Voices from the Street

by Philip Kindred Dick

  By the time he had the front door of the apartment house open, the bits were scattered across the gutter, along with the other night debris, the littered newspapers and rubbish, the empty beer cans and cigarette packages. Trash to be swept up and collected by the city.

  He stiffly mounted the bleak carpeted steps to his own floor, his body heaving with cold. It wasn’t until he was actually opening the door and entering the dark, lifeless apartment that he remembered his pictures. He had left them in Marsha’s car.

  It was too late to get them back now.

  PART THREE: Evening

  Alice Fergesson, her face flushed and hectic from the heat, hurried back and forth, satisfying herself that the big house was ready for guests, that dinner was progressing through its intricate stages of preparation, that it was not yet eight o’clock.

  In the living room stood her husband, his hands stuffed in his pockets, gazing moodily out the window. Alice paused a moment and called sharply to him. “What are you doing? Just standing there? You could help me, you know.”

  The small, heavyset figure stirred grumpily; Jim Fergesson turned toward her and impatiently waved her away. He was meditating again; for the past week he had been meditating constantly. His red, wrinkled, prunelike face was twisted into a worried scowl; he stuck his stump of a cigar between his teeth and abruptly turned his back to her.

  A pang of pity caught up the woman as she resumed her cooking. There was something forlorn and pathetic in the sight of the little round worried man, chewing on his cigar and trying to keep all his plans and problems straight in his mind. She concentrated on the sizzling swordfish steaks broiling in the oven, and forced herself not to pay any attention to him.

  “What time is it?” Jim Fergesson demanded behind her, suddenly close and insistent.

  Alice straightened up quickly. “You scared me.”

  “What time is it?” he asked again, blunt and noisy, with the almost childlike directness that dominated when he was worried. As if it were urgent, as if something vital hung on knowing at once, he repeated: “Damn it, where’d you put that electric clock? It used to be over the sink; where is it now?”

  “I won’t tell you,” Alice said firmly, “if you’re going to shout in that tone of voice.”

  Fergesson howled: “I have a right to know what time it is!” He flushed angrily. “You women, you’re never satisfied. Didn’t I spend a whole afternoon running BX cable around there for that clock?”

  “Take these.” She pushed plates into his hands and steered him out of the kitchen, into the dining room. “Then get out the good silver; it’s in that old green-felt box—you know, your mother’s.”

  “Why? For Stumblebum?”

  “Because it’s company.”

  “He can use the regular silver we always use.” Fergesson resentfully began setting dishes around the long oak table. “Don’t make such an occasion out of this—what are you women up to, anyhow?” He glared fearfully at his wife. “Have you and Ellen Hadley got your damn heads together again? This whole thing is rigged!”

  Ignoring him, Alice turned her attention to the salad. The tray of white poppy-seed rolls was ready to be slipped into the oven, as soon as the sword-fish steaks were done. The béarnaise was made. The frozen peas lay in their damp carton, melting and oozing. What had she forgotten? The wine gelatin and shortbread cookies had been accomplished the night before . . . All that remained was the baked potatoes: they reposed like inert lumps in the top of the oven, refusing to cook rapidly or evenly.

  In the dining room the sounds of motion ponderously rolled forth: Fergesson was dragging open the drawers of the big chest in his search for the silver. For a moment she considered getting it herself; the sullen stirrings made her uncomfortable. What was there to upset him? It was spreading to her . . . Fergesson was infecting the house with tension and gravity. Sighing, Alice knelt down and again examined the swordfish steaks.

  Under the dull blue flame of the oven the steaks oozed white fat, steamed languidly; drops of bacon fat burned and sparkled across the hard gray surface. Well, fish fillets were nice on a warm summer evening. Nice for the cook, at least; the oven didn’t have to stay on all afternoon. She tried to remember if Stuart ate fish; according to Ellen there were so many things he wouldn’t eat.

  But fresh saltwater fish never hurt anybody. Impatiently, she closed the oven and stood up. Stuart was a big strong boy; it was time somebody sat him down at the table and made him eat. On the outside, at least, he was healthy and well fed as a pig; in fact, he was beginning to bulge a trifle at the middle.

  For a moment she halted to get her bearings. So many things to keep in mind: an evening of trying to keep Fergesson and Hadley from arguing; trying to keep Ellen from curling up on the couch like a sick cat, demanding that everybody wait on her; trying to keep the conversation from degenerating into redundant shoptalk and commonplaces about the weather and the state of the Union. Trying to mix four people no two of whom mixed, let alone the whole group. She grabbed the pan of rolls and jerkily pushed it into the oven.

  Apprehensively, Alice bent to slap dust from her skirt; kneeling to peer into the oven was ruining her clothes. Briefly she searched the closet for a longer apron. There was none, and she slammed the little plywood door irritably. Probably Ellen had borrowed her long blue plastic apron . . . She could understand Fergesson’s impatience at Hadley; youth seemed to stand with its hands out, a silly, weak smile on its face, the aimless, hopeful, trusting smile of a child. Stuart and Ellen. Borrowing, asking, depending on . . . but then, her mother had said the same thing about her, and so on back.

  In the dining room, Fergesson prowled testily, with nothing to do; he had found the silver and dumped it onto the table. She could sense him pacing restlessly, mulling over his two stores, his burgeoning responsibilities. Why the hell did you buy it? she wanted to yell at him in exasperation. If all you’re going to do is worry about it, then for heaven’s sake sell it back!

  A long way off came the sound of voices and the shuffle of shoes. A split second later the doorbell clanged; her heart gave a wild jump and she rushed to take one last look into the oven. They had come. The evening had begun.

  “Would you go?” she called anxiously to Fergesson. “I have to watch the fish.”

  Grunting resentfully, Fergesson padded down the hall to the front door. She caught a glimpse of him halting briefly in front of the hall mirror to peer at himself; he tipped his head and critically scrutinized his bald spot, vaguely visible under his ill-combed hair. Her poor vain disheveled worrying husband . . . He yanked open the front door, and Stuart and Ellen entered the house.

  How much taller he was than Fergesson; she saw that in an instant and then totally dismissed it. Slim, blond, straight, he came quietly in, his arm partway around Ellen, guiding her past the step. For the occasion he had put on a brown sports coat and neatly pressed dark gabardine slacks . . . cord-soled shoes and a spotted bow tie. Well groomed, natty, his chin smooth and pale with talcum, his ears faintly pink, his hair cut short and carefully in place, Stuart Hadley waved cheerfully at Alice.

  “Hi,” he called.

  She smiled back. “You’re early.”

  Ellen smiled, too. She stood holding the blue bundle of blankets and apparatus in which Pete slept. Her face glowed round and radiant, suffused with sleek pride in her bulging armload. As long as possible she paraded her child; it seemed as if she were never going to put him down. Then Stuart led her into the downstairs bedroom; their voices faded as Fergesson moved glumly after them.

  “. . . not too drafty, is it?” Ellen’s voice drifted.

  “This is August!” Fergesson protested angrily, as if she had insulted the construction of his house. The sound of objects being moved, a window shut . . . The three of them emerged, Fergesson glowering, his hands still in his pockets, cigar between his teeth, as always.

  In the cool yellow light of the living room, the rich colors of Ellen’s skin and hair came out and gl
istened. Youth and blooming health . . . Alice couldn’t repress a whirr of envy. Ellen, standing in the center of the room as the two men seated themselves, turned this way and that, displaying her returned slim figure, her pretty summer dress. Tumbling brown hair, and the graceful flow of her green silk skirt, the flash of her smooth legs . . . On high heels she glided into the kitchen and greeted Alice.

  “What can I do to help?” she queried, eyes sparkling.

  “Nothing,” Alice said. “You go back and entertain the boys; it’s almost ready.”

  Eyes bright, lips half parted, Ellen moved around the kitchen. Her high, trim bust quivered excitedly . . . It was amazing what an expensive bra could do. “This is so wonderful . . .” She ran her hands over the chrome and tile sink Fergesson had personally installed. “I wish we had this. And these nice faucets.” She gazed up at the ventilation pipes overhead. “Jim put those in?”

  “He put everything in,” Alice said practically as she popped the frozen peas into the pan of boiling water. “How’s Pete?”

  “Fine,” Ellen said joyously. “ ‘Alice, you have such a lovely house . . . I’m so jealous! All the wonderful hardwood floors . . . and they’re all polished.’ ”

  “Waxed,” Alice corrected.

  “How do you ever find time to keep up a big house like this? And the garden . . . it’s practically a mansion!”

  “It’s all routine,” Alice said vaguely, her mind on the dinner. “You get it down to a discipline.”

  In the living room the two men were consulting in loud, assertive voices. Facing each other, legs crossed, settled back in their chairs, they were going over the items of the previous day.

  “That Leo J. Meyberg shipment come in?” Fergesson was asking.

  “It came by Trans-bay. Most of it’s away.”

  “Much back order? I’m going to cancel our back orders; we’re building up too much. That’s a racket—they know that stuff gets duplicated. We got fifty 5u4’s, twice what we can use. I’m sending half of them back.”

  “We finally moved the big Zenith combo,” Hadley said.

  “I noticed the tag. Your sale?”

  “White and I split it . . . I talked to them first, but he closed it. They came back.”

  “You should have closed it the first time,” Fergesson said sourly.

  “Nobody puts out four hundred dollars the first time.”

  “Let them out the door,” Fergesson said angrily, “and you’ve lost them. You got their names?”

  The conversation died down into a hostile mumble.

  “They get right at it,” Ellen observed fatuously. “They’re so—serious.”

  “It’s going to be that way all through dinner,” Alice said, resigned.

  Awed, her brown eyes wide, Ellen said: “I’m so glad when he wakes up and takes an interest in things . . . He’s usually so sort of—” She shrugged and smiled. “You know. Always dreaming around.” Quickly, she added: “He has a lot of ideas, of course. I hope he gets a chance to tell him about his idea on new counters; he sketched out some designs and they’re really swell. Alice, you know he has ability. He should have been an architect or something.” Anxiously, she followed Alice around the kitchen. “Can’t I do anything?”

  “You’re doing fine,” Alice said drily.

  Ellen opened the refrigerator and poked at things. “Can I put Pete’s bottles in here?” she asked hopefully.

  “Certainly,” Alice said.

  “Thank you.” Ellen left the kitchen to get the bottles. “They’re in the bedroom with all his things.”

  Alice continued preparing dinner. Ellen had halted momentarily in the living room to smile at the two men . . . but as the girl returned to the kitchen, Alice saw the wrinkled tension of her forehead.

  “Relax,” Alice said to her.

  The sweet, aimless smile spread like honey over the girl’s face. “Oh, Alice—you’re so used to these social things. I wish I had your savoir faire.”

  From the oven came the smoking hot swordfish. It was placed on the heavy platter, surrounded by lemon slices, and then carried from the kitchen to the dining room. Everybody watched respectfully as Alice bustled breathlessly back to the kitchen after the bowls of peas, the béarnaise sauce, the baked potatoes, the salad, the Silex of coffee, the rolls.

  “Looks great,” Hadley said, approaching the massive oak table with its solemn display of old silver and china and linen napkins in horn rings. He grinned appreciatively. “A real feast.”

  Without formality, Fergesson seated himself and began pouring steaming black coffee into his cup. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get started.” He helped himself to cream and sugar as Hadley seated his wife, and Alice hurried back to the kitchen for the butter.

  The meal began silently, tensely. Alice ate in quick, businesslike snatches, her eyes on the two men and the young woman seated around the table. Fergesson plowed into his dinner without comment, his flushed face expressionless, stowing food away like a dockworker. Beside him Ellen picked daintily at her plate, a mouthful now and then, her red lips twisting into nervous grimaces. Several times she excused herself to trip into the bedroom to see about Pete; watching the girl’s skirts swish around her trim legs, Alice wondered if she was acting, or nervous, or both. Both, probably; when Ellen emerged from the bedroom, Alice again caught the momentary flash of genuine panic in the girl’s brown eyes.

  While his wife struggled to make things come out all right, Stuart Hadley happily gulped down fish and baked potato and rolls and green peas, his handsome blond face devoid of guile.

  For a time nobody spoke. At last, when the silence was becoming difficult, Fergesson spoke up. “Well,” he said, to no one in particular, “I see they raised the draft quota again.”

  “It’s always going up,” Hadley responded, his mouth full. He swallowed some coffee. “They’ll never get me, not with my liver trouble.”

  Fergesson eyed him. “You’re sure proud of being sick. You don’t look sick to me; there’s nothing wrong with you.”

  “For the Army, there is,” Hadley answered haughtily.

  “I volunteered in World War I,” Fergesson growled. “Marine Corps—Second Battle of the Marne, Belleau Wood. It never hurt me any.”

  “You weren’t married,” Alice reminded him. “It’s different when you’re married.”

  “When you’re married,” Fergesson pontificated, “you’ve got more to fight for. You’ve got a stake in this country. A man ought to be glad of the chance to pay back his country some of what he owes it, for what it’s done for him.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “You’re 4-F?” he demanded. “They’re not going to change it?”

  “No,” Ellen said quickly. “He’s got a certificate that says he’s permanently ineligible.”

  Fergesson grunted and returned to his food.

  “With the peace talks,” Alice said, “the war should be over soon.”

  “Never,” Fergesson said flatly. “Those Reds are stalling; they’ll never sign. You can’t talk to them; the only kind of language they understand is military strength. The Democrats are going to hand Korea over to them—what we need is a clear-cut military victory. Any child knows that!”

  Hadley said: “You want to fight Red China?”

  “When the time comes,” Fergesson said, “that Uncle Sam can’t stand up to a bunch of Orientals—” He fiercely gulped down his coffee. “That’s what’s wrong with people today; they’re soft! One atomic bomb and those Chinamen would run clear out of China. We’ve got to show some force; we’ve got to show them the kind of steel we’re made of. Words, words, words—all they do is talk. That’s all—sit around a table gabbing. And while we’re sitting there in Panmunjom, those Reds are taking over the world.” He pointed his finger at Hadley. “It wouldn’t hurt you to do a little less talking and a little more work; according to what I hear you spent most of yesterday standing around chewing the fat with the Basford salesman.”

  Hadley flushed. “I was
trying to save you a couple of bucks; I was turning down that package deal they’ve got rigged up for the Christmas market.”

  “You let me worry about that,” Fergesson said. “I already told H. R. Basford we’re not taking any package deal; we’ll get the regular discount and return, none of that lump stuff. Where’s that order book they sent around? I’m cutting it up for scratch pads.”

  “All right,” Alice reproved. “Wait until after dinner.”

  Fergesson stormily pushed away his plate. “I’m done.”

  “There’s dessert,” Alice reminded him.

  “Well, trot it on.”

  Around the table everyone had stopped eating. Ellen, her plate half full, glanced anxiously at Fergesson and then at her husband. Alice felt momentary compassion for her; it was enough to discourage anybody. Getting to her feet, she began collecting the dishes. “Don’t get up,” she said to Ellen as the girl started convulsively to her feet. “I can do it.”

  “It’s that overhead skylight,” Fergesson was saying when she returned with the wine gelatin. “Get that damn thing covered and you won’t get too much glare. Or turn the sets around the other way.”

  “They’ve got to be visible from the street,” Hadley answered. “People come along and see the TV going; they stop and watch; they drift in without knowing it.”

  “Put one in the window,” Fergesson grunted.

  “That’s bad! Makes it too much like a free show; you know, something you pay admission for, like a movie. We want the sets where people can come in and handle them—get the idea they’re for sale, something for the home.”

  “I suppose so,” Fergesson admitted. “Personally, I wouldn’t have one around the house.” With suspicion, he accepted his wine gelatin. “What’s this?”

  Alice explained. “Eat it with the cookies.” She served herself last, and took her seat. “Before it gets warm.”