Earthbound

by Richard Matheson

  “Oh, dear.” The woman clucked in sympathy. “How terrible. You wanted to stay in it, of course.”

  “We found a nice place, though,” Ellen said.

  “Oh; I’m glad. In Logan Beach?”

  “Yes.” Ellen nodded. “Right by the water. It’s a lovely spot.”

  The woman glanced at David. “By the bluff?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I thought I saw lights down there,” she said. It was her, on the bluff he thought. Why had he been so certain? “Is that your house up on top?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve admired it,” Ellen said. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” The woman bowed her head once.

  “Perhaps you’ll pay me a visit before you leave.” She smiled. “My name is Grace Brentwood.”

  “Oh … yes,” Ellen said. “I’m sorry; we haven’t introduced ourselves. This is my husband, David Cooper. My name is Ellen.”

  “Delighted.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” David murmured. He tried not to but all he could think of was that Mrs. Brentwood probably knew Marianna; knew about her, at least.

  “This is Mr. Doty,” Mrs. Brentwood told them, gesturing toward the owner of the store. The man smiled as he put their cups of hot chocolate on the counter.

  “Glad to meet you folks,” he said. They smiled back.

  “Well, I’m so pleased that we ran into each other this way,” Mrs. Brentwood said. “Although, we might have met on the beach.”

  “You go there often?” David asked.

  “All the time. I love to walk there.”

  She must know Marianna then, David thought.

  He nodded, wondering what question he could, safely, ask. After a few moments, he thought of something. “When I was out walking yesterday morning—” he began.

  “That was you I saw then.” Mrs. Brentwood interrupted.

  “Yes.” David smiled. “Anyway I ran across a closed-up cottage down the beach. Is that yours, too?”

  “Yes. It was used as a beach house once; but it’s been closed for years. There’s only me now and I’m afraid my swimming days are over.”

  “You live alone?” asked Ellen.

  “Except for the servants,” Mrs. Brentwood said.

  David considered asking whether there were any other houses nearby, deciding that he’d better not. He had no reason to ask at any rate, he thought self-critically. Marianna was no longer a part of his life.

  “You know who owns the cottage we’re staying in?” he asked.

  “Someone from the city, I believe.” Mrs. Brentwood said. “I’ve never met them.” She smiled. “So are you enjoying your holiday so far?”

  “Yes. Very much,” he said.

  “The cottage was cold until the gas was turned on but it’s very comfortable now,” Ellen added.

  “Good. I hope you find your stay there pleasant.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How long do you expect to be there?”

  “Until next Thursday, probably.”

  “I see.”

  David took a sip of hot chocolate and put down his cup. “Does anyone live there any more?” he asked.

  “Not on a regular basis, no.”

  “It’s just rented in the summer?”

  Mrs. Brentwood shrugged a little. “I suppose.”

  Who was there last summer? The question flared across his mind. “How old a place is it?” he asked.

  “I don’t remember really,” Mrs. Brentwood answered. “It seems as though it was built when I was just a little girl though.”

  David cleared his throat. “Painter live there once?” he asked.

  “Painter?”

  “An artist.” David felt his heartbeat quickening as though he’d blundered somehow. “We were looking at his paintings in the cottage,” he said. “Or hers,” he added; not too quickly, he hoped.

  Mrs. Brentwood nodded, smiling. “I really have no idea,” she said. “I don’t pay much attention to who stays in the cottage; I’m sorry.”

  Forcing a smile, David turned away and drank some more hot chocolate. For some reason he had the rattled feeling that he’d given himself away even though he was certain that he hadn’t. Good old guilt, he thought in disgust. He listened with half an ear as Ellen said, “We were admiring the paintings.”

  Mrs. Brentwood looked at her lapel watch. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Way past my bedtime.” She drained her cup of tea and stood.

  David rose from his stool as Mrs. Brentwood stopped in front of them and extended her hand to Ellen. “Do come and see me now,” she said, smiling.

  “We will,” Ellen told her.

  “Good.” Mrs. Brentwood held out her hand to David and he took hold of it; her grip was cool and firm. She gazed fixedly into his eyes and, suddenly, he felt his stomach cramping. Good God, was it possible that she’d seen Marianna going in and out of the cottage? For an appalling instant, he imagined her up on the bluff, peering downward through binoculars, keeping watch on him. What if she did know Marianna? What if Marianna had a reputation for this sort of thing? A wave of dread broke over him. Mrs. Brentwood seemed benevolent enough; but what if she was only waiting for a chance to talk to Ellen, tell her what she knew? He swallowed hard, barely hearing as she said, “Good night, Mr. Cooper,” and headed for the doorway.

  Lethargically, he settled on the stool again, noting Mrs. Brentwood’s exit from the corners of his eyes. I’m just no good at this, he thought gloomily; deception under fire was definitely not his forte. How he’d managed it with Julia he couldn’t imagine now. He felt like blurting everything to Ellen, then recognized that he was seeking the easy way out; confession, absolution.

  As the door closed, Ellen said, “Good-looking woman.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She must have been beautiful when she was young. Even now she’s attractive and she must be more than sixty.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Don’t you think so?”

  He shook his mind loose. “What, that she’s attractive or more than sixty?”

  “Both.”

  “Yes and yes.” He managed a smile.

  “I think she liked you.”

  David tightened. “Me?”

  “The way she looked at you,” Ellen teased.

  “I’m very attractive to old ladies,” he said.

  Ellen made an amused sound and, suddenly, an overwhelming urge swept over him again; to drive, at once, to the airport and go home. More and more, he had this harrowing, inchoate dread that something terrible was going to happen if they didn’t leave. He could see no reasonable logic behind it; the episode with Marianna was concluded and it certainly stretched credulity to believe that Mrs. Brentwood had been spying on him and intended to betray him. Still, he was unable to shake off this fear. If it is only guilt, it was the worst case he had suffered in his life.

  “Honey?”

  David started. “Mmm?”

  “I said, I think the man wants to close up.”

  “Oh?” He looked around and saw that Mr. Doty had his overcoat and hat on and was emptying the contents of the cash register into a paper sack. “What makes you think he wants to close up?” he asked.

  They paid for the, hot chocolates, said goodnight and left the drug store. Breath clouding from their lips, they linked arms and hurried to the car. “Cold,” she said.

  “That’s a fact,” he answered. Hastily he pulled open the car door on the driver’s side and Ellen scuttled in. She pressed against him, shivering, as he dropped beside her and pulled the door shut.

  “Oooh,” she muttered in a shaking voice. “My hot chocolate’s turning into milkshake.”

  David smiled and switched on the motor, pushing the heater control to High. Looking across his shoulder, he backed out into the street, braked, then started forward.

  “Think we ought to visit her?” she asked.

  “If there’s time,” he said. How would Ellen react if he we
re to suggest going home tonight? he wondered. Was there anything he could say to disguise the fact that it would be no more nor less than abject flight? He couldn’t tell her about Marianna, couldn’t mention his uneasiness regarding Mrs. Brentwood. Ellen would think that their attempted second honeymoon was a failure in his eyes; that he wanted to escape it. Above all, she mustn’t think that; not now.

  Ellen groaned a little. “Oh; this merry widow,” she said.

  “Hurt your stomach?”

  “They ought to call it The Iron Maiden.”

  “Take it off.”

  “Well—” She hesitated for a moment. “I know how you like it.”

  David swallowed, realizing that she meant it always excited him to make love to her while she wore it. He felt a stirring in his flesh which was both desire and anxiety; he mustn’t fail her again. “I do,” he said, “but I don’t want you to have a stomachache.”

  Again she hesitated. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  He caressed her leg. “Not as long as I can watch,” he said.

  “Fresh.” She removed his hand. “We haven’t even met.”

  “Sure we have,” he said. Opening her coat, he put his hand on her leg again and tugged her skirt and slip up past her knees, heartened by the gratifying reflex in his body. “Allow me to assist you in the shedding of your garment” he said.

  “That’s mighty white of you.”

  “I aims to please.” He pulled her skirt up further, uncovering her stocking tops and the white flesh of her thighs. “Oo-la-la,” he muttered, croakingly.

  “I guess it’s warm enough now,” she said.

  “Vous said it” David watched with sidelong glances as she removed her coat and threw it on the back seat. Unbuttoning her dress, she started to unzip the front of her merry widow. “Oh,” he said, his tone aggrieved.

  “What’s up?”

  “Me, almost.”

  “Why the groan then?”

  “Well,” he said. “I presumed that everything was coming off.”

  She slapped his shoulder lightly. “What are you saying?”

  “Quelle funzies, madame.”

  Ellen grunted in mock indignation, then sighed concedingly. “Oh, well,” she said. “Franco-American relations, I suppose.” She worked her dress and slip up past her waist, then pulled them over her head and lay them on top of her coat. She started to undo the garter strap from her stockings when David stopped her.

  “Uh-uh,” he said.

  She gazed at him loweringly. “Have you been snowing me?” she asked.

  Reaching forward, David twisted the light control knob, turning on the overhead bulb. Ellen started. “David.”

  “That’s my name.”

  She glanced around uneasily, then, seeing only darkness everywhere, settled back and crossed her legs. “All right” she said, “let’s just hope there isn’t a gendarme lurking behind some tree.”

  David didn’t answer, looking at her. He could feel desire mounting in him. If only he could lose himself this instant, drive away all apprehensions.

  “Le chat got your tongue?” she asked.

  “You will soon find out who has my tongue, madame.”

  “Don’t you think you’d better douse the—?” she began, then broke off as he turned the light off. He pushed the knob in, cutting off the outside lights as well, guided the car off the road. Braking it on the shoulder, he twisted the key to the left, stopping the motor but leaving the heater on.

  “Yes?” she asked, suspiciously.

  He turned to her, breath already quickening. With hurried movements, he discarded his suit coat and sweater; Ellen watched as he threw them in back. “Here?” she asked, trying to sound amused but only half succeeding.

  “Why not?” Twisting around, he put his hands on her. She made no sound as he pushed her head back with a kiss, running his hand across the taut projection of her breasts. He wanted her now. It wouldn’t be the same at the house.

  Ellen was pressed against his mouth now, her full lips parting under his. Their tongues began to play and David drew her upward, pulling her around until she straddled his lap. She was making tiny, whimpering noises which, he sensed, were as much worried as stimulated. He couldn’t stop, though; here, he could satisfy her, here it would work. He rubbed her back with slow caresses, then, reaching in between their bodies, found the zipper tab and pulled it down. He cupped his hands around her heated breasts, fondling and squeezing as they kissed. Ellen pulled her head back, breathing hard. “Oh God, I want to, darling, but—” She broke off, gasping, as he forced her back against the steering wheel, held apart the bone-stiff edges of her merry widow and, leaning forward, began to kiss her breasts and suckle them. “David,” she said, almost sobbing. She grabbed at his shoulders with talon-hard fingers, then, teeth clenching, seized her breasts and held them tautly to his lips.

  Suddenly she threw herself against him with a startled gasp and, jerking up his head, David saw the headlights of an approaching car. Blinded by the glare, he ducked his head back down, eyes closing. “Oh, Christ” he muttered.

  Ellen veered away from him and pulled her legs free; half crouching on the seat, she pulled at the zipper of her merry widow. “We’d better go,” she said, unable to conceal her disconcertion.

  “All right.” He twisted the ignition key and gunned the starting motor. Switching on the lights, he thumbed the transmission bar to Drive. They were on the road before the other car went by.

  For almost a minute, neither of them spoke. Then, as Ellen finished pulling on her top coat, David said, “I’m sorry, honey.”

  “That’s all right.” She shivered fitfully. “It’s not your fault.”

  “Well, I—” David swallowed “—might have found us a better spot.” If only he could tell her that it hadn’t been just a propensity for the unconventional; that he’d been afraid he couldn’t satisfy her at the house. “You were excited, weren’t you?” he asked.

  “I’m not impervious, David,” she said, her soft laugh insufficient to hide the pique behind her words.

  “I know that, honey. I just want to be sure you weren’t pretending for my sake.”

  Ellen sighed. “I’m not that clever,” she said.

  David’s grip contracted on the wheel rim. Damn it all, he thought; she’d been so beautifully excited, too. He felt the chill of sudden foreboding. What if that was all there was tonight? The idea made him queasy. “I’m sorry, El,” he said. “I really am.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about,” she said. She drew her coat together. “I was getting kind of cold anyway.”

  You didn’t feel cold, he thought. He let it go. “I’ll start a nice, big fire in the living room,” he said.

  “Or in the bedroom.”

  No, he thought. That wouldn’t do. Circumstances wouldn’t be the same up there; in bed, they’d probably go to sleep. And he had to satisfy her tonight—he just had to. He wondered, briefly, if he dared suggest finding a more isolated place to park, then decided against it. This time, she would, surely, ask him why he didn’t want to return to the house—and, beyond some vague excuse about not caring for its atmosphere, he had no answer. Anyway, he thought, there was no justifiable answer. The distraction was in him, not the house. Actually, he could make love to her there with far more ease; there was comfortable furniture, a fireplace, liquor, warmth and, most important, time and privacy.

  Cheered by this, David turned left and started driving down the hill which led to the beach road. He glanced towards the house on the bluff and saw that all its lights were out; Mrs. Brentwood must have gone to bed as soon as she’d gotten home. The memory of her face cut fleetingly across his mind. Who was it she reminded him of? Gladys Cooper? Irene Dunne?

  He glanced at Ellen. “Warmer now?”

  “Fine.”

  No more was said before they reached the house. David kept thinking of things to say but decided, each time, that she would prefer not to talk, needing time to regain com
posure. He wanted very much for her to have regained it by the time he tried to make love to her at the house.

  For that matter, he’d better start recovering himself, he realized. At the moment, sex seemed rather uninviting. It was incredible how rapidly desire could flare, then, with equal rapidity, disappear entirely. Under less demanding circumstances, he wouldn’t even be considering an attempt to re-establish a romantic bond; being a writer had the advantage, at least, of making him sensitive to mood. As things were, however, he felt that he had no choice. He had not made truly satisfying love to Ellen in far too long a time and, except for the unpleasant incident several minutes ago, the events of the evening seemed natural forerunners to lovemaking; it would be a shame to dissipate the aura of warmth and intimacy which their hours together had generated. It had to be tonight. They’d started on the wrong foot, true, but it was still the logical time.

  When they reached the house, he switched off the motor and put his arms around Ellen. He kissed her cheek, a corner of her lips. “I love you, El,” he said.

  She leaned her head against his and closed his eyes. “I love you, too,” she murmured. She kissed his cheek. “It’s been a lovely night.”

  “It isn’t over yet.”

  “No.” Her tone was noncommittal, making David realize that he would have to win back her interest. He wished that he didn’t feel it was so important, but he did.

  “Nobody can come driving through the living room,” he told her.

  Ellen made a faint noise but he wasn’t certain if it was amusement or not. He reached beneath the coat and stroked his palm along her leg, making her flinch a little. “Madame is oblivious?” he asked, part edgy, part intimidated.

  “Madame wants to warm her carcass first,” she said.

  “Done and done.” He patted her leg. Inside, warmed by the fire, a few martinis in her, she’d be all right.

  Ellen got her clothes and they ran to the front door, breath steaming. As he was trying to unlock the door, David dropped the ring of keys and couldn’t find it for nearly a minute, during that time torn between the impulse to curse at the bad luck which was making Ellen even colder and the inclination to laugh at his impression of himself, planning seduction when he couldn’t even get the front door open. He settled for the compromise of silence, found the key ring in the sand and opened the door. With a faint, tremulous moan, Ellen scuttled across the living room, dropped her clothes on a chair, and stood close to the gas heater, holding open her coat.