Now Wait for Last Year (7 page)

Actually, in his case it had been a very small matter. Something which if told – and he had never been so foolish as to tell it, even to his professional headbasher – would have proved absurd, would have made him appear, and rightly so, an idiot. Or, even worse, mentally deranged.

It had been an incident between himself and—

'Your wife,' the Mole said, staring at him, never taking his eyes from him. And still the steady grip of his hand.

'Yes.' Eric nodded. 'My Ampex video tapes ... of the great mid-twentieth century comedian Jonathan Winters.'

The pretext for his first invitation of Kathy Lingrom had been his fabulous collection. She had expressed a desire to see them, to drop by his apt – at his invitation – to witness a few choice shots.

The Mole said, 'And she read something psychological into your having the tapes. Something "meaningful" about you.'

'Yes.' Eric nodded somberly.

After Kathy had sat curled up one night in his living room, as long-legged and smooth as a cat, her bare breasts faintly green from the light coating of polish she had given them (in the latest style), watching the screen fixedly and, of course, laughing – who could fail to? – she had said contemplatively, 'You know, what's great about Winters was his talent for role-playing. And, once in a role, he was submerged; he seemed actually to believe in it.'

'Is that bad?' Eric had said.

'No. But it tells me why you gravitate to Winters.' Kathy fondled the damp, cold glass of her drink, her long lashes lowered in thought. 'It's that residual quality in him that could never be submerged in his role. It means you resist life, the role that you play out – being an org-trans surgeon, I suppose. Some childish, unconscious part of you won't enter human society.'

'Well, is that bad?' He had tried to ask jokingly, wanting – even then – to turn this pseudopsychiatric, ponderous discussion to more convivial areas... areas clearly defined in his mind as he surveyed her pure, bare, pale green breasts flicking with their own luminosity.

'It's deceitful,' Kathy said.

Hearing that, then, something in him had groaned, and something in him groaned now. The Mole seemed to hear it, to take note.

'You're cheating people,' Kathy said. 'Me, for instance.' At that point – mercifully – she changed the topic. For that he felt gratitude. And yet – why did it bother him so?

Later, when they had married, Kathy primly requested that he keep his tape collection in his study and not out in the shared portion of their conapt. The collection vaguely vexed her, she said. But she did not know – or anyhow did not say – why. And when in the evenings he felt the old urge to play a section or tape, Kathy complained.

'Why?' the Mole asked.

He did not know; he had not then and did not now understand it. But it had been an ominous harbinger; he saw her aversion but the significance of it eluded him, and this inability to grasp the meaning of what was taking place in his married life made him deeply uneasy.

Meanwhile, through Kathy's intercession, he had been hired by Virgil Ackerman. His wife had made it possible for him to take a notable leap in the hierarchy of econ and sose – economic and social – life. And of course he felt gratitude toward her; how could he not? His basic ambition had been fulfilled.

The means by which it had been accomplished had not struck him as overpoweringly important: many wives helped their husbands up the long steps in their careers. And vice versa. And yet—

It bothered Kathy. Even though it had been her idea.

'She got you your job here?' the Mole demanded, scowling. 'And then after that she held it against you? I seem to get the picture, very clear.' He plucked at a front tooth, still scowling, his face dark.

'One night in bed—' He stopped, feeling the difficulty of going on. It had been too private. And too awfully unpleasant.

'I want to know,' the Mole said, 'the rest of it.'

He shrugged. 'Anyhow – she said something about being "tired of the sham we're living." The "sham," of course, being my job.'

Lying in bed, naked, her soft hair curling about her shoulders – in those days she had worn it longer – Kathy had said, 'You married me to get your job. And you're not striving on your own; a man should make his own way.' Tears filled her eyes, and she flopped over on her face to cry – or appear, anyhow – to cry.

'"Strive"?' he had said, baffled.

The Mole interrupted, 'Rise higher. Get a better job. That's what they mean when they say that.'

'But I like my job,' he answered.

'So you're content,' Kathy said, in a muffled, bitter voice, 'to appear to be successful. When you really aren't.' And then, sniffling and snuffling, she added, 'And you're terrible in bed.'

He got up and went into the living room of their conapt and sat alone for a time and then, instinctively, he made his way into his study and placed one of his treasured Johnny Winters tapes into the projector. For a while he sat in misery watching Johnny put on one hat after another and become a different person under each. And then—

At the doorway Kathy appeared, smooth and naked and slim, her face contorted. 'Have you found it?'

'Found what?' He shut the tape projector off.

'The tape,' she stated, 'that I destroyed.'

He stared at her, unable to take in what he had heard.

'A few days ago.' Her tone, defiant, shrilled at him. 'I was all alone here in the conapt; I felt blue – you were busy doing some drafk nothing thing for Virgil – and I put on a reel; I put it on exactly right; I followed all the instructions. But it did something wrong. So it got erased.'

The Mole grunted somberly. 'You were supposed to say "It doesn't matter."'

He had known that; known it then, knew it now. But in a strangled, thick voice he had said, 'Which tape?'

'I don't remember.'

His voice rose; it escaped him. 'Goddam it, which tape?' He ran to the shelf of tapes; grabbed the first box; tore it open; carried it at once to the projector.

'I knew,' Kathy said, in a harsh, bleak voice as she watched him with withering contempt, 'that your —— tapes meant more to you than I do or ever did.'

'Tell me which tape!' he pleaded. 'Please?'

'No, she wouldn't say,' the Mole murmured thoughtfully. That would be the entire point. You'd have to play every one of them before you could find out. A couple days of playing tapes. Clever dame; damn clever.'

'No,' Kathy said in a low, embittered, almost frail voice. Now her face was peaked with hatred for him. 'I'm glad I did it. You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to ruin all of them.'

He stared at her. Numbly.

'You deserve it,' Kathy said, 'for holding back and not giving me all your love. This is where you belong, scrabbling like an animal, a panic-ridden animal. Look at you! Contemptible – trembling and about to burst into tears. Because someone ruined one of your INCREDIBLY important tapes.'

'But,' he said, 'it's my hobby. My lifetime hobby.'

'Like a kid pulling its pud,' Kathy said.

They – can't be replaced. I have the only copies of some of them. The one from the Jack Paar show—'

'So what? You know something, Eric? Do you know, really know, why you like watching men on tape?'

The Mole grunted; his heavy, fleshy, middle-aged face flinched as he listened.

'Because,' Kathy said, 'you're a fairy.'

'Ouch,' the Mole murmured, and blinked.

'You're a repressed homosexual. I sincerely doubt if you're aware of it on a conscious level, but it's there. Look at me; look. Here I am; a perfectly attractive woman, available to you any time you want me.'

The Mole said, aside, wryly, 'And at no cost.'

'And yet you're in here with these tapes and not in the bedroom screwbling with me. I hope – Eric, I hope to God I ruined one that—' She turned away from the door then. 'Good night. And have fun playing with yourself.' Her voice – actually and unbelievably – had become controlled, even placid.

From a crouched position he bolted toward her. Reached for her as she retreated smooth and white and naked down the hall, her back to him. He grabbed her, grabbed firm hold, sank his fingers into her soft arm. Spun her around. Blinking, startled, she faced him.

'I'm going to—' He broke off. I'm going to kill you, he had started to say. But already in the unstirred depths of his mind, slumbering beneath the frenzy of his hysterical antics, a cold and rational fraction of him whispered its ice-God voice: Don't say it. Because if you do, then she's got you. She'll never forget. As long as you live she'll make you suffer. This is a woman that one must not hurt because she knows techniques; she knows how to hurt back. A thousandfold. Yes, this is her wisdom, this knowing how to do this. Above all other things.

'Let – go – of – me.' Her eyes blazed smokily.

He released her.

After a pause, while she rubbed her arm, Kathy said, 'I want that collection of tapes out of this apartment by tomorrow night. Otherwise we're finished, Eric.'

'Okay,' he said, nodding.

'And then,' Kathy said, 'I'll tell you what else I want. I want you to start looking for a higher paying job. At another company. So I won't run into you every time I turn around. And then... we'll see. Possibly we can stay together. On a new basis, one fairer to me. One in which you make some attempt to pay attention to my needs in addition to your own.' Astonishingly, she sounded perfectly rational and in control of herself. Remarkable.

'You got rid of the tapes?' the Mole asked him.

He nodded.

'And you spent the next few years directing your efforts toward controlling your hatred for your wife.'

Again he nodded.

'And the hatred for her,' Mole said, 'became hatred for yourself. Because you couldn't stand being afraid of one small woman. But a very powerful person – notice I said "person" not "woman."'

'Those low blows,' Eric said. 'Like her erasing my tape—'

'The low blow,' the Mole interrupted, 'was not her erasing the tape. It was her refusing to tell you which one she had erased. And her making it so clear that she enjoyed the situation. If she had been sorry – but a woman, a person, like that; they never become sorry. Never.' He was silent for a time. 'And you can't leave her.'

'We're fused,' Eric said. The damage is done.' The mutually inflicted pain delivered at night without the possibility of anyone intervening, overhearing and coming to help. Help, Eric thought. We both need help. Because this will go on, get worse, corrode us further and further until at last, mercifully—

But that might take decades.

So Eric could understand Gino Molinari's yearning for death. He, like the Mole, could envision it as a release – the only dependable release that existed ... or appeared to exist, given the ignorance, habit patterns, and foolishness of the participants. Given the timeless human equation.

In fact he felt a considerable bond with Molinari.

'One of us,' the Mole said, with perception, 'suffering unbearably on the private level, hidden from the public, small and unimportant. The other suffering in the grand Roman public manner, like a speared and dying god. Strange. Completely opposite. The microcosm and the macro.'

Eric nodded.

'Anyhow,' the Mole said, releasing Eric's hand and slapping him on the shoulder, I'm making you feel bad. Sorry, Dr Sweetscent; let's drop the topic.' To his bodyguard he said, 'Open the door now. We're done.'

'Wait,' Eric said. But then he did not know how to go on, to say it.

The Mole did it for him. 'How would you like to be attached to my staff?' Molinari said abruptly, breaking the silence. 'It can be arranged; technically you'd be drafted into military service.' He added, 'You may take it for granted you'd be my personal physician.'

Trying to sound casual, Eric said, 'I'm interested.'

'You wouldn't be running into her all the time. This might be a beginning. A start toward prying the two of you apart.'

'True.' He nodded. Very true. And very attractive, when thought of that way. But the irony – this consisted of precisely that which Kathy had goaded him toward all these years. 'I'd have to talk it over with my wife,' he began, and then flushed. 'Virgil, anyhow,' he muttered. 'In any case. He'd have to approve.'

Regarding him with brooding severity, the Mole said in a slow, dark voice. There is one drawback. You would not see so much of Kathy; true. But by being with me you'd see a great deal of our—' He grimaced. The ally. How do you suppose you'd enjoy yourself surrounded by 'Starmen? You might find yourself having a few spasms of the gut late at night yourself ... and perhaps worse – other – psychosomatic disorders, some you may not anticipate, despite your profession.'

Eric said, 'It's bad enough for me late at night as it is. This way I might have some company.'

'Me?' Molinari said. 'I wouldn't be company, Sweetscent, for you or anybody else. I'm a creature that's flayed alive at night. I retire at ten o'clock and then I'm back up, usually by eleven; I—' He broke off, meditatively. 'No, night is not a good time for me; not at all.'

It could clearly be seen in the man's face.

On the night of his return from Wash-35 Eric Sweetscent encountered his wife at their conapt across the border in San Diego. Kathy had arrived before him. The meeting, of course, was inevitable.

'Back from little red Mars,' she observed as she shut the living room door after him. 'Two days doing what? Shooting your agate into the ring and beating all the other boys and girls? Or exposing sun pictures of Tom Mix?' Kathy sat in the center of the couch, a drink in one hand, her hair swept back and tied, giving her the look of a teen-ager; she wore a plain black dress and her legs were long and smooth, strikingly tapered at the ankles. Her feet were bare and each toenail bore a shiny decal depicting – he bent to see – a scene in color of the Norman Conquest. The smallest nail on each foot glittered with a picture too obscene for him to contemplate; he went to hang his coat in the closet.