Earthbound

by Richard Matheson

  David shut the door and looked around, partially expecting to see Marianna in the room. A condensation of the resulting scene flickered through his mind: Ellen seeing her, finding out who she was, discovering her relationship to him. He shivered. Good ol’ guilt, he thought. Striding across the rug, he set fire to some crumpled newspaper, then dumped in driftwood fragments until flames began to crackle noisily, popping sparks in all directions. Stepping back, he looked at the fire briefly, then turned to Ellen.

  She was still by the heater, standing, legs apart, the coat held open. “Getting warmed up?” he asked. Her answer was a groan of pleasure.

  “That, I take it, is assent” he said, heading toward the dining alcove. Pushing into the kitchen, he turned on the overhead light. He took a pair of glasses from the cabinet above the sink, got the bottle of martini mix out of the refrigerator and returned to the living room.

  He glanced at Ellen as he poured her drink, pleased again to feel the molten pressure of desire in his loins. The skin of her thighs and upper chest appeared milk white against the blackness of her corselet and stockings. She looked little short of tantalizing with her arms outstretched, holding the coat wide open, her eyes shut and her lower trunk thrust forward toward the heater. “You make a dandy flasher,” he said.

  She smiled.

  “Here we go.” He held out the glass to her. Ellen opened her eyes and looked at it. “For me?” she asked. It sounded less a question than a mild dissent. David felt himself begin to tighten. “Warm you up,” he said.

  “Well …” She hesitated for another few seconds, then smiled. “All right.” She took the glass and waited as he poured his own martini.

  David put the bottle down on the table beside the heater and held up his drink. “To us?” he toasted.

  Ellen raised her glass and clinked it against his. ‘To us.”

  They each took a swallow and Ellen grimaced. “I don’t know if I’m ever going to get with martinis,” she said.

  David braced himself and worked his left arm around her waist beneath the coat. Leaning over, he kissed the warm flesh above her breasts, feeling, on the back of his neck, the buffeting heat from the gas flame. He straightened up and smiled at her. “You feel warm now,” he said.

  “Just about.” She looked into his eyes as if in search of something.

  “What?” he asked.

  She swallowed, dropped her gaze, then finally raised it again. “You do love me, don’t you?” she asked.

  “Of course, I—”

  “Think,” she interrupted, her tone one of almost fright. “Before you answer, think about it.”

  He wasn’t certain whether it was fear or determination which made him put down his drink, embrace and kiss her. At first, she only allowed him to do it, showing no reaction. Then, he felt her starting to respond and, taking the drink from her hand, he put it next to his own. Ellen slid her arms around his back and held him tightly as they kissed again. She drew her head back, breathing quickly. “Do you?” she demanded.

  “Yes.”

  “Then say it”

  David grasped at her hair with his left hand and kissed her hard. I do! he told himself. “I love you,” he told her, startled at the husky quavering in his voice.

  “Darling.” Ellen dropped her arms and let the coat fall. “Love me,” she whispered.

  David kissed her lingeringly, then, turning from her, moved to the sofa and pushed it against the raised hearth. He threw more driftwood on the fire and hurried back to Ellen, leading her across the room. Without a word, she clambered onto the sofa, hissing at the coldness of the cushions. David got their drinks and, settling down beside her, handed her one of the glasses. “Drink,” he said.

  Obediently, she took a sip.

  “All of it” he told her.

  Ellen raised the glass and swallowed every drop, gasping as she finished. She looked at him a moment then, abruptly, threw her glass into the fireplace. ‘You,” she muttered. David drained his glass and slung it after hers.

  Eyes never leaving his, Ellen rose to her knees and sat astride his lap again. “It’s going to be the way it used to be,” she said. “The way it used to be.” Leaning back, she unzipped her merry widow all the way and pulled apart its hooks and eyes. Letting it flop behind her on the hearth, she cupped both hands beneath her breasts and held them up. “For you,” she said. “With love.”

  David hugged her tightly, pressing his face against her chest. Now! he heard a voice commanding in his mind. He wanted desperately to lose himself in Ellen, forgetting everything except his love for her. “You’re my life … my life,” he murmured as he kissed her breasts.

  “Darling.” Ellen almost sobbed the word and, looking up, he saw a glistening of tears in her eyes. Shaking, he began to kiss her lips and cheeks. Don’t let me fail her, please don’t let me fail her! Unexpectedly, he groaned, unable to control it, shuddering as she took the groan for passion instead of what it was. Her fingers trembled, opening his clothes. Too much! he heard the voice again. He couldn’t stay with her, couldn’t match the rising frenzy of her need. Terror filled him. He began to shiver, breathing as convulsively as Ellen but with dread instead of ardor. His body felt distended, fevered, yet something held him, locked and helpless, allowing his desire to build but forbidding its expression—something deep within him, cold and poisonous, that had trapped his vitals and would not release them. Waves of nausea began assailing him. The room commenced to tilt and buckle. Ellen’s face became a pallid gelatine before his eyes. I’m sick! he thought in sudden horror. This was madness, this was what it felt like when the mind collapsed. He waited for the screams to crowd his throat.

  They never came. Abruptly, it was done and Ellen slumped against him, panting, eyes closed. Sight and balance flooded back across him and he found himself staring at the fire with the distinct impression that he hadn’t seen it for a long while. The sensation of abrupt recovery from unconsciousness pervaded him. The last time he had felt this way was when he’d bobbed up out of darkness as the sodium pentothal, which an oral surgeon had administered, wore off. There was that same feeling of baffled dullness, of having been the victim of duplicity. Added to this was the chilling knowledge that, in terms of anything beyond the barest physical gratification, he had, as dreaded, failed her once again.

  Ellen raised up slowly and looked at him. “You didn’t, did you?” she said.

  He swallowed. “Yes,” he said. “A little bit; in the beginning. I couldn’t hold it back.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right.”

  He bent forward and kissed her gently. “I wish it could have been together,” he said. He pressed his cheek to hers and closed his eyes. “It was wonderful,” he told her. “It really was. Just like it used to be.”

  He didn’t even try to pretend that she believed him.

  David lay inertly on his back, staring up into the darkness. Ellen was asleep. He listened to her breathing, deep and slow. At least he’d given her the mitigation of physical relief, he thought. It wasn’t much, but it was something. As for himself, the unexpended desire throbbed inside him still, waiting for release.

  Why hadn’t that release come before? he wondered again. Was their relationship at such an impasse that his body rebelled against it? There seemed no other feasible explanation. The circumstances had been extremely provocative—the fire’s heat and flickering light, the amnesic mellowing of alcohol, Ellen’s amorous appearance and behavior. What more could he want?

  Marianna, said his mind.

  He writhed a little, glowering. I have to sleep, he thought. They’d gone to bed hours ago, yet here he was still wide awake. Either I can’t keep my eyes open or I can’t get them shut, he thought disgustedly. He twisted onto his right side and stared at the dormer window.

  With increasing irritation, he listened to the dull explosions of surf in the distance. Why doesn’t someone turn the damn thing off? he thought. He clench
ed his teeth and hissed out jaded breath. Where was Marianna now? He thrust aside the question, but it kept returning. He still didn’t know where she lived. For a brief while, he had thought that she actually might live in that house on the bluff, but meeting Mrs. Brentwood had disposed of that idea. Where did she live then? What the hell’s the difference? he demanded of himself. He tried to blank his mind. Sleep, he told himself; just sleep.

  After a while, he sat up with a rumbling sigh. Ellen stirred, then slipped back into heavy sleep. Standing, he moved to the rocking chair and sat on its edge. What the hell am I doing this for? he wondered. Already, his feet were cold, the pajamas chilly on his skin. Why didn’t he go back to bed and warm up?

  Instead, he donned his bathrobe and slippers and sat on a window seat, looking out. Below, the ivory roof of the car glinted in the moonlight reminding him how luminescent the studio floor must be in the same light.

  What if Marianna were down there at this moment, waiting for him?

  David shivered fitfully. They’d better go home in the morning; he was weakening again. He scowled. The hell I will, he thought; I’m staying right here.

  What if she were down there? He couldn’t rid himself of the notion. What would he do if he were to descend to the studio and find her? Would he be able to send her off again? The way he felt? He shuddered, thinking of her body, of the way in which she’d given it. A sudden wave of blind, unreasoning desire swept across him and he came upon himself standing up. Shuddering, he sat again, glaring through the window, fingers tapping on the seat. Come on, come on, he thought; in reference to what, he had no idea. He glanced across his shoulder at Ellen, somehow aggravated by her being so immersed in sleep.

  All right, he thought, abruptly, she can do it, I can do it, he’d get dressed and walk. Shunning the implication that he had in mind, determining where Marianna lived, he stood and moved to the rocking chair, unfastening his bathrobe. He pulled his clothes on hastily, making no attempt at stealth, part of him, he sensed, wanting Ellen to wake up and talk him out of it.

  She didn’t wake up. She didn’t even stir. Dressed in under a minute, David walked to the bed and stood beside it, looking down at her. It was too dark for him to see her face; she was a shadow, a sound. I don’t really want to go, he told her in his mind. For some reason he felt afraid. Turning quickly, he left the room. He’d get his camping jacket now, leave the house and walk along the beach. To where? goaded his mind. He ignored it.

  As he reached the landing, an impulse struck him to enter the studio and, opening the door, he went inside. Unable to see a thing, he felt his way across the floor and pulled a drape aside. Déjà vu! he thought. The instant seemed a startling duplication of the one the night before when he had stood here looking at the moon-silvered beach, the frothy breaking of the waves. As he recalled, the beauty of it had depressed him then as well. The only difference seemed to be that he was going out to walk instead of Ellen.

  When the door clicked shut, it was as though he dropped, abruptly, into icy water. He whirled, the jolting of his heartbeat like a fist blow at his chest.

  “I’m back,” she said.

  He stared at the outline of her, motionless beyond the reach of moonlight.

  “I’ve been here all night” she told him, “waiting for you.”

  “Here?” His voice was barely audible.

  “I tried to stay away. I couldn’t though. I came back and used my key.”

  He swallowed, trying to regain control. “How long ago?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” she said. He watched uneasily as she moved across the studio, tightening when, without a moment’s hesitation, she pressed against him, sliding her arms around his back. He felt the magnetic drawing again. “You want me, don’t you?” she murmured. It was not a question.

  The studio seemed strangely warm, the air heavy with a kind of musky, clinging redolence. “You’re mine now, aren’t you?” she said.

  “Aren’t you?”

  David shook his head, unable to speak. As he watched in mute distraction, Marianna stepped back, smiling, and with languid grace, crossed her arms at the waist and pulled her sweater up. He trembled as she dropped it on the floor and started to remove her skirt. He stared at her in torpid silence, knowing that he couldn’t leave. Marianna knew it, too. Her movements were prolonged as she unhooked her bra, then, leaning forward slowly, let it flutter loose. She straightened up and stood erect before him, pale, voluptuous, her incredible beauty bathed in moonlight. David murmured, “God.”

  Marianna thrust her arms out and he lurched to her embrace, their bodies clinging as they kissed with savage fervor. Marianna’s lips spread open under his, her head twisting from side to side. Suddenly, she bit his neck. “Mine!” she gasped.

  “Yes.”

  “Say it then!”

  “Yours.” His voice went grating, maddened. “Yours!”

  A piercing coldness wrenched up violently in his stomach, making him cry out in shock. Suddenly weak, he clung to Marianna, gasping. “What—?” he mumbled.

  “Darling, darling.”

  “What?”

  “You’re mine now. Mine.”

  “What was it?” He was almost pleading.

  Smiling, Marianna drew him to the couch.

  “Our wedding,” she said.

  SATURDAY

  Ellen put down the news section of the New York Times and looked across the room at him; he had, just now, halted on the bottom step. “Well,” she said. It was almost two o’clock.

  In the momentary silence, challenge seemed to flash between them. “I’m sorry I slept so late,” he said. He tried to sound crisp and unperturbed but only sounded tired.

  “Don’t be silly,” Ellen told him. ‘That’s what we’re here for.”

  Is it? David nearly asked. He nodded once and headed for the kitchen painfully aware that his gait was close to that of an old man.

  Ellen began to put aside the newspaper section. “Don’t get up,” he told her.

  “I don’t mind.”

  “I’m only having coffee,” he explained.

  “You aren’t hungry?”

  “No.” The thought of eating was repellant to him. “I’ll have some breakfast later.”

  “Brunch,” she said.

  “Or brupper.” He was startled by the rancor in his voice and, stopping, looked at her with an affected smile. “Where’d you get the paper?” he asked.

  “In town.”

  “You’ve been to town?”

  “I had a lot of time,” she said.

  Was she baiting him deliberately? He turned toward the kitchen again. Crossing the dining alcove, he pushed open the door.

  It was cold in the kitchen. David shivered as he poured some coffee into a pan and began to heat it. He thought about having a slice of buttered toast but even that seemed offensive. His stomach was oppressively on edge, the start of a headache pulsing at his skull. He got a drink of water from the sink; his fourth since waking up. It’s like a hangover, he thought; except that one martini could scarcely be the cause. His drunkenness had been with Marianna’s flesh. The memory of that lunatic intoxication made him shudder.

  He focused his eyes to see the coffee boiling. Turning off the flame, he poured it into a mug and set the pan in the sink. The involuntary groan he uttered, sitting down, made him wince. He leaned back heavily against the chair, his body feeling ponderous. He’d slept for nearly twelve hours, too: close to half a day, for Christ’s sake. David shook his head, grimacing. He was coming apart at the seams. Another day or so, I’ll be a basket case, he thought.

  He wrapped his chilled fingers around the mug. He ought to sit in the other room; it was warm there. He didn’t budge. He had the odd conviction that he’d taken root. He sighed and took a sip of coffee. Even raising his arm felt strenuous. He looked at the mug as he set it down. It was like the ones Ellen and he had used when they were first married. As he recalled, they’d cost a quarter apiece in those days. />
  He shivered convulsively. God, this place is cold! he thought. He still couldn’t fathom how the unheated studio could feel so warm when he and Marianna were together. Granted, I’m in flames, he thought derisively, still—

  The thought broke off as Ellen pushed into the kitchen. “Why are you sitting here?” she asked. “It’s cold.”

  “I know.”

  He must have looked and sounded pitiful, he realized. Ellen’s smile was almost pained. She lay her hand on his shoulder and squeezed it once. “Sit in the dining room,” she said.

  “All right” He tried to stand without revealing his fatigue.

  “That’s all you’re having?” Ellen asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be glad to make you some bacon and eggs.”

  “No, no, this is fine. I haven’t really woken up yet” I mean my appetite hasn’t woken up yet, he thought defensively. He considered saying it aloud. “Join me,” he said, appalled by the weariness in his voice.

  Ellen hesitated. “Well—” She looked around. “Is there any coffee left?”

  “I think so.”

  David watched her lift the pot and shake it. As she moved to get the pan, he turned away. “I’ll wait outside,” he said. She didn’t answer.

  He sat in one of the captain’s chairs, his back to the window. I should have gotten dressed, he thought. It would have made his being up seem more official. He stared at his hands holding the mug. The low-ceilinged alcove was dim and shadowy. He glanced across his shoulder, frowning. Another scintillating day, he thought. He turned back, blowing out disgruntled breath.

  He gazed at his hands again, wondering where Marianna was. Still in bed, sleeping off last night’s dissipation? He closed his eyes. He simply could not believe it, that was all. He knew it had happened, yet it seemed, like last time, more the memory of a lurid dream than of reality. And it wasn’t only guilt-afflicted conscience looking for a subterfuge. What had occurred was, literally, unbelievable. Marianna was a paradox. She came and went without consistency. Physically, he knew her, yes; knew her with such brutish incontinence that, even now, the memory of it choked his breath. Beyond that, there was nothing. He blinked, incredulous, realizing that he didn’t even know her last name. When she’d introduced herself, it had seemed quixotically Atting that she tell him only her Arst name. Now, suddenly, it seemed preposterous. One name, no address, almost no identity. It made him feel obtuse, insensitive.