I Will Fear No Evil (19 page)

(More than that, Boss—although exercise is essential. You’re talking about a professional job?) (Yes. The works.) (Well, I used to do myself—but I had had lots of practice, plus expert help from Joe. But let’s say you want the best and don’t care what it costs—) (Certainly! What’s money? I can’t get rid of it.) (All right, say you retain Helena Rubinstein, Limited, or some other top glamour shop. Say you phone and tell them to send a full team. They would send an art director—male, but he may not be all that male and he’s seen more female bodies unmade-up than an undertaker—and he doesn’t touch you; he’s too high up. He creates. And bosses. Won’t look at you until several others get you ready. Mmmm, bath girl, masseuse, manicurist, pedicurist, coiffeuse, depilatrix, parfumiste, face and skin team of at least four, costume designer, highlight and accent specialist, and assistants for all of these if you expect the job done in less than all day. If you put a time limit on it, the price goes up—and if you don’t, the price goes up.)

(Say that again?)

(It’s like taxes. Any way you play it the price goes up. Boss, we don’t need them. With what I know and the chassis we have to work with and a good lady’s maid, you can be as glamorous as you like. I don’t know where you would find a creative paint man equal to Joe; nevertheless there are good ones for hire. We can shop the market, we’ll find one.)

(Eunice, I had no idea that being a woman was so complicated.)

(Relax, Boss. Being a woman is easier than being a man—and
lots
more fun. I’m going to teach you to be a twenty-first-century woman—and I’d be pleased if you would teach me how it was to be a twentieth-century man, and we’ll close that silly ‘Generation Gap.’ Understand each other as well as loving each other.)

(Beloved.)

(I think you’re pretty nice, too, you cranky old bastard. With your brain and my body, we make a fine team. We’ll get by.) (I’m sure we will, darling.) (We will. The first thing we need is a
good
lady’s maid—scarce as whales in Kansas. We’ll probably have to train one. Then lose her as soon as she’s worth anything.) (Eunice, do we need a maid? You used to do yourself.) (I did, and kept house for Joe, and was your secretary and worked any hours you wanted me. But you’re not used to that, Boss. You had a valet.) (Yes, of course. But I was very old and didn’t have time to waste on such things. Eunice, one of the worst parts about getting old is that the days get shorter while the demands on your time increase. I didn’t want a valet; I was forced into it. Didn’t enjoy being dependent on a secretary, either—until
you
came along.)

(Dear Boss. Joan, we
will
need a maid. But not a secretary until you’re active in business again—) (Won’t be!) (We’ll see. You may have to be. But may not need a secretary unless you get pushed for time. I can handle it. And thanks for having Betsy brought in; it makes me feel at home to see her again. My stenodesk, I mean. Pet name.)

(‘Betsy,’ huh? I always thought of it as ‘the Octopus.’)

(Why, what a nasty name to apply to a nice, respectable, well-behaved machine! Boss, I’m not sure I’m speaking to you. I’m glad Betsy isn’t switched on; if she had heard that, her feelings would be hurt.)

(Eunice, don’t be silly. I wonder what’s keeping Jake?)

(Probably cutting his toenails. Lesson number two in how to be a woman: Men are almost always late but you never, never, never notice it—because they pride themselves on promptness. Boss, you didn’t quite promise Winnie to stay in this chair—when she gave you strict orders.) (Of course not. Because it might not suit me. And it doesn’t; I want to try the eighty-eight. Eunice, two gets you seven it hasn’t been kept in tune—and I gave Cunningham orders about both pianos, this baby and the concert grand downstairs, not five years ago. So let’s see.)

She stood up, did not notice that high heels gave her no trouble, and glided gracefully over to the little piano, sat down and opened it—let the first bars of Dvorak’s Slavonic Dance # 10 run through her mind, then started to play—

—and achieved a clash of noise.

“What the hell!” She looked at the keyboard, then hit middle C with her right forefinger. It sounded okay—and so did the C an octave below it. Several one- and two-finger experiments convinced her that the piano was not at fault. Yet to strike a single chord required studying the keyboard, then carefully positioning each finger by sight.

Presently she managed a slow, uneven, faulty version of “Chopsticks” by watching the keyboard and controlling her hands so hard they trembled. She quit before reaching its undistinguished coda and crashed the keys with both hands. (There go ten years of piano lessons!) (What did you expect, Boss? I was never much good even with a guitar.) (Well, I’m glad Mama didn’t hear that—she always wanted me to be a concert pianist. Eunice, why the devil didn’t you study piano as a kid?) (Because I was too busy studying boys! A much more rewarding subject. Joan, if you want to play the piano again, we can learn. But we’ll have to start almost from scratch. It’s in your head, I know; I could hear it. But to get from there down into our hands—
my
hands, dear—will probably take more patient work than slimming our hips.)

(Doesn’t matter, not really.) She got up from the piano bench. (Boss. Just a sec. While we’re here, let’s warm up Betsy and give her a check run.) (Huh? I know nothing about a stenodesk. It’ll be worse than the piano.) (We’ll see.)

She moved over and sat down at the stenodesk. (Well, Eunice? Which way to the Egress?) (Relax, Boss. The body remembers. Just say ‘Dictation, Eunice,’ then recite something you know. Think about what you’re dictating.)

(Okay.) “Dictation, Eunice. ‘Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition. . . .’”

Deftly her hands touched the switches, swiveled the microphone in time to catch the first word, required the machine to listen & hold while she inserted punctuation, used erase & correct when the machine spelled “fourth” rather than “forth”—all without hurrying.

She stopped and looked at the result. (Be durned!
How
, Eunice?) (Don’t ask, dear—or we might get fouled up in the dilemma of the centipede. But Betsy is purring like a kitten; she’s glad I’m back.) (Well, so am I. Uh, Eunice, this machine—Betsy, I mean—has access to the Congressional Library St. Louis Annex, does it not?—she not?) (Certainly. Hooked into the Interlibrary Net, rather, though you can restrict a query to one library.)

(Better query just one. I want to find out what is known about memory and how it works.) (All right. I’m interested, too; I think my memory is spotty. Can’t be sure. But on a search-of-literature it’s best to let Betsy handle it through preprograms—ask for references, followed by abstracts, followed by items selected from abstracts . . . else, on a generalized question like that, thousands of books would be transmitted and poor Betsy would gulp them down until she was constipated, and stop and not do anything until her temporary memory was erased.)

(You know how, I don’t. Uh, stick in a restriction not to bother with behaviorist theories. I know all about Pavlov and his robots I care to know, namely, that every time a dog salivates a behaviorist psychologist has to ring a bell.)

(All right. Boss? Can we spend a little more money?) (Go ahead, buy the Pyramids. What do you want, dearest?) (Let’s have a Triple-A-One snoop search run on me. Eunice Branca, I mean—the ‘me’ that used to be.) (Why, beloved? If you’ve been selling government secrets, they can’t touch you now.) (Because. It might fill some of those holes I think I have in my memory . . . and it might turn up something you’ve heard from me since I came back but which was not in the security report you got on me originally. Then you would
know
, dear . . . and could stop worrying that I may be only a figment of your imagination.)

(Eunice, if I’m crazy, the only thing that worries me is that some damned shrink might cure me. Then you would go away.)

(That’s sweet of you, Boss. But I won’t go away; I promised.)

(And even if I
am
crazy, it just makes me fit that much better into the present world. Eunice, don’t you remember
anything
between being killed and waking up here?)

The inner voice was silent a moment. (Not really. There were dreams and I think you were in them. But there was one that does not seem like a dream; it seems as real as this room. But if I tell you, you’ll think
I
am crazy.) (If so, it doesn’t detract from your charm, dear.) (All right but don’t laugh. Joan, while I was away, I was in this—place. There was an old, old Man with a long white beard. He had a great big book. He looked at it, then He looked at me and said, ‘Daughter, you’ve been a naughty girl. But not too naughty, so I’m going to give you a second chance.’)

(A dream, Eunice. Anthropomorphism, straight out of your childhood Sunday School.) (Maybe, Boss. But here I am and I
do
have a second chance.)

(Yes, but God didn’t give it to you. Eunice my own, I don’t believe in God nor Devil.)

(Well . . . you haven’t been dead—and
I
have. Truly I don’t know what I believe; I guess I wasn’t dead long enough to find out. But do you mind if we pray occasionally?”

(Jesus H. Christ!)

(Stop that, Joan! Or I’ll use every one of those words you consider ‘unladylike.’ It’s not much to ask.)

(I’m henpecked. Okay. If it’s a beautiful church, with good music, and the sermon isn’t over ten minutes.) (Oh, I didn’t mean in a
church.
Can’t stand ’em. Filled with bad vibrations. I mean pray by ourselves, Joan. I’ll teach you.)

(Oh. All right. Now?)

(No, I want to get these search orders in. You think about something else; I don’t want centipede trouble—think about Winnie all slickery with soapsuds.) (A pious thought. Much better than prayer.) (Dirty old man. How do
you
know—I’ll bet you’ve never prayed in your life.) (Oh, yes, I have, dearest—but God had gone fishing.) (So think about Winnie.)

She was busy for several minutes. Then she patted the machine affectionately and switched it off. (Well, did you?) (Did I what?) (Did you think about Winnie? Lecher.) (I took advantage of the unusual peace and quiet to contemplate the wonders of the universe.) (So?) (I thought about Winnie.) (I know you did; I was right with you. Joan, for a girl who is, in one sense at least, a virgin, you have an unusually low and vivid imagination.) (Aw, shucks, I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.) (The stark truth, Joan sweet—with your imagination I can hardly wait for you to start us on that ‘actively female’ career. In all the wrestling I’ve done I’ve never had a man—or a girl—grab me the way you were thinking about.) (Oh. Learned that one from a respectable housewife, clear back in my teens. A most charming lady.) (Hmm! Perhaps I was born too late for the real action.) (So I’ve been trying to tell you. Did you get those orders in?) (Certainly, Boss, when did I ever miss? Let’s get back to our chair; our back is tired.)

Joan Eunice negotiated the thirty feet back to her chair without remembering that she had kicked off her pumps to handle the lower controls of the stenodesk more easily; the rug simply felt good to her bare feet. Then she did notice as she sat down in the big easy chair and folded her legs in the awkward, elegant, and surprisingly comfortable Lotus position. But it did not seem worthwhile to go get them.

The door buzzer sounded. “It’s me, Winnie.”

“Come in, dear.”

The nurse entered. “Mr. Salomon asked me to tell you that he will be in to see you in a few minutes. But he can’t stay for dinner.”

“He’ll stay. Come here and kiss me. What did you tell Cunningham?”

“Dinner for two, in here, just as you said—to be served when you rang. But Mr. Salomon seemed quite firm about leaving.”

“I still say he’ll stay. But if he doesn’t, you come eat dinner with me. Would you fetch my pumps? Over there on the floor beyond the piano.”

The nurse looked, fetched the pumps, stood over Joan Eunice, and sighed. “Joan, I don’t know what to do about you. You’ve been a bad girl again. Why didn’t you ring?”

“Don’t scold me, dear. Here, sit on the stool and lean against my knees and talk. There. Now tell me—By any chance were you ever a lady’s maid before you took nurse’s training?”

“No. Why?”

“You did such a fine job of taking care of me in the bath and getting me pretty. Well, it was just a thought. I don’t suppose a nurse—a professional woman—would consider a job as a maid. No matter how high the salary. But Dr. Garcia is going to insist that I have a nurse after he leaves. I don’t need a nurse and you know it. But dear Doctor will insist. I do need a maid; I won’t be able to dress myself at first—women’s clothes are so different. Not to mention knowing nothing about makeup. Or buying women’s clothes. What are you paid now, Winnie?”

The nurse told her.

“Goodness! No wonder they’re always saying there’s a shortage of nurses. I can’t hire an in-house guard at that price. What would you think of staying on as my nurse—but actually doing things for me that a maid would do and I don’t know how to do—at three times your present salary? With whatever you wish paid in cash so that you won’t have to report it?”

The redhead looked thoughtful. “How would you want me to dress, Joan?”

“That’s up to you. Your white nurse’s uniform, if you prefer it—since you’ll be my nurse in Dr. Garcia’s eyes. Or what you wish. There’s a bedroom through that door where my valet used to sleep. With a nice bath—and another room beyond it which we can redo as your living room. Redecorate all three rooms to suit your taste. Your private apartment.”

(Boss, what was that about not shooting ducks on water?) (Stuff it, Eunice. If she takes the bait, it’s better than hiring some illit and having to train her—and then have her steal the jewelry and drop out about the time she’s some use.) (Oh, I see advantages. But you place Winnie one unlocked door away and she’ll be in bed with you before you can say ‘Sappho.’
You
may not want men in our life—but
I
do.) (Oh, nonsense! She’s already thinking about the money. If she takes the job, she’ll be more standoffish—she’ll start calling us ‘Miss’ again.)