Backteria and Other Improbable Tales (11 page)

“What’s the matter, aren’t you hungry?” asked Rachel over supper.

“I had a big lunch,” said Harold.

From eight to eleven that night he locked himself in the cellar shop where, seated on his work bench, legs dangling, he studied the booklet.

Was it
possible?
—he speculated. Possible that men could actually predict the future in such detail?

Presuming that it was, why had they chosen such a topic? After all, anyone could send for this booklet. He, naturally, was interested only in the research aspects of it but—well, facts should be faced—there might be any number of those who would send for it out of less seemly motives. How in Heaven’s name could the government offer such material?

How in Heaven’s name had they
gotten
it?

He was staring glassily at one of the more pertinent passages when a knock sounded on the door and Rachel asked, “Coming to bed?”

“
What do you mean?
” charged Harold.

Rachel was still.

“I-I mean,” he said. “That is, I’ll - just finish up this mortise and tenon.”

“Do,” said Rachel.

After she’d gone Harold trudged upstairs, donned his pajamas and brushed his teeth.

“How’s your planter coming?” Rachel asked as he sank down on the bed.

“My—?” He stared at her. “Oh. Fine, fine.”

“That’s nice,” said Rachel, lowering her blinders. “Well, goodnight.”

Harold looked over his shoulder at her. She was rather an attractive woman when you paid attention. Long, dark hair, well-formed features, ivory-like shoulders, full, rising-

In 1984 ½ one will be freely permitted to
—

Harold shuddered. Hastily, he switched off the lamp and thudded back on his pillow. I must be losing my senses, he thought. Things like that just weren’t—

Another 1984 ½ practice could be the mutual exchange of-

Harold flung himself over and buried his inflamed face in the pillow.

This from the government of the United States of America!

I am going to stop
thinking
about it, vowed Harold, his breakfast Postum turning to acid in his stomach.

“What’s a double flip-flop?” Rachel asked, crunching bacon. Harold went ashen. “A double—?”

“Flip-flop,” finished Rachel. “You mumbled it in your sleep.”

“I haven’t the faintest
glug
,” said Harold, addressing his last word to the cup.

Driving to work that morning he almost rammed two cars, one hydrant and an overweight receptionist from Glendora. Each time it was because he almost flung the booklet from his car, then, each time, relented.

When he arrived at the office there was an envelope from the United States Printing Office on his desk. That would be the rest of the pamphlets he’d sent for. He slid the envelope into his topcoat pocket, thinking that there was more to this situation than just personal outrage. The government was dealing in prophecies of a decidedly unwholesome nature. Excluding the immediate question of how they were doing it there remained the vital pertinence—Was this nefarious promulgation to go unopposed?

Not likely, resolved citizen Rumsey.

But where to begin? There was a definite flavor of conspiracy in this. If men in the government could actually predict the future should not the fact be emblazoned on the front pages of every newspaper in the country? Why should such a miracle be confined to a notation on a government publication bulletin?

And why such a subject?

But he wasn’t going to think about that part of it. That wasn’t—

A double flip-flop is an inspired combination of the Samurai demivolt and
—

I say avaunt!—raged Harold within. There was some monstrous cabal afoot. No time for crudities.

“Are you staring at me?” asked Rachel.

“What?” Harold twitched on the bed.

“You were staring at me.” Rachel stood before him in the adhesive transparency of her nightgown.

“I—?” said Harold. “N-not at all. I was—thinking.”

“Oh. I thought you were staring at me.”

She turned and padded into the bathroom to wash her face. Harold exhaled gusty breath. Despicable, he thought. I’ve got to
watch
myself. He lay there staring at Rachel’s plump abundance. I wonder, the thought came, what it would be like to—

He jammed his eyes shut. “Con
-trol
,” he muttered between gritted teeth.

A few minutes later Rachel flicked off the bathroom light and padded back to bed. Harold pretended to sleep. He felt the mattress yield beneath her settling weight, then heard the lamp switched off.

He opened his eyes. Next to him Rachel was twisting onto her side with a delicate sigh. He turned his head a bit and saw the dark outline of her beside him. He could reach out and—

Empathy twitched his hand. He forced his lids shut and counted. One-two-three-four—

“
Yi
!”

A gasping Rachel jerked her hand back from his chest.

“What are you
doing
?” demanded Harold.

“I was just going to—to kiss you goodnight,” said Rachel. “Why?”

“
Nothing. Nothing
.”

“Are you cold?”

“
Of course not
.”

“You’re shivering.”

“
I am not shivering
.”

“Well, you needn’t shout.”

“
I am not shouting
!”

“You
are
.”

Harold flung back the bedclothes and lurched to his feet.

“Where are you going?” asked Rachel.

“
To get a drink of water! Do you mind
!”

He stood twitching on the bathroom tiles and staring at his dazed reflection. This was
abominable
. That booklet was turning him into a ravening beast! What would poor Rachel
think?

He’d read; that was it. There were those other booklets:
Sorghum Culture, The Poultry Grading Manual
and
The Romance Of Grapefruit Pits
. He’d replace tainted thought with wholesome information, that’s what he’d do.

His hand trembled in the pocket of his topcoat as he reached down for the envelope.

“You all right?” asked Rachel from the bed.

“
Yes. I’m all right
.”

He went downstairs to the livingroom and turned on his reading lamp. Now…

He sat numbly in his armchair staring at the letter.

Enclosed find three of the four booklets you ordered. We have on our list no booklet entitled Exciting Sex Practices In 1984 ½
.

Harold blinked. But this was inexplicable. He’d already received the booklet. If the government hadn’t sent it, then who—?

“Harold?”

His head jerked up. Rachel was standing on the bottom step, looking at him.

It came to him.

“
Impossible
,” he said.

Rachel lowered her green eyes. “I—guess you know,” she murmured.

“
Impossible
,” said Harold.

“Well,
you’re
impossible too!” Rachel flared. “You and those booklets of yours! We’re supposed to be
married
, Harold.
Married
!”

He gaped at her. “But…
how?
” he asked.

“Oh.” Rachel shrugged. “What’s the difference? I had a counterfeit bulletin printed and burned the real one when it was delivered that day. I had the booklet printed.”

“But—”

“I mailed it to your office,” she anticipated his question, “because I knew you wouldn’t have it sent here.”

“Oh,” he said.

He stared at her.

“
Well?
” she defied.

“Those
things
,” he said, hollowly. “Where—that is,
how—?
”

“Oh, I made them up,” said Rachel pettishly.

“
All of them?
”

“I hate to disillusion you, Harold,” she said, turning away, “but I haven’t been living in a
closet
all my life.”

“
Wait
.”

She turned as he stood and took a hesitant step toward her. “It’s just,” he said, “—just that I always thought—”

“What too many men think,” she finished for him. “That a wife isn’t a woman.”

Harold lowered his head. “You’re right,” he admitted, “I-I—”

When he looked up she was smiling at him, one hand outstretched for his.

“It’s never,” she reminded, “too late.”

“But how did you know I’d send for it,” he asked a little later.

“I just assumed you would,” she said. “If you hadn’t I’d have
really
been worried.”

“I didn’t really say ‘I
will
send for it’ that night, did I?”

“Well,” she confessed. “Maybe I did - prod you a little.”

“Double flip-flop indeed,” said Harold. Rachel giggled.

“Only one thing I don’t understand,” he said. “Where did you get
1984 ½?
”

When she told him he clapped himself on the forehead.

“I
am
dense,” he said.

Rachel laughed softly. “So you thought it meant the future?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“How does it feel?” she asked, “to be the first time traveler?”

“I like it,” murmured Harold, reaching for her again.

And there they were in 1984 ½—Victory Boulevard, Los Angeles, California.

The flight from Honolulu arrived in Los Angeles at four-fifteen p.m. Bob stood up from his seat and took down their overnight bags from the bin, putting them on his seat. He smiled at Jeanne. “Nice flight,” he said.

“We didn’t have to go first class,” she told him. “That was very extravagant of you.”

“Are you kidding?” He chuckled. “On our honeymoon? Come on.”

“I know but—”

She stood up beside him while everyone waited for the front exit door to open. Bob put an arm around her and kissed her on the cheek. “Have a good time?” he asked.

“I had a wonderful time,” she said.

“Good.” He put both arms around her and gave her a big kiss on the lips. The other passengers in First Class smiled and some of them clapped.

“Bob…” Jean was blushing. “Not here.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said with mock sternness. “You’re my wife now. I can kiss you anytime I want.”

She smiled, embarrassed. “I know,” she said.

“You’re mine now, babe,” he said.

She drew in a trembling breath. “I am,” she whispered.

The limousine driver was waiting for them as they exited the terminal. He was holding up a card that read THOMPSON. He smiled at them and took their overnight bags. “Have a good flight?” he asked.

“Had a perfect flight,” Bob told him.

“Good,” the limousine driver nodded and smiled.

They followed him through the terminal, heading for the luggage carousel.

“A limo too,” Jeanne murmured. “They’re so expensive.”

“Enough, enough,” Bob scolded her. “This was our honeymoon. It had to be first class all the way.”

“It was, darling, it was,” she said.

“Especially you know what,” he said, suppressing a grin.

“Shh.” Jean looked embarrassed again.

Bob laughed. “You’re too much,” he said. “You act as though we just met.”

She leaned in close to him and whispered into his ear. “I almost gave in when we first met too,” she confessed.

He put an arm around her and squeezed her tightly. “It’s my devilish charm,” he said.

She made a face. “It’s something,” she answered.

Bob laughed again, this time in satisfaction.

They sat close together in the limousine, Bob’s hand gripping her legs. Once he started to move it up to her groin she gasped in shocked surprise. “Bob,” she murmured.

He looked at her with hooded eyes. “Why not?” he asked. “Why not right here? The driver is way up in front, he won’t see.” He reached down and started to unzip his pants.

“Bob, for God’s sake,” she whispered urgently. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Yes, I am,” he said in a guttural voice. “Whenever I think of you naked and waiting.”

She blushed again, looking at him with an expression more wanton than critical. “When we get home,” she said.

“And all night,” he said. “And all day tomorrow.”

She reached down and put her hand on his crotch, squeezing at the hardness in his pants.

“Why not?” she said.

When they reached the house, the limousine driver brought in their luggage and Bob gave him a twenty dollar tip.

“Why don’t you unpack while I go get the kids at the sitter’s house,” he said.

“I’ll get them,” she said.

“Don’t be silly,” he told her. “Unpack.”

He went outside, opened up the garage door and backed the Lexus out into the street, drove off.

She stood in front of the fireplace mantel, looking at the photographs of Lise, Valerie and Jimmy. She wished the photograph didn’t have Arnold in it. It was too bad that it was the best photograph of the kids she had. She’d thought of scissoring out Arnold’s face after the separation and divorce but decided it would make the photograph look too strange. Anyway, he was still their father.

She drew in a deep sigh, gazing at the photograph. They were really beautiful children. It was unfortunate that they didn’t care too much for Bob. He treated them pleasantly enough.

At a little after five o’clock she heard the Lexus turn into the driveway. Moving to the window, she watched Bob coming up the walk to the front door.

She found herself forced to swallow before she could ask him how it went.

“Fine,” he said casually. “No problems.”

“They didn’t mind?” she asked.

He looked at her accusingly. “What choice did they have?”

She nodded. “I know,” she said.

“Stop fretting.” He told her. “It was quick. I made sure of that.”

“I’m glad,” she said.

“Now…” He looked at her with a wicked grin. “Let’s make us a family.”

They were in the kitchen when the phone rang. Don was whipping cream. He stopped turning the rotary beater and looked over at his wife.

“Get it, will you, honey?” he asked.

“All right.”

Betty walked into the dining room, drying her hands. She stopped by the phone table. “Don’t make it into butter now,” she called back.