To Sail Beyond the Sunset (47 page)

“Mama, you’re cruel!”

“That counts as name calling.”

“But—Oh, I’m so unhappy!”

That was self-evident and did not call for comment, it seemed to me, so I went back to watching Walter Cronkite and listening to his sonorous pronouncements.

She gloomed around for some days, then discovered the advantages of living close to school, of having a family room that was hers to use as she liked, and of a mother who permitted almost any racket and muss as long as it was cleaned up afterward—or at least once or twice a week. The house started to be filled with young people. I found that as Priscilla became happy, so did I.

In late September I came downstairs one Friday night about eleven for a glass of milk and a midnight snack, and heard those giveaway squeaks coming out of the maid’s room across from the kitchen. I was not tempted to disturb them as I felt relief rather than worry, especially as the sound effects proved that Priscilla had learned to have orgasms as readily with another male as with her brother. But I went up and checked a calendar in my bathroom, one that duplicated the one in hers—and saw that it was a “safe” day for her and then felt nothing but relief. I never expected Priscilla to give up sex. Once they start and find they like it, they never quit. Or perhaps I should say that I would worry if one did.

The next day I called Jim Rumsey and asked him to take a smear and a blood test each time I sent Priscilla in, as I did not trust her judgment and knew that she might be exposed. He snorted. “Do you think I’m not on the ball? I check everybody. Even you, you old bag.”

“Thanks, dear!” I threw him a kiss through the screen.

It was shortly after that cheerful occasion that George Strong called me. “Dear lady, I’m just back in town. I have good news.” He smiled shyly. “Delos agrees that you must be on the board. We can’t put it to the stockholders until the annual meeting but an interim appointment can be made by the directors if a vacancy occurs between stockholders’ meetings. It so happens that one of my assistants is about to resign. As a director, not as my assistant. Could you attend a directors’ meeting in Denver on Monday the sixth of October?”

“Yes, indeed. I am enormously pleased, George.”

“May I pick you up at ten? A company rocketplane will take us to Denver, arriving there at ten, mountain time. The directors’ meeting is at ten-thirty in the Harriman Building, followed by luncheon at the top of the same building—a private dining room with a spectacular view.”

“Delightful! George, are we returning later that day?”

“We can if you wish, Maureen. But there are some beautiful drives around that area, and I have a car and a driver available. Does that appeal to you?”

“It does indeed! George, be sure to fetch envelope number three.”

“I will be sure to do so. Until Monday, then, dear lady.”

I moved around in a happy fog, wishing that I could tell my father about it—how little Maureen Johnson of Muddy Roads, Mizzourah, was about to be named a director of the Harriman empire, through an unlikely concatenation: first, an adulterous love affair with a stranger from the stars; second, because her husband left her for another woman; and third, an autumn affair between an immoral grass widow and a lonely bachelor.

If Brian had kept me, I could never have become a director in my own person. While Brian had not begrudged me any luxury once we were prosperous, aside from my household budget, I had actually controlled only “egg money”—even that numbered Zurich bank account had been only nominally mine. Brian was a kind and generous husband…but he was not even remotely a proponent of equal rights for women.

Which was one reason I refused George Strong’s repeated proposals of marriage. Although George was twenty years younger than I (a fact I never let him suspect), his values were rooted in the nineteenth century. As his mistress I could be his equal; were I to marry him, I would at once become his subordinate—a pampered subordinate, most likely…but subordinate.

Besides, it would be a dirty trick to play on a confirmed old bachelor. His proposals of marriage were gallant compliments, not serious offers of civil contract.

Besides, I had become a confirmed old bachelor myself—even though I found myself unexpectedly rearing one more child and a problem child at that.

My problem child—What to do about Priscilla while I was in Colorado overnight? Or possibly over two nights—if George suggested staying another day, at Estes Park, or Cripple Creek, would I say no?

Were I living alone with only Princess Polly to worry about, I could stuff her into a kennel and ignore her protests. Would that I could do so with a strapping big girl who outweighed me!…but who lacked sense enough to boil water.

What to do? What to do?

“Priscilla, I am going to be away from home overnight, possibly two nights. What would you prefer to do while I am gone?”

She looked blank. “Why are you going away?”

“Let’s stick to the point. There are several possibilities. You could stay overnight or over two nights with a chum from school, if you like. Or you could stay with Aunt Velma—”

“She’s not my aunt!”

“True and you need not call her that. It is simply customary among Howards to use such terms among ourselves to remind us of our common membership in the Howard families. Suit yourself. Now please let’s get back to the main question: What do you prefer to do while I’m away?”

“Why do I have to do anything? I can stay right here. I know you think I can’t cook…but I can rustle my grub for a couple of days without starving.”

“I’m sure you can. Staying here was the next possibility that I was about to mention. I can find someone to come stay with you so that you won’t have to be alone. Your sister Margaret, for example.”

“Peggy’s a pill!”

“Priscilla, there is no excuse for your calling Margaret by a derogatory slang name. Is there someone you would like to have here to keep you company?”

“I don’t need any company. I don’t need any help. Feed the cat and bring in the
Star
—what’s hard about that?”

“Have you stayed alone in a house before?”

“Oh, sure, dozens of times!”

“Really? What were the occasions?”

“Oh, all sorts. Papa and Aunt Marian would take the whole family somewhere, and I would decide not to go. Family outings are a bore.”

“Overnight trips?”

“Sure. Or more. Nobody in the house but me and Granny Bearpaw.”

“Oh. Mrs. Bearpaw is live-in help?”

“I just got through saying so.”

“That isn’t quite what you said and your manner is not as polite as it could be. Staying with Mrs. Bearpaw in the house is not the same as staying alone…and I have gathered an impression that Granny with a frying pan could intimidate an intruder.”

“She wouldn’t use a frying pan; she’s got a shotgun.”

“I see. But I can’t get her to stay with you…and apparently you have never stayed alone before. Priscilla, I can arrange for a couple to stay here—strangers to you but reliable.”

“Mother, why can’t I simply stay here by myself? You act like I’m a child!”

“Very well, dear, if that is what you prefer.” (But I’m not going to leave it entirely up to your good judgment. I’m going to hire the Argus Patrol to do more than cruise slowly past three times a night—I’ll place the next thing to a stakeout on this house. I shan’t leave you vulnerable to some night prowler just because you think you are grown up.)

“That’s what I prefer!”

“Very well. Everyone has to learn adult responsibility at some time; I simply was reluctant to thrust it on you if you did not want it. I’ll be leaving at ten o’clock Monday morning, the sixth, for Colorado—”

“‘Colorado’! Why didn’t you say so? Take me along!”

“No, this is a business trip.”

“I won’t be any trouble. Can I take the train up to the top of Pikes Peak?”

“You aren’t going; you’re going to stay here and go to school.”

“I think that’s mean.”

I was gone two days and I had a wonderful time. Being a director was a bit dazzling the first time, but when it came time to vote, I simply voted the way George did, for the nonce—later I would have opinions.

At lunch Mr. Harriman had me placed at his right. I didn’t touch the wine and I noticed that he didn’t either. He had been all business at the meeting but was most charming at lunch—no business talk. “Mrs. Johnson, Mr. Strong tells me that you and I share an enthusiasm—space travel.”

“Oh, yes!” We talked about nothing else then and were last to leave the table; the waiters were clearing it around us.

George and I spent the night at a guest house halfway between Denver and Colorado Springs, on the inner road, not the highway. We discussed envelope number three in bed:

“The Douglas-Martin Sunpower Screens will cause the greatest change in the American countryside since the first transcontinental railroad. Moving roadways will be built all over the country, powered by D-M screens. These will follow in general the network of federal highways now in existence—Highway One down the East Coast, Route Sixty-Six from Chicago to L.A., and so forth.

“String cities will grow up along these moving roads and the big cities now in existence will stop growing and even lose population.

“The moving roads will dominate all the rest of the twentieth century. Eventually they will die out, like the railroads—but not until next century.”

“Maureen,” George said soberly, “this is awfully hard to believe.”

I said nothing.

“I don’t see how they could be made to work.”

“As a starter, try multiplying a thousand miles by two hundred yards, to get square yards, then call it horsepower. Use a ten percent efficiency factor. Save the surplus power in Shipstones when the Sun is high and bright; use that surplus to keep the roads rolling when the Sun doesn’t shine.” (I could be glib about it; I had done the arithmetic many times in thirty-four years.)

“I’m not an engineer.”

“Then discuss it with your best engineer—Mr. Ferguson?—when you get home.”

“You stand by this?”

“It’s my prophecy. It won’t happen quickly—the first roadcity—Cleveland to Cincinnati—won’t roll for several years. I’m telling you now so that Harriman Industries can get in on the ground floor.”

“I’ll talk to Ferguson.”

“Good. And now let me be nice to you because you have been so very nice to me.”

I returned on Wednesday and stopped at the office of Argus Patrol before I went home. I spoke to Colonel Frisby, the president of the company. “I’m back; you can take the special watch off my home. Do you have a report for me?”

“Yes, Mrs. Johnson. Your house is still there, no fires, no burglars, no intruders, nothing but a noisy party on Monday night, and one not quite so noisy last night—kids will be kids. Your daughter did not go to school yesterday—slept in, we think; the party Monday night ran quite late. But she’s at school today and looks none the worse. Shall we put this on your bill or do you want to pay for this special service now?”

I paid it and went home, feeling relieved.

I let myself in and sniffed; the place needed airing.

And a thorough house cleaning. But those were minor matters.

Priscilla got home a little after four, looking apprehensive, but smiled when I did. I ignored the mess the house was in, took her out to dinner, and told her about my trip. Some of it.

On Friday I picked her up at school and we went to Jim Rumsey’s office, by appointment. Priscilla wanted to know why.

“Dr. Rumsey wanted to see you again after a couple of months. It has been just two months.”

“Do I have to be poked?”

“Probably.”

“I won’t!”

“Say that again. Say it loud enough to be heard in Dallas. Because, if you mean that, then I’ll have to bring your father into it. He has still legal custody of you. Now say it.”

She shut up.

About an hour later Jim called me into his private office. “First, the good news. She doesn’t have crabs. Now the bad news. She does have syphilis and clap.”

I used a heartwarming expletive. Jim tut-tutted. “Ladies don’t talk that way.”

“I’m not a lady. I’m an old bag with an incorrigible daughter. Have you told her?”

“I always tell the parent first.”

“All right, let’s tell her.”

“Slow down. Maureen, I recommend putting her into a hospital. Not just for gonorrhea and syphilis, but for what her emotional condition will be after we tell her. She’s cocky at the moment, almost arrogant. I don’t know what she’ll be ten minutes from now.”

“I’m in your hands, Jim.”

“Let me call Bell Memorial, see if I can get an immediate admission.”

The Better-Dead List

A noise woke me up. I was still in that pitch-dark lorry, clutching Pixel to me. “Pixel, where are we?”

“
Kuhbleeert!
” (How would I know?)

“Hush!” Someone was unlocking the lorry.

“
Meeroow?
”

“I don’t know. But don’t shoot till you see the whites of their eyes.”

A side door rolled back. Someone was silhouetted against the open door. I blinked.

“Maureen Long?”

“I think so. Yes.”

“I am sorry to have left you in the dark so long. But we had a visit from the Supreme Bishop’s proctors and we have just finished bribing them. And now we must move; they don’t stay bribed. Second-order dishonesty. May I offer you a hand?”

I accepted his hand—bony, dry, and cold—and he handed me down while I held Pixel in my left arm. He was a small man, in a dark siren suit, and the nearest thing to a living skeleton I have ever seen. He appeared to be yellowed parchment stretched over bones and little else. His skull was completely hairless. “Permit me to introduce myself,” he said. “I am Dr. Frankenstein.”

“‘Frankenstein,’” I repeated. “Didn’t we meet at Schwab’s on Sunset Boulevard?”

He chuckled, a sound like dry leaves rustling. “You are jesting. Of course it is not my original name but one I use professionally. You will see. This way, if you please.”

We were in a windowless room, with a vaulted ceiling glowing with what seemed to be Douglas-Martin shadowless skyfoam. He led us to a lift. As the door closed with us inside Pixel tried to get away from me. I clung to him. “No, no, Pix! You’ve got to see where they take me.”