Complete Short Fiction, page 463
It occurred to Grayson there was a simple solution. He must avoid seeing, particularly Miss Haskett, but possibly all women—until he had his new lenses.
Satisfied, he clicked on the intercom. “Miss Broman, will you repeat that about my appointment with Dr. Burr?” The appointment was for the next day. Miss Broman added quickly, “And Dr. Grayson—”
“Yes?”
“Miss Haskett asked me to tell you that the address of her condominium is 1818 Mendelian Drive.”
Long pause. Finally: “Uh, Miss Broman, cancel my appointments for the day,” Grayson croaked. “And tell Miss Haskett I’m going home this afternoon. I don’t feel well. I’ll go try the rear exit.”
After a while, he was pleased to realize that he had kept his wits about him. First, deciding so promptly to go home, and, second, going out the sidedoor, he would evade passing Miss Haskett’s office.
On the bus—one of the Utt transport limitations was men were not allowed to drive; an automobile was considered by the Utt females to be a violence potential instrument—he realized that his situation was not good at all. In his mind’s ear, he kept hearing the seductive female sweetness in Miss Broman’s voice.
One hope remained. After the lenses were repaired, his ability to hear the female voice with such responsive sensitivity would diminish again.
In short, he would cease to be vulnerable to the unsuspected madness which, he realized, had been lurking inside his skin exactly as the Utt females had unerringly observed in human males at the time of their arrival on earth.
*
Mila, his wife, was not in when Grayson entered the house. Which surprised him vaguely. He’d always had the impression that she never went anywhere during the day.
Probably out shopping, he thought. Satisfied, he put consideration of his wife out of his mind.
He went straight to his bedroom, placed his glasses away in his night table, and lay down. Utt law required a man. to wear eyeglasses even while in bed—but, obviously, to do so with broken lenses would be tempting further damage to them, so . . .
He slept. And awakened to a distant door opening and shutting Mila, he presumed. There was silence. He pictured her looking at his hat and cane in the hall, aware that he was home. He visualized her instant unpleasant reaction.
But it was an hour before the door opened, and the rather tall, but slightly stooped woman who had been his wife for over thirty long years, came in and stood over him.
“And what is it now?” she said in her attacking tone.
It was eight years since his last illness and twenty-two years back to the time he had stayed home after hurting his hip in a severe fall—and in each instance he had remained in bed exactly one day. Yet he perceived that in her mind the intervening years were nothing compared to the mental anguish of his unwanted presence during those two twenty-four hour periods.
For the first time he had a glimmer of the enormous effect the Utt had had on wives. When man had been named as the Earth’s trouble-maker, every woman became Ms. Unchallengeable.
Hastily, Grayson described his glasses breaking—then became aware of a strong chemical odor. He wrinkled his nose in distaste.
Art amazing thing happened. His wife’s shadowy figure, which had towered above him, sank down. Though it was difficult to see, Grayson had the impression that his wife was on her knees beside the bed.
And the odor was—if possible—even stronger.
Grayson sat up. “Mila! What’s the matter?”
“Don’t hurt me!” It was a whisper.
What stopped all immediate response by Grayson—his impulse to leap out of bed, his confusion, his feeling he must instantly go to her aid for some reason that wasn’t clear—was the realization that the odor was a human body smell.
Mila’s!
Memory wafted a startling explanation from his early laboratory experiments with animals. A female animal in heat had several times affected him unpleasantly. So much so that, finally, realizing that glandular exudations were actually too much for his sensitive nose, he had abandoned his primary interest in biology, and had gone over to the objective world of physics.
This smell now was like that animal smell then.
A woman in a profound state of sexual stimulation—
He lay back . . . She sees I’m not wearing the glasses that keep a man tamed, he thought.
Because his brain worked rapidly, he waited, curious. If he told her after such a delay, there was no knowing what berserk state she would go into.
Then, he recalled the theory of such matters. A few minutes after a man took off his glasses, their effect wore off. His experience with Miss Haskett had certainly proved that.
He was assuming, of course, that broken lenses were the equivalent of no-glasses—
A male without glasses, said the legend, became progressively more aggressive, unreasoning, capable of violence.
To Mila, after an afternoon of no glasses, he must seem to be in some final stage of male insanity.
For Grayson, it was startling—he realized how strongly women of the old days must have responded to their men.
The woman beside the bed spoke again, in a whisper. “What do you want? I’ll do anything you say. Don’t hurt me.”
“Take a bath,” said Grayson, wrinkling his nose again, “and of course you won’t be hurt as long as—” he hesitated, startled by his own temerity, but the words came involuntarily—“as long as you do what I say.”
The woman came to her feet with alacrity. Her walk was not steady. There was the somewhat prolonged moment when she opened the door itself. Then the door closed.
Her bedroom was on the far side of the house, a choice of location she had made long ago. He assumed that she would now have time to recover her good sense. He recalled, uneasily, that a woman who felt herself threatened by a man could ask for instant help.
Yet when the door to his room opened again, he wasn’t sure what state she was in. She wore her robe; that he was able to detect even with his weak vision. But—what else was not clear.
She came over to the bed, took off her robe, and lay down naked beside him. For long moments the surprise of that was a blankness. Then he felt himself automatically resisting.
For this woman, there was no response in him. Thirty years of abuse tightened his heart, and put a cold lump in his gut—Grayson was surprised at the intensity of his resistance. Normally, he didn’t feel this strongly. He recognized that he was aware for the first time of his true feeling.
I could probably strangle this woman, he thought.
That shocked him. Male violence really does exist, he admitted to himself.
He fleetingly recalled their sexual past. Several times each year, Mila would go out with some female companions, and they would all get drunk. About two A.M. she would show up, an obscene creature with a tendency to throw-up, and demand that he engage in sex.
Naturally, and anxiously, he had always come through while she laughed, belched, and on occasion spat in his face.
In the morning, she showed no apparent memory of the event.
—But he didn’t want her at such times, and he didn’t want her now.
“Has Rosie said when dinner will be ready?” Grayson asked stiffly.
“She said we could eat any time we wanted,” came a small voice from the bed.
“Oh!” said Grayson. He lay for a long moment, bracing himself. Then he got off the bed, turned on the light, went around to the night table drawer, got his glasses, put them on, and walked to the door.
There he paused, turned. “Better get dressed,” he said gruffly, “and let’s eat.”
He went out into the hall.
*
By the time they sat down at the table, his wife’s sallow face was red. She stared at her plate and did not look at him. That was disappointing. He was—he had to admit it—curious.
The truth was, he realized, he was ignorant and distrustful of Utt judgments, and craved information on which to form his own conclusions.
On the surface, it looked like men had caused all the problems. Because, after the Utt came, women changed.
A married woman, unpursued by her husband, was . . . normally . . . not interested in sex. There were reports (from certain salesmen) of exceptions. But the ordinary situation was drab. Usually a wife would have a child or two—no more. Since only women were allowed to own property, married women lived confidently. Grayson brought home a good salary from his job, all of which he handed over by law. She had household help. Her clothes and house were always neat, clean, and she herself wellgroomed. Sane, healthy, stable, she was the embodiment of a high standard of human being.
Except for one thing: the average wife was as easily angered after the Utt came as before. Only now she really felt free to express it. It was the one disturbing factor in a world where men were hard-working, peaceful, and kept sexually apathetic by a physiological method that was the law of the planet. For an unknown reason men in such a condition were never angry—
There was a sound at the other end of the table. Grayson’s mind jumped out of its reverie. Mila was glaring at him. She spoke sharply, “Why weren’t you wearing your glasses in the bedroom?”
He explained about not wanting to damage the cracked lens. “But of course, I kept my eyes closed. I was very careful not to upset the internal balance.”
“Oh!” Some of the color faded from her cheeks and her lips compressed. The old signal of an imminent flare-up. He spoke hastily, trying to head off the explosion.
“What you did,” he said, “tells us a great deal about pre-Utt relations.”
There was a noticeable relaxing of anger as she said, “How do you mean?”
“Evidently, women offered sex to men out of fear.”
“What are you talking about?” The sharpness was back.
That startled him. Was she pretending? Or was it possible she didn’t remember?
Forgetfulness. Blankness. Her old pattern. As if it hadn’t happened? That could be it.
But he was still curious, he realized, therefore frustrated.
“Has the fear faded?” he asked. She had the expression of someone who intended to deny it. Then: “It was strange,” she said, a faraway look in her eyes. “I suppose I should go to see the doctor.”
Terror could have a profound physiological effect, Grayson presumed, correlated with shock.
“There I was,” his wife continued, “suddenly faint and half-hallucinating.” She added a ridiculing laugh, “I actually fantasized myself taking off my clothes, then coming into your bed, naked.” She laughed again, and made an angry gesture with one shoulder. “A regression to my child-bearing state. We’ve had our children and our reason for copulating is twenty-five years behind us.”
So it was going to he forgetfulness and denial, Grayson thought.
How amazing! In their courtship days, she had pursued him like a sex demon. The vitality she offered promised his enforced apathy would be completely overwhelmed by her inexhaustible need. Before marriage, she forced sex as often as three times a day. Afterwards—Two days after the ceremony that, by Utt law, bound them together forever, Mila let him know that marriage was for companionship and bearing children.
Probably, gentler women like Miss Haskett lost out in the struggle for marriage because they were incapable of the insane premarital intensity which absolutely overwhelmed males subjected to it.
—Too soon to decide anything about that. Yet he felt a hardening inside him, which was a decision of sorts, barring Mila from his life.
After dinner Grayson went back to bed, and in his fantasies visualized Miss Haskett in various exotic maneuvers. There was a thought in his mind that said there was no danger now of being found out.
He could stand it no longer. He dressed and went out. His wife was sitting, knitting another of the interminable sweaters which she sent Mart, who was at college.
“Uh,” said Grayson.
She did not look up, which was par. She had ignored him most of their married life and she was obviously not about to change.
“I’m going for a walk,” said Grayson, “perhaps you’d like to come?”
That was his final hope of defeating the urge that moved him to what was obviously a forbidden adventure.
Something must have penetrated; she looked up, showed surprise. “Where are you going?”
“For a walk,” he said.
“Oh!” Then: “No, thank you.”
It seemed to satisfy her, for she settled back to the sweater. The last picture he had of her was of her sitting in the chair rocking back and forth.
Outside, the air was fresh, and he walked along with gathering confidence. A bus pulled up at the comer, and because he knew where he wanted to go, he climbed aboard without really considering the future.
He phoned Miss Haskett from a drugstore. “I happened to be in the neighborhood,” he said, “and wondered if you’d care for coffee.”
She sounded breathless. “Why, yes, Mr. Grayson. I—” She broke off. “Why don’t you come up to my place?” She said, suddenly. “I’ll have Joanne put the coffee on. No, I’ll put it on.”
When he got there he had no problem. Large trees, dim lights. An ideal place. From where Grayson stood on the porch, he could not see the entrances of the adjoining apartments.
A single buzz was answered instantly. A vision in white stood in the doorway.
“It’s nice of you to drop by, Mr. Grayson,” she said.
Grayson blinked. It seemed to him she had made a quick change since his call. Or else he had misjudged this whole situation. “Were you on the way out?” he asked.
“Oh, no, I always dress up for myself at night,” said Miss Haskett.
She held the door wider. Grayson walked in.
They drank coffee. Silence fell. She sat, empty cup in hand, on the couch. The long skirt of her dress was drawn up primly against the leg nearest him. Grayson placed his own cup and saucer on the coffee table, and took a deep breath. It was either time to go or time to do.
His heart pounded, his eyes blurred behind the mended glasses. He found himself reluctantly agreeing: men really were the villains. He was clearly in a state of raging desire.
Abruptly that shamed him. Unsteadily, he came to his feet. “Uh,” he said, “uh, Miss Haskett, I want to thank you for this delightful—”
At that point, she set her cup down so quickly it hit the table and fell forcefully on its side in the saucer.
The sound was startlingly loud in what had been intense silence. Both the man and the woman involuntarily leaned forward to straighten the cup. His head brushed lightly against her hair. It was not real physical contact, but in his whole adult life, Grayson had only touched one other woman. And she had made that such misery—and so rare, that he no longer wanted to touch her.
It was several decades since he had been close to a desirable woman. His hand reached for hers, almost knocked the cup over again—but got hold of her fingers. Then he tugged her along from behind the coffee table.
It was a long coffee table and by the time he had her, his consciousness—conscience—surfaced He let go.
“Very delightful,” he muttered gloomily, stepping back, “but I imagine I’d better—”
Miss Haskett caught his sleeve. “You must see the rest of my home.”
Grayson stiffened inside, he was a supremely analytical person and he saw this as a gesture of goodwill on her part. They toured the fluffy, very feminine makeup room. She explained things about it that Grayson did not hear because he was bracing himself. She took him into a huge bathroom. Special features required Miss Haskett to continue chattering. He did not hear what those special features were. Something about an unusual method of maintaining the bath water exactly at blood heat . . . got through to him.
And that one he promptly forgot as they came to a closed door. Grayson never remembered afterwards who opened that door. Did he leap forward or was he frozen in his singletrack thought—feeling—intent?
Whichever—the door was opened. The bedroom, large and expensive. Fluffy feminine atmosphere. A queen-size bed he couldn’t help noticing.
Then they were standing beside it. Her voice, which had been virtually unceasing—ceased.
“Where’s the light switch?” Grayson asked into the sudden silence.
“Over there.” She pointed.
“Do you mind?” asked Grayson.
“Over there,” she said, voice coming up in pitch, a stricken sound in it.
*
In the darkness, Grayson encountered the nude form of Miss Haskett, enthralled. Moments glided by. Body touched body. Lip pressed lip. Moments lengthened to seconds, seconds to minutes. Grayson told himself that Miss Haskett was in a class by herself. Most important, she was accepting him without any apparent reservation. Which, he had to admit, was pretty tolerant.
After all, she was offering him a nubile, slender, well-formed, good-looking body. In return, she was having imposed upon her a spare, gaunt male type with an aging face which fortunately was hidden in the darkness. Still, she must know what it looked like, and had made her peace with it.
He decided to tell her how grateful he was for her goodwill. He removed his lips from hers, intending to make the non-kissing extremely brief, just long enough to say a few kind words that would fit the occasion.
Momentarily, he paused. And, because he was always careful in his use of English, the moment grew long. And, abruptly, the awful realization that his gratitude had diverted him and he was in serious danger of losing his ability to perform the act. Instantly desperate, he fought to save the situation. There was no question about that either. It was a fight.
“What’s the matter?” Miss Haskett whispered.
What could he say? He had virtually wrecked the moment by letting his mind wander to an unfortunate reality: he was no longer a young man.
As he had that despairing realization, he made a final, desperate effort to salvage the affair. And in a limp fashion, at first, succeeded finally to his satisfaction with one so comely—and to his own surprise, apparently to hers.
