Earthbound

by Richard Matheson

  “Honey?”

  David’s legs retracted jerkingly, he hitched around to look at her.

  “You going to sleep?”

  “No, no.” He fought away a yawn. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I was just wondering if you’d care to take a little walk before we go to bed.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “A good idea.”

  Five minutes later, they had left the house and walking toward the water, crunching sand beneath their high-top shoes. “Which way?” David asked.

  “Well …” Ellen pointed speculatively toward the distant bluff. “That way?”

  “I see nothing against it.”

  Ellen linked her arm with his. “Then that’s the way we’ll go,” she said.

  “We’ll have to take a nice, long hike tomorrow, bring a picnic lunch along,” he said.

  “That would be fun.”

  They said no more and David lapsed into an almost thoughtless reverie, the rhythmic crunching of their shoes along the sand and the recurrent boom and hiss of the surf acting, on him, like a narcotic. Soon he was aware of no particular emotion, his mind suspended in an undiscerning void. When, finally, she spoke, he didn’t hear the words and, starting, glanced at her. “Mmm?”

  “This is what we did that first night,” she repeated.

  David registered the words but not their meaning. First night? Nearly fifteen seconds passed before it came to him that she was referring to their honeymoon. ‘That’s right,” he said, “we did.”

  Silence again; with it, a burden of renewed despondency on David’s mind. Was it really going to work? Could they make it work after what had happened?

  ‘There’s that mansion,” Ellen said.

  David blinked, refocusing, and tilted back his head to look at the summit of the bluff ahead. The upper stories of the house were visible against the sky, lamp light in one of its windows. “I wonder who does live there,” he said.

  “Whoever it is, they’re probably in Europe now,” she said. “Or Hawaii.”

  “Good God, you think it might be just their summer place?”

  “It might.” Ellen pulled up the collar of her jacket, shivering.

  “Cold?” he asked.

  “A little.”

  “Want to go back?”

  “Let’s walk a little further.”

  “Okay.”

  Shortly afterward, they reached the foot of the bluff to find themselves blocked because the tide was in. They stopped and David draped his arm across her shoulders as they watched the breakers. For a while, he tried to think of something they could talk about but finally, gave it up. There was no help for it he simply couldn’t overcome this feeling of inert detachment But was it his or hers?

  “I guess we both could use a good night’s sleep,” Ellen said, at last.

  ‘We could at that,” he heard himself reply. “We’ll walk some more tomorrow.”

  While Ellen was washing and brushing her teeth—earlier, he’d managed to turn on the water—David kindled a fire in the bedroom, then stood before it, taking off his clothes as rapidly as possible and donning his pajamas; he was grateful, now, that Ellen had persuaded him to bring along a pair of woolen ones. Scuttling over the icy floorboards, he yanked back an edge of bedclothes and squeezed beneath them, hissing at the coldness of the sheets. He thrashed his legs to warm them, then sat, arms crossed, shivering fitfully as he looked around the quiet room.

  He wondered when the house was built, deciding that it couldn’t have been later than the early thirties. It was not too unattractive a place, really this room was rather nice, in fact. Like the dining alcove and, to a lesser degree, the living room, it had a quality of tasteful organization about it.

  Reaching out, he pulled open the bedside table drawer and looked inside. It was empty except for a box of incense called Amour Exotica; the name made David smile. Lifting off the cover, he sniffed at one of the shriveled, umber cakes inside, grimacing at the odor.

  He replaced the cover, dropped the box into its drawer and pushed the drawer shut. Twisting around, he started to prop one of the pillows against the headboard when he noticed a row of five, time-worn X’s scratched on the wood. He wondered who had put them there. A woman, probably; men were not inclined toward this symbol for the kiss. A young woman—perhaps a girl; a honeymooner even. Turning back, David slumped against the pillow, visualizing her in this bed with her new husband. They had just made love and were lying, side by side, in cozy indolence, legs entwined, the man’s arms wrapped around her warm, soft body. Now the woman reached back languidly and, with her fingernail—or a bobby pin or the stone of her engagement ring—scribed an X on the headboard, then another and another until all five were there. Done, she gave her husband a smile of drowsy contentment and, cuddling close to him, fell sound asleep.

  In the fireplace, a chunk of wood broke loose and tumbled to the grate. David started and turned, starting again as he saw that Ellen stood, immobile, in the doorway, looking at him; he wondered how long she’d been there. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Nothing.” Ellen smiled elusively and crossed the room. She set the candle holder on the bedside table and began removing her bathrobe. She wrinkled up her nostrils. “What’s that smell?” she asked, grimacing.

  “Amour Exotica,” he answered.

  “What?” Her smile was tentative.

  “Incense.” He pointed. “In the bedside table drawer.”

  “Oh.” She draped her robe across the footrail, moved around the bed and shucked her slippers to crawl across the spread and get beneath the covers with him. “Oh, my God,” she said, “it’s like sliding in between two sheets of ice.”

  “It’s warmer over here,” he told her.

  “I don’t want to get you cold.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Well …” Ellen shifted toward him gingerly, the touch of her chilled feet against his ankles making him jump. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He tried not to wince at the constant, icy pressure of her feet. Reaching up, he buttoned shut the neck of her blue and white ski pajamas, conscious of how boyish in appearance Ellen was, at that moment her small bust inconspicuous beneath the loose, woolen folds, her dark, blonde hair cropped short.

  After she was warm, he drew aside the bedclothes and, standing, headed for the bathroom. “Brush my teeth,” he said.

  “Won’t you need the candle?” Ellen asked.

  “Oh; yeah.” Turning back, David hurried to the table and picked up the candle holder. “God, this floor is cold!” He started toward the hall again, then sidetracked to the bureau and, shifting rapidly from foot to foot, fumbled through the contents of the suitcase, looking for his slippers. Finding them, he put them on and turned for the doorway. “Be back,” he said. She didn’t answer and he glanced across his shoulder at her. “You be here?”

  She nodded, smiling. “Brush ‘em good,” she told him.

  When he returned, Ellen was lying with her back turned to him. David set the candle holder on the table, kicked off his slippers and slid beneath the bedclothes hastily; the intense chill of the bathroom had penetrated to his bones, it seemed. Lying down, he shuddered violently several times, then started warming. Shortly afterward, he drew his left hand from beneath the covers, licked the tips of his thumb and index finger and pinched the burning wick.

  He lay still for almost half a minute, then pushed up onto his right elbow to lean over and kiss the side of Ellen’s neck. “Good night,” he said. The bedclothes rustled as she stirred; her palm stroked once across his hair.

  “Night,” she murmured.

  For a while—to him, it seemed, at least an hour—David lay on his back, eyes closed, waiting for sleep to come. God knows I’m tired enough, he thought repeatedly. With all the details of preparing for the trip, the pace of the last three days had been frenetic. Now, all of it had reached fruition; they were here, the stimulation of incessant activity ended. It seemed logical to assume that he
would sleep, having slept so meagerly in the past week. Oppressively enough, the opposite seemed true.

  David opened his eyes and looked at the wavering reflection of fire on the ceiling. Outside, the breakers crashed resoundingly, more loudly with each passing minute, he imagined. Why had he always assumed that the sound of surf conduced relaxing? Obviously, it didn’t. The booming of the waves was unsettling to him; as if he were attempting to rest while lying in the vicinity of periodically fired cannons. He twisted sluggishly onto his right side. Great if he didn’t sleep all week, he thought; he’d make a fine companion.

  “Can’t you sleep either?” Ellen asked.

  David started in surprise. “You’re still awake?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  She hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m cold.”

  He hesitated several moments, then shifted over to her. “Here,” he said. He put his left arm across her. “Lie against me.”

  “I don’t want to keep you from sleeping.”

  “You won’t”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Come on.”

  “Okay.” Ellen huddled back against him. Except for her feet she seemed almost hot to David. He smiled, thinking how uncanny it was that a woman could feel so warm and still be cold.

  He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, then, as Ellen snuggled closer to him, realized that, from force of habit, he had cupped his hand over her right breast; he could feel, through her pajama top, the nipple hardening against his palm. Soon, the nape of her neck came in contact with his lips and he kissed it automatically. Ellen writhed a little, sighing. David felt his body tensing, and he pushed against her harder. Almost independently, it seemed, his fingers slid beneath the bottom edge of her pajama top, eased up across her ribs and gripped themselves around her breast again. Kneading tautly at the flesh, he began to roll her erected nipple between two fingers. Ellen drew in laboring breath.

  “I’m going to try. I really am,” she said.

  A wave of coldness seemed to pass across David and he stopped caressing her.

  “I told you it wouldn’t be easy,” she said.

  He sighed. Be reasonable, he told himself. “I understand,” he said.

  “I’m still a little … shaky, David.” She was silent for a few moments, then spoke again. “I’m going to try, that’s all I can say.”

  David kissed her on the cheek. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

  She put a hand on his and squeezed it. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  After a while, very slowly, she began to inch away from him. He pretended he was sleeping when it happened.

  He thought he might have slept; he wasn’t sure. Time had lost its continuity and he couldn’t tell how long afterward it was that Ellen stirred. Perhaps it was her movement that awakened him. Opening his eyes, he watched her draw covertly from him, sitting up. “What’s wrong?” he mumbled.

  “Oh; I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Why are you sitting up then?”

  “Oh …” She looked unsure. “I thought I’d take a walk.”

  “Now?”

  She didn’t answer but, after several moments, stood, hissing at the coldness of the floorboards. As she felt around, located and put on her slippers, David pushed up on his right elbow, watching her groggily. Ellen glanced at him and he wondered if he saw, in the uncertain light, a smile flicker across her lips. “Go back to sleep,” she told him.

  “Don’t you think you ought to get some rest yourself?”

  “I will, in a while.” Ellen gathered up her clothes and shoes and, lighting the candle, started for the hall.

  “You want me to go with you?” he asked.

  “No, no; rest,” she answered.

  He watched until she’d gone into the hall, then, as the bathroom door closed, slumped back on his pillow. He visualized her dressing in the chill silence of the bathroom, her shadow gelatinous on the walls and ceiling. Hell, he thought.

  Sighing wearily, he turned onto his left side and stared at the fire. It was burning steadily, short yellow flames licking up around the chunk of driftwood like demon tongues. The idea occurred to him that actually, Ellen planned to take a drive. He smiled in rueful amusement envisioning her driving to the airport and flying back to Los Angeles without him. That’d be a merry prank, he thought.

  His gaze shifted toward the doorway as Ellen left the bathroom and started down the stairs. You sure you don’t want me to go with you? he imagined himself calling after her. Then: How long will you be gone? Finally: Be careful! By the time he had considered speaking each of them aloud, the front door had thumped shut and she was gone. David rolled onto his back with a sigh.

  A short while later, he exhaled surrenderingly and, sitting up, threw aside the covers. For several moments he sat immobile, eyes closed, then with a mumbling groan, slipped his legs across the mattress edge, wincing as the soles of his feet touched the floorboards. Standing, he donned his robe and slippers, an idea presenting itself to mind: to go downstairs and make some coffee; be waiting, on her return, with a full, steaming pot of it plus a blazing fire in the living room. The notion vanished in an instant. That’s a great idea, he thought, except there’s no coffee and no way of making any.

  He looked around. Well, he could have a fire waiting for her anyway, some toasted cracker crumbs, he thought, smiling to himself. He’d make the gesture anyway. He turned for the hall. Need a candle, he thought. No, he didn’t; he could find his way without one.

  Darkness pressed against his eyes as he left the bedroom, feeling to his right until he found the bannister rail. Brushing fingertips along the frigid surface of the wood, he scuffed his way to the stairs, turned right and started down. As he descended, he reached up with his left hand and held together the edges of his robe.

  He was starting across the studio landing when a narrow bar of light suddenly appeared on the floor in front of him. Recoiling with a gasp, he stared at it obtusely for a few seconds before turning his head to see that he’d left the door enough ajar that afternoon to admit the light. Swallowing, he stepped to the door and pushed it open.

  The light was from the moon; it must have left obscuring clouds precisely at the moment he had reached the landing. David looked across the broad expanse of floor which seemed to have been gilded with a coat of luminous paint After several moments, he walked across the studio to the windows.

  The view was startling. The entire beach had the cast of faded silver and, even though the surf was more than a hundred yards distant the crash and frothing dissolution of each wave was astonishingly visible. David’s gaze followed the sinuous line of moonlight reflected on the Sound until it receded into blackness.

  He looked to the right and left, trying to see her—but she was out of sight That or his vision wasn’t strong enough to pick her out at any substantial distance. He closed his eyes to rest them. Probably need glasses, he thought.

  He wondered what he should really do. Remain here, staring emptily at sand and sea? Go downstairs to poke and feed the fire back to life? Or go back to bed? He remained immobile, unable to decide.

  He never knew how long he had been under observation. All he knew was that abruptly, he was conscious of being watched and turned to see a figure standing in the doorway. “I thought you were going for a walk,” he said.

  There was no reply.

  “Well?”

  Still no reply. David frowned. “Aren’t you even going to talk to me?” he asked.

  The figure stood in silence.

  “Ellen?” There was something else beside annoyance in his voice now, a tendril of disquiet. “What’s the matter?”

  His breath caught as a young woman took a step into the moonlight staring at him. As initial shock declined, David saw that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life, her shoulder-len
gth hair jet black, her features perfect, carved as if from ivory. She wore a pale white skirt and sweater set, a chain and locket at her throat. Her feet were bare and flaked with sand.

  David swallowed. “Can I help you?” he heard himself inquire.

  The woman murmured. “Terry?”

  David looked at her confusedly. When she spoke the name a second time, he answered, “No, I’m sorry. I’m—”

  He broke off, shuddering, at the sound she made—part sob, part convulsive inhalation. For a moment, he thought she was going to cry.

  “You … live around here?” he asked.

  The woman’s dark eyes held on his. She didn’t answer.

  “Miss?”

  Her eyelids fell shut as though to block away the sight of him, her expression, now, one of bitter disappointment. For almost thirty seconds, she stood motionlessand still, enveloped by an obvious grief. Then she opened her eyes and looked at him again. “I live down the beach,” she said, “around the bluff.” She came a few steps closer to him, staring at his face as if to verify, to herself, that he was not the man she sought David grew uncomfortable beneath her intense surveillance.

  Suddenly, she smiled and he caught his breath a second time, the effect was so startling. Since his early twenties, he had not reacted in such a way to sheer, physical beauty—with a binding at the throat a palpable stagger of the heart. The woman was exquisite, her beauty that of dreams.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to stare at you.”

  “And I’m—” He stopped in consternation, finding himself about to say: And I’m sorry that I’m not Terry. He cleared his throat. “—Wondering what you’re doing here,” he finished awkwardly.

  “I saw firelight upstairs,” the woman said, “and I thought—” For a moment, sorrow flickered on her face; then she smiled again. “I knew the artist who lived here last summer,” she explained. “I was out walking and I saw the firelight and thought—he’s back.”

  David nodded, staring. When she said no more, he twitched as if emerging from a reverie, feeling gauche for having gaped at her like a bedazzled school boy. “And his name was Terry,” he said, speaking the first words that came to mind.