as to how it operated. She saw that once more it was set for 1967.
“She grasped the crystal as she had seen her husband do; and presently she had a moment of nausea. Although she didn’t know it immediately, she was in the twentieth century. Outside, she found herself in a nightmare. As she started to cross the street, a mechanical monster rushed at her, and there was a squeal as it came to a stop. An angry man leaned out of a window and berated her.
“Trembling, almost on the verge of fainting, she reached the sidewalk. She grew more cautious, and she learned quickly. In less than half an hour, she came to a store with dresses in the window. She went inside, took out her money, and asked the salesgirl who came up if it was any good. The girl called the manager. The manager sent one of the bills over to the nearby bank and had it checked.
“Marietta bought a dress, a suit, underclothing, accessories, and shoes. She went out of that shop, trembling at her temerity in wearing such shameless clothing but very determined. She was tired now, so she returned to the house and went back to her own age.
“As the days went by, she grew more daring. She was suspicious of her husband’s intentions; and she had no standards by which to judge how far those twentieth-century hussies leaned in the direction of being modem. She learned to smoke, though it nearly choked her at first. She learned to drink, although after her first drink she slept for an hour, out like a light She got herself a job in a store—they thought she had an old-fashioned accent that would please their customers. They fired her in less than a month, principally because she imitated the slangiest girls in the place but partly because she didn’t always turn up for work.
“She was pretty sure by now that she was going to have her baby. And since at that time her husband hadn’t left her permanently, she told him. I think she hoped he would take her into his confidence. I’m not sure of all that. It’s hard to tell all about a woman’s—or a man’s—motives. Anyway, it didn’t work. Presently, he went away and didn’t come back.
“Guessing what he planned, she was furious. And yet there was a conflict going on inside her. On the one hand, she was the woman scorned. On the other, she was the woman who might be able to do something about what had happened.
“She closed up the house. She announced she was going away on a trip. Arrived in 1967, she got herself a job and rented a room under the maiden name of her mother, Joan Craig. She got herself invited to a party at which she met Terry Maynard. With her new hairdo and clothes, she resembled the original Marietta only vaguely.
“She married the guy and as punishment for what he had intended to do to her, gave him one of the big shocks of his life. And then, well, what could she do? When a man marries a girl twice, the second time without knowing who she is, it must be love—my goodness, it’s three minutes to midnight. I’ve got to go and feed the toddler.”
She leaped to her feet and disappeared into the hall.
When she had gone about a minute, a man broke the silence: “Well, I’ll be hanged. So not only are you your own grandfather, but you’re married in 1970 to your grandmother. Doesn’t that make things a little complicated?”
Maynard shook his head. “It’s the only solution, don’t you see? We have one child—back there. He becomes my father. Any other children that are born we keep up here to carry on. It makes me feel a lot easier.”
Far away, whistles began to blow. Maynard raised his glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, to the future—to 1971 and all that may follow.”
When they had drunk, a woman said diffidently, “Did your wife—Joan—go back just now?”
Maynard nodded.
“What I don’t understand,” she went on, “is, you said the figures on the pendulum of the clock went to 1970. Well, 1970 just ended.”
“Huh!” said Terry Maynard. A startled look came into his face. He half rose from his seat, almost spilling his cocktail. Slowly, he sank back again. He mumbled, “I’m sure it’ll be all right. Fate couldn’t be that ironic.”
The woman who had been so critical earlier climbed to her feet. Her lips were drawn into a thin line. “Mr. Maynard, aren’t you going to go and see?”
“No, no, it’s all right, Tm sure. There’s space for more numbers under the weight It’ll be just a matter of carving more numbers. I feel very sure of that.”
A man walked with deliberate strides to the hall door. He came back frowning. “You will be interested to know,” he said, “that your clock has stopped—exactly on the hour of midnight.”
Maynard stayed where he was. “I’m sure it’ll be all right,” he muttered.
Two women stood up. “We’re going upstairs to look for Joan,” said one.
They came back presently. “She’s not there. There’s no sign of her.”
The two men and the woman who had gone into the dining room when Maynard first started his story emerged. One of the men said cheerfully, “It’s after midnight, so I imagine it’s all over.” He glanced at Maynard. “Did you tell them the numbers ended at 1970?”
The guests stirred from their strained silence. The man addressed them in the same cheerful tone. “When I heard it, it was 1968—and exactly on the dot of midnight the clock stopped.”
Somebody said, “Had Joan disappeared about three minutes before?”
“Yep.”
Several guests went out into the hall to look at the clock. Words drifted back: “. . . By golly, it does end at 1970 . . . Wonder if Maynard has a new number carved in each year . . . Hey, Pete, grab the weight . . . Not me, I feel just a little uneasy about that story . . . Maynard always was an odd fellow . . . Told it well, didn’t he? . . .”
Later, as the guests were leaving, a woman said plaintively, “But if it was just a joke, why didn’t Joan come back?”
A disembodied voice sounded from the darkness beyond the door. “. . . The Maynards are such an interesting couple, aren’t they? . . .”
THE CONFESSION
MARRIOTT AWAKENED, remembering the impossible thing he had seen the night before in the empty living room. The memory, sharp and clear as a visual image, brought him out of bed with a jerk. He slipped into his dressing gown, and he was on his way to the living room when he slowed and stopped, thinking, This is silly. It was only a dream.
He shook his head, smiling reproachfully at himself. His bedroom had formerly been the storeroom of the old Marriott place. He had chosen it without regard for beauty because it adjoined the kitchen and could be heated by the kitchen stove. He turned into the kitchen now, briskly, rekindled the fire, heated water, washed, shaved, and dressed. He recalled with a smile how once, more than a year before, he had leaped madly out of bed and snatched the receiver off the phone—only to realize that it hadn’t rung at all.
He put on his topcoat and paused to survey himself in the hall mirror. It was a faded mirror, and the image he saw was blurred. But what there was of it showed him a young man, thirtyish, slim of build and wearing a gray hat and topcoat. Satisfied, he permitted his eyes to stray to one side so that briefly the great hall was in his line of vision. The emptiness as always gave him a tiny yet palpable shock. What disturbed him most, however, was the realization that his gaze had shifted automatically to the living-room door. Marriott’s lips curled.
“You damned fool,” he said angrily to the image in the mirror. “What are you trying to do? Prove yourself an idiot?”
He felt quite pleased that the living-room door was shut. Deliberately, he averted his gaze and opened the front door. A cold April wind buffeted his face. He locked the door behind him and walked to the front gate. It creaked as he opened it, but the rusty hinges had long since ceased to bother him. He closed the gate, and then as was his habit he paused for a look toward the end of the street The street was a long one, and the more distant houses straggled so deceptively that it was almost impossible to decide where the open country began. Paul Marriott sighed. His father had told him, not once but many times, that at the turn of the century the Marriott place had been nearly a quarter of a mile beyond the periphery of Hampden, a geometrically beautiful house with twenty acres of wooded estate, the showplace of the village. Gradually, it moved into the developing town until now it was inside the business section of the city.
It took Marriott three minutes to reach Aunt Mary’s Breakfast Nook. He settled himself, and when the waitress came up, asked, “Judith come in yet?”
The girl shook her head with a faint frown, hesitated, and then said, “Now, honey, you know very well Miss Judith doesn’t eat here anymore.”
Marriott smiled, but he was annoyed with himself. He had asked about Judith because, well, he couldn’t decide just why. The waitress changed the subject “How do you feel after the show last night?”
“Fine.”
The girl marveled. “He sure had you prancing around the stage.” She giggled. “For a minute I thought he was going to make you take off your pants.”
Marriott smiled, more vaguely this time, and gave his order. He sat somber after she had gone, picturing the spectacle of the last survivor of the Marriott family making a spectacle of himself before an audience that, he had discovered, appreciated the decline of the Marriott fortune more than he did. He had been reluctant to go up, but there was a vociferous group of young men who had insisted. His breakfast was being served when one of the men entered the café and waved at Marriott, who waved back cheerfully and said, “Hi, Greg.”
The big young man grunted as he eased himself into the booth across from Marriott. He boomed his order at the waitress, then turned to Marriott.
“The human nervous system is sure a funny thing, isn’t it?”
Marriott nodded.
“Did you,” Greg persisted, “really see that little puppy you pretended to be patting?”
Marriott shrugged. “I don’t remember.”
“Nothing at all?” In surprise.
“I have a vague memory of Blandar asking me to look into his right eye, and then he stroked my hands—I think.”
“That’s right. And he explained to you that one out of five people could go deep the first time.”
“I guess I was one of those,” said Marriott.
He was anxious to leave now. He gulped down his coffee and mumbled something about being late for work. He reached Clayton’s Men’s Wear at five to nine, unlocked the door, and began to sweep up. At ten minutes after nine young Pete Clayton arrived, and then several fanners came in. At nine-thirty old Pete Clayton stamped through to the office at the back and remained there all morning examining the books. His absence relieved Marriott; he was worried about Judith, and he didn’t want to have the pressure of old Pete’s presence to disturb him. Not, he told himself, that he liked worrying. Still, it was important to think things over at times.
