The Broken Bubble

by Philip K. Dick

  “I’ll be back in an hour or so,” he said. “H-h-how about that? Okay?”

  She stared down at her hands. Presently she heard the front door of the cabin shut. Gravel crunched as he crossed the lot to the shoulder of the highway. Opening the bathroom door, she ran through the cabin and out onto the porch. Far off by the highway, his figure moved. He became smaller.

  “Goddamn you,” she said.

  He went on.

  “Goddamn you, Art,” she said. She shut the door.

  Putting on her shoes, she ran from the cabin, across the gravel to the highway, after him. Ahead of her his figure moved, and then it was swallowed up by the lights of a roadside bar and then a gas station. She slowed down. The neon sign of the skating rink was visible, and she kept her eyes on that; she could not see him, but she saw the sign and she went toward it.

  By the skating rink, cars were parked, some of them locked up, some still full of people. Kids, she thought. Boys in sport coats and slacks, girls in dresses. A lunch counter was attached to the rink, and the kids were going in there. At the window of the rink a line of kids waited, and Art was one of them. In front of him was a girl in a checkered skirt and saddle shoes, a red wool sweater over her shoulders. The girl was no more than fifteen. Behind Art a soldier, round-faced, gangling, waited with his girl.

  She stood, away from the light, gasping and getting back her wind. The line became longer. Art reached the window, paid for his admission, and then went on inside.

  A car full of teenagers pulled up, its exhausts thundering. Boys piled out and ran to the ticket window. Behind them two girls in jeans and sweaters followed. At the window they struggled and swarmed and shoved one another; the kids blended together, the jeans and shirts, the faces, the hair.

  When they had gone inside the rink, she turned and walked back to the cabin of the motel. She bolted the door after her. A roaring filled every part of the cabin and at first she did not know what it was; she could not tell if it were inside or outside her head. It was outside. It was the air conditioner, she realized. They had left it on.

  With her drink in her hand, she stood before the mirror and declared with certitude that she would have looked absolutely perfect beside him. Together they would have attracted favorable attention; they would have been an outstanding couple.

  And then she began to cry. She started to sit down, but her hand struck the arm of the chair; the glass tumbled and the remains of her drink spread in a pool across the rug. She touched the pool with her toe. The rug was wet. The coolness felt nice.

  God, she thought.

  Walking into the kitchen, she fixed herself another drink. She turned on the radio over the bed, but she could not get KOIF; the transmitter was too far away. On a San Mateo station she picked up classical music; she turned the volume up loud, as loud as it would go.

  She brought the wine bottle to the bed. Lying down, she snapped off the light; she lay in darkness, drinking, listening to the music. Outside the cabin, cars and trucks passed along the highway.

  In the next cabin laughter and voices shrilled out into the darkness. She listened to that, too. When the voices ceased, she turned her attention to the music.

  The music, suddenly, was gone. She sat up. At first she tuned the dial, wondering what had happened to it. And then she realized that the station had gone off the air. The time was midnight.

  She made her way to the bathroom, washed her face, and then scrubbed her skin; she pressed her face into the fabric until her face ached.

  Then she came back out and seated herself by the phone. She dialed the KOIF number, but of course there was no answer. With a shock she realized what she was doing. Not there, she thought, hanging up the phone. He couldn’t possibly be there. Nobody was there. It was after midnight; the station was shut down.

  Holding the receiver in her lap, she dialed her own number. The phone rang on and on. Not there, she thought. She hung up. Next she dialed his apartment. Again there was no answer.

  Nowhere, she thought.

  She hung up the phone and went to refill her glass. The wine was almost gone. She poured it all into the glass.

  Once more she telephoned. Using the San Francisco phone book, she looked up and dialed the Emmanuals’ number, the apartment on Fillmore Street.

  “Hello?” a voice said.

  “Jim,” she said. She began to cry again; tears spilled down her cheeks, onto her knuckles and the phone.

  “Where are you?” he said.

  “I’m in a motel,” she said. “I don’t know the name.”

  Jim said, “Where is it?”

  “I don’t know.” She sat crying, clutching the phone.

  “Is he with you?”

  “No.” From her pocket she got out her handkerchief and blew her nose. “He went out.”

  Jim said, “See if there’s a match folder. Look by the phone.”

  She looked. She found a match folder with the name Four Aces Motel on it. “Jim,” she said, “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Did you find a match folder?”

  “No,” she said, “I don’t know.” She buried the match folder in the phone book, out of sight. “I know where I am, but I don’t know what to do. He went out ice-skating. Can you believe that?”

  “Tell me where you are,” he said, “and I’ll come and get you. Are you in San Francisco?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s down on El Camino Real.”

  “Near what town?”

  “Redwood City. He’s up at an ice-skating rink with a lot of kids. What’s the matter with me, Jim? How did I get mixed up in this?”

  “Tell me the address.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Tell me,” he said. “Pat, come on. Tell me where you are.”

  “What am I going to do?” she said. “He’s up there with those kids. All he is is a kid; he showed me this place they go, this attic. He came over to the apartment and got me to go to dinner with him. We went out to Chinatown; I didn’t want to go, but he got me to. I did everything I could, but good god, what can I do if he’s going off and ice-skate?”

  “Pat,” he said, “tell me where you are.”

  “I’m scared of him,” she said.

  “Why?”

  Holding the handkerchief to her eyes, she said, “I don’t want you to come down. How can I get out of here, Jim? I have to get away. This didn’t work out…you were right.”

  “Why are you afraid of him?”

  “He hit me,” she said, crying.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m okay. He hit me in the eye. And we went on and on that night until there was nothing left of me. He wore me out and now he’s ice-skating. There was this girl ahead of him in the line; she—”

  “I want to come and get you,” Jim said. “So tell me where you are. I can’t get you unless I know where you are.”

  She said, “He’s afraid of you, Jim. That’s why we’re down here. He was afraid you’d show up at the apartment. You’re the only one he’s afraid of, he isn’t even afraid of Rachael. How is Rachael?”

  “Fine,” he said.

  “Is she mad?”

  “Look,” he said, “tell me where you are.”

  “I’m at the Four Aces Motel.”

  “Okay.”

  “Wait,” she said. “Jim, listen. I did everything I could; I bought him enough clothes so he looked like a man and not like a kid dressed up for Saturday night. It’s my car we came down in. What else could I do? All I wanted to do was just lie here in bed and not do anything. But he wouldn’t do that.”

  “I’ll see you,” he said, and hung up. The phone clicked in her ear. For a time she held it, and then she put it on the hook.

  “Christ,” she said.

  Now it had happened. Now it was over. She went unsteadily to the closet and changed from her jeans and sport shirt to a blouse and bolero and long skirt; he liked her long skirts. Then she began braiding her hair.

  At
twelve-thirty the cabin door flew open and Art entered. “Hi,” he said.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “What you been doing?” He saw the empty wine bottle by the bed. “What’d you do, drink the whole bottle?”

  She said, “I called Jim Briskin.”

  “Y-y-yeah?” He came around beside her. “No kidding?”

  “I had to,” she said. “Why did you go off and leave me? I don’t understand how you could.”

  “How long ago’d you call him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s he doing? Coming down?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  By degrees his face darkened. “Get your stuff packed; let’s go.”

  “I’m going back,” she said.

  “Oh y-y-yeah?”

  Standing up, she said, “You sneaky little kid, if he ever gets his hands on you, he’ll kill you. So you better run as fast as you can and hide.”

  “What’d you call him for?”

  “Ice-skating,” she said. “What else do you do? Why don’t you go out and get me an ice cream soda?”

  He shuffled his feet and stuck his hands away, into his back pockets.

  “Did you have fun?” she said. “Did you meet any kids you knew?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Why’d you leave?”

  “They closed.”

  “Did you walk some girl home? Or what did you do, buy a hot dog and a malt?” She felt cold and terrified; she did not dare stop.

  Art said, “I tried out this guy’s MG.”

  “Then you go drive his MG,” she said. “You just drive it as long as you want.”

  “Are you really going back?” he said in a plaintive voice. “We j-j-just left.”

  “Blame yourself,” she said.

  Fooling with his belt, he said, “I couldn’t see sitting around.”

  “With me,” she said, “you couldn’t see sitting around with me.”

  “There’s nothing to do,” he said.

  From the closet she got her suitcases. “Will you help me pack?” She began putting skirts and sweaters and blouses into the suitcase. “Come on, Art. Don’t make me do all the work.”

  Going to her purse, he began rooting.

  “What do you want?” She walked over and took the purse from him.

  “The car keys,” he said, not looking directly at her.

  “Why?”

  “I can’t hang around here.”

  “You can’t take my car. If you want to leave, go ahead. Go catch a bus or something.”

  In an instant he had yanked the purse from her hands; holding it over the bed, he dumped out the contents. “I’ll leave it off someplace,” he said. “You’ll get it back.”

  She said, “If you take my car, I’ll call the police and tell them you stole it.”

  “You will?”

  “It’s my car.” She held out her hand. “Give me back the keys.”

  “Can’t I use it?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Suppose I just take it up to San Francisco and leave it off? I don’t want to run into Jim Briskin; he’s probably sore as hell.”

  “He’ll kill you,” she said.

  “Did he say so?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “It was your idea.”

  She put her hand up to her eye. “See what you did to me?”

  After a long, uncertain pause, he said, “You got a couple bucks I could have? I mean, if I have to get a b-b-bus or something.”

  “Did you spend everything, you had?”

  “I paid for some gas,” he said. “For this guy’s MG.”

  From the contents of her purse, she took her wallet.

  “I’ll pay you back,” he said.

  She gave him six or seven dollars, and he put the bills away in his coat. “You better leave,” she said. “Before he gets here.”

  She led him by the arm; his body responded sluggishly, and at the door he hung back, dragging, unwilling to go. “I’m not leaving,” he said. “I don’t believe you called Jim Briskin; that’s a lot of h-h-hot air.” Tugging away from her, he walked back and stopped by the kitchen door, his shoulders hunched.

  “Suit yourself,” she said. She continued packing; she collected the bottles and jars and packages and fitted them into the suitcases.

  “Is he really coming?” Art said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You’re going back with him?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I hope so.”

  “Are you going to marry him?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  His chin sank down. His body hunched until he looked like a little old man, a gnarled old gnomish fellow, nearsighted, hard of hearing; he strained to hear her, to gather his faculties. The youthfulness was gone. The purity. “What’s so good about him?” he said.

  “He’s a very fine person.”

  “And you’re a skinny old bag.”

  Lifting a suitcase from the bed, she carried it to the door and set it down. That was one of them, and she began on a second. But it did not seem worth it. She sat down on the bed.

  “Just an old bag,” Art said. “Why don’t you get a cat or a parrot or one of those birds the old maids have? So you can have something to mother.”

  “Art,” she said, “would you go outside and leave me alone? Please leave me alone.”

  “You’re not a girl at all,” he said. “You’re dried up. You’re all worn out.”

  “Stop it,” she said.

  “Tough,” he said, immobile.

  She got up and went outside, onto the porch of the cabin. Headlights of cars flashed by. She walked toward the highway, closer and closer until under her feet the gravel was gone and she had come onto the pavement. A car honked. Behind it a second car slowed and swerved; the distorted features of the driver were visible, and then the car vanished. Its taillight glowed red. The taillight became smaller, and then at last it was gone.

  After a while a car left the highway and bumped across the shoulder. Its headlights fastened on her and she was blinded; the car grew and she put up her hands. She smelled the hot engine as the hood of the car passed in front of her. The door opened; the car stopped rolling.

  “Is that you, Pat?” Jim Briskin’s voice came.

  “Yes,” she said. She lifted her head. Inside his car, behind the wheel, he sat with the door open, peering at her. When he had recognized her, he got out.

  “How are you?” he said, as they walked toward cabin C. He patted her on the back.

  “I’m pretty good,” she said.

  “You look rundown.” Halting her, he scrutinized her. “He really hit you, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Ahead of her, he stepped up and into the cabin. “Hello, Art,” he said.

  “Hi,” Art said, flushed and nervous.

  Jim, said, “What’d you do, hit her in the eye?”

  “Yeah,” Art said. “But she’s okay.”

  Turning to Pat he said, “Let’s have your car key.” He looked all around the room as she got the keys from the heap of things on the bed. “Thanks,” he said. He seemed preoccupied. “Here, Art.” He tossed the keys to the boy.

  “What’s this?” Art said. The keys fell to the floor, and he stooped to pick them up. The keys slipped away from him, and he stooped again.

  “Your stuff isn’t packed, is it?” Jim said to her. “I see it all around.”

  “No,” she said. “I have one suitcase packed.”

  Going over to Art, he said, “You finish packing her stuff. Put it in the Dodge and then come on up.”

  “Up where?” Art said.

  “Leave the car in front of her place.” He led Pat from the cabin.

  “You want me to unpack it,” Art said, following after them to the door, “w-w-when I get it up there?”

  “No,” Jim said, “leave everything in the car.”

  “What about the keys?”

  “Put them
in the mailbox.” Holding Pat by the hand, he took her to his car.

  As they drove out onto the highway, she said, “Will he do it?”

  “Do you care?” Jim said.

  She said, “Thanks for coming.”

  “I think that ends it.” Behind them the Four Aces Motel was already lost among the neon signs. “How are you otherwise?”

  “I’ll live,” she said.

  “It was certainly hard getting the name out of you. The motel name.”

  After that neither of them said anything. They watched the road, the cars and signs, the headlights that flashed by. Leaning back against the seat, Pat slept a little. When she woke up, they were on the freeway. To their right was the Bay. Now there were fewer lights.

  “That dirty little squirt of a kid,” she said.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “He socked me right in the eye; he knocked me out.”

  “Now you have something to talk about,” he said. “Something you can point to.”

  “And he pulled a knife on Bob Posin.”

  Jim said, “Who cares?”

  She shrank away. She found her handkerchief in her pocket and began to cry into it, her head turned away from him; she cried as quietly as possible.

  “Don’t listen to me,” he said.

  “No,” she said, “you’re right.”

  He reached over and caressed her arm. “Why don’t you shut up? Nobody feels sorry for you. When we get into town, we’ll stop and buy something for your eye.”

  “I don’t want anything,” she said. “You know what he called me? He called me a lot of terrible things—I haven’t heard words like that since I was a child. And he wanted me to borrow on my car; he wanted—” Again she was crying. She could not help it. She cried on and on, and Jim Briskin paid no attention.

  The freeway joined with other freeways leading into San Francisco. In due time they were driving above houses. Most of the houses were dark their lights were off.

  18

  His apartment was cold and dark. Patricia remained by the door while he lit lamps and pulled down the window shades.

  “Haven’t you been here?” she asked.

  “Not for a while.” In the light he saw how really tired she was, how lined and unhappy her face had become. A careworn face, he thought. “Better sit down,” he said.

  Pat said, “You know, at first he drove me wild; he was always after me.”