In Milton Lumky Territory

by Philip Kindred Dick

  He lay there, thinking about that.

  16

  Lying on the bed, he thought back to the first day they had seen her, the young new woman teacher standing at the board. Alone in the rented room he recalled that important day, years ago, when he had come into the classroom and seen the new teacher writing in large clear letters:

  MISS REUBEN

  Miss Reuben wore a blue suit, not a regular dress. It seemed to all of them as if she were dressed up for some occasion, for church or visiting. The color of her hair amazed them, and there was some whispering about that. It was yellow, not dark gray as was Mrs. Jaffey’s. None of them had ever seen a teacher with yellow hair; it was like the hair of one of the girls, not a teacher’s hair at all.

  When she turned from the board they saw she was smiling at them, at the whole roomful of them, not to any one of them in particular. Some of them were frightened by that and took seats in the far back of the room. Her face had a freckled, reddish roundness, smooth and peculiarly active. Her eyes, too, struck them as alarming; she seemed to be watching everything in the room. She did not focus on anything. Some of the children noticed that she had a cluster of white flowers fastened to her suit, where her coat came together and buttoned. The buttons of her blue suit were white, too; they noticed that.

  The final bell rang.

  Seating herself at Mrs. Jaffey’s desk, Miss Reuben said. “All right, children.” The few of them that had been talking now ceased. “I’m going to be your teacher until the end of the semester,” Miss Reuben said. “Mrs. Jaffey won’t be coming back. She’s very ill. Now, I want to take the roll.” On the desk was Mrs. Jaffey’s attendance book. “I know you’re supposed to be seated alphabetically,” Miss Reuben said, “but I can see you’re not. There’s not one of you in your regular seat.”

  All the boys had gone over to one side, leaving the girls in a group by themselves. And no one was in the front row. So that was how Miss Reuben had known. But they all felt uneasy. How clever she was. Mrs. Jaffey would never have noticed, and yet Miss Reuben had seen that at first glance.

  A girl stood up and said, “I’m Mrs. Jaffey’s proctor. I always call the roll for her.”

  This was true. But the new teacher Miss Reuben said, “Thank you, but today I’ll take the roll myself. Here’s what I want you to do.” Again she smiled at all of them together. “When I read a student’s name I don’t want him or her to answer. Do you understand that?”

  Taken aback, they remained silent. They had planned to answer “president,” as they had done with the temporary teacher during the last day and a half.

  “What I want you to do,” Miss Reuben said; sitting with her hands folded in the center of the desk, “is this. When I call a student’s name I want all the other children—together!—to point to him or her. And I don’t want him to speak a word. Do you all understand that?”

  Miss Reuben called a name, then. A few pupils pointed to that boy. Miss Reuben scrutinized the boy and made an entry in the attendance book. Again she called a name. This time more pupils pointed. By the time she had finished calling the roll, the students were enthusiastically pointing one another out to her.

  “Good,” she said. “Now I think I have you all firmly in mind. I’m going to have you sit alphabetically, the way Mrs. Jaffey did. And if I call on you and I get your name wrong, I want everybody else to tell me right away.” She smiled. “So please get to your feet and without any noise seat yourselves in your usual seats.”

  As they did so she stared intently at them, as if she were watching for something in particular. None of them knew what it was, and even the independent boys from the back of the room had nothing to say as they took their usual seats. “Fine,” Miss Reuben said, when it had been done.

  All was still. They sat waiting, fearfully.

  “You children have had quite a good time the last couple of weeks,” Miss Reuben said. “You’ve had your summer vacation in advance. You’ve done exactly as you please. I hope you enjoyed it, because in the next month you’re going to be looking back to it and thinking to yourselves how lucky you were.

  “Do you care to know what the result of your behavior was? You drove an old lady out of this school. An old lady who was one of the original teachers here at Garret A. Hobart Grammar School. Before your parents were born.

  “And in another month she was going to retire. You made her last month here impossible. You made it impossible for her to have her last month, which she deserved.

  “You made her ill.

  “Of course, I know not all of you were equally responsible. I had a long talk with Mrs. Jaffey.

  “I asked her who was responsible. Which of you.

  “Do you know what she said?

  “Mrs. Jaffey wouldn’t tell me which of you. ‘They’re all fine children,’ she said. What do you think of that? You hounded her out of this school where she taught forty-one years and you made her ill, and do you think she’d tell on you? No, not a word.”

  Even the larger, tougher boys had slunk down in their seats. Shame and unhappiness touched them all.

  “Do you know what you’re going to do?” Miss Reuben said, in a voice that grew gradually louder. “You’re going to write to Mrs. Jaffey and tell her how sorry you are.

  “I’m going to find out which of you are the smart-alecks. I’ll find out. I can tell.

  “I’ve taught children a lot older than you. Back in the East where I come from I taught a high school class.

  “Some of you are going to bide your time and then you’re going to test me. All right. We’ll see. I’m waiting.”

  From the rear of the room a rude noise sounded.

  Miss Reuben arose from her chair. “All right,” she said. She walked slowly down the aisle toward the back of the room. Her face was red and her forehead and lips were swollen. As she passed the children they saw that her eyes were bright and sharp and shining, like a bird’s eyes.

  No one said anything. They cowered.

  At the back of the room Miss Reuben stopped by a boy’s desk. That boy had not made the noise. Miss Reuben gazed down at him until he slouched with apprehension. They all saw him trembling, and some of them sniggered. At once Miss Reuben spun around and said,

  “Be still!”

  They were instantly still.

  “Stand up,” Miss Reuben said to the boy.

  The boy got to his feet, shoving his chair back clumsily.

  “What’s his name?” Miss Reuben asked me class.

  Together, they all said, “Skip Stevens, Miss Reuben.”

  Swallowing with nervousness, Skip Stevens said, “I didn’t do it.”

  “Do what?” Miss Reuben said. “I didn’t accuse you of doing anything.” She said it in such a manner that all the rest of them knew it was a joke, and they screamed with laughter.

  As soon as they were finished, Skip Stevens garnered himself together and said as steadily and clearly as possible, “He did it.” He pointed to Joe St. James, who had done it.

  Miss Reuben said to him, “Come up front, Skip. You’re going to sit in front of the desk.” Without glancing back, she started off up the aisle to her desk. Skip Stevens knew that he had to follow. He had done nothing, but he had to go along with her. His head down, conscious of his mortification, he shuffled along after her.

  “Get a chair,” Miss Reuben ordered him.

  He went to find an empty desk-chair from the back. But Miss Reuben said,

  “Over here. Right beside me. Where I can watch you.”

  So he had to drag a chair up and sit directly beside her. He tried to keep his eyes fixed on the floor; he tried to pretend that she was not there, close to him.

  Time passed. The class was silent, afraid she would notice them and ask them something or make them do something.

  What have I done wrong? he asked himself, his head down, eyes fixed on the floor. Why am I here? How did this ever come about?

  There’s no reason for her to do something like th
at, he thought to himself. It’s unfair. Hatred of her grew in him, but, far more than that, the sense of guilt, of having made a mistake, maintained itself. The hatred passed away, but the feeling that he had been unable to do the right thing remained. It’s my own fault, he thought to himself. I made a mistake and I’m paying for it. She’s right. I hate her, he thought, but she’s right. Goddamn her.

  He put his hands up over his face, covering his eyes.

  “Have any of you ever been to New York?” Miss Reuben said presently, again smiling at them in her stern, efficient, impersonal way.

  Finally, when no one said anything or dared to stir, a girl raised her hand.

  “When was it?” Miss Reuben said.

  The girl said, “Three years ago, Miss Reuben.”

  To Skip Stevens, Miss Reuben said, “Go to the supply closet and get out the ruled paper and pass it around to each pupil.” She showed him the size sheet she had in mind. “For the first thing this morning,” she said, arising and going to the board, “I want you to write a composition.” On the board in huge printed letters she wrote:

  MY IDEA OF NEW YORK CITY

  “I want you to imagine you’re on a trip East, to New York,” she said. “I want you to tell me all the things you suppose you’d see there. Write about the subway, if you want. Or Coney Island. Or the stock market. Or the Yankees. How you think a ballgame would be to watch. Or the museums. Whatever you’d like.”

  Without resistance, each student accepted the piece of paper that was handed out. The students began at once to scratch away. He returned to his seat, directly by Miss Reuben’s desk, and picked up his own pencil to write his name at the right-hand top of the paper. The only noise in the room was the handling of the paper, the breathing of the students, the pencils and erasers.

  His seat was so close to Miss Reuben that he could smell the flowers that she wore. In the stuffy, closed-up room the smell reminded him of blackberries. Of lying in the garden, in the late afternoons at the end of summer, among the sweet, warm blackberries under the vines.

  What the hell do I know about New York, he thought to himself. I’ve never been there. I’ve driven all around, but I’ve never driven that far East. It’s just something more to make us suffer. Something to make me feel more shame.

  I can’t do it, he decided.

  Presently Miss Reuben said, “Skip Stevens.” Her eyes were fixed on him, directly at him across the desk. “Why aren’t you writing?”

  He had pushed away his paper and put down his pencil. On the paper was nothing but his name and the title of the composition.

  “I can’t do it,” he told her. He sank down in his seat and avoided looking at her; his voice faded off into a mumble so that he could hardly make it sound. “Is it okay if I don’t write it?” he asked.

  Miss Reuben said, “Everyone else continue writing.” Bringing her chair around she leaned toward him and over him, saying, “Why can’t you write about New York?”

  “I never have been there,” he said. The smell of blackberries became so strong that he held his breath. He did not dare breathe; he felt hot all over, and his skin itched. He thought he might sneeze.

  “Couldn’t you pretend?” she said in his ear, softly, bending down so that she was speaking only to him, in a whisper that none of the other students were intended to hear. Her voice lost its harshness. His head down, he shut his eyes. Above him, close to him, her voice murmured and rustled. “Just think what it would be like,” she said, her lips almost at his ear. “Wouldn’t it be very nice?”

  “I guess so,” he answered, not daring to raise his head or open his eyes. Yes, he thought, it would be nice. But it’s too far. Too unreal. There’s no point in concerning myself about something that remote. “I’d like to go to New York,” he said to her. “I’d like to do a lot of things. But hell—I know my own limitations. I’ll never get there. Let’s try to be realistic.”

  She said, “Then what would you like to do your composition on?”

  I have no desire to do it on anything, he thought as he lay on his back, his hands over his face. Why should I? Where will it get me? Can’t I find anything pleasant? Imagine this or that; an imaginary journey to a peaceful, comfortable land. He picked up the pencil and considered. Anything? he wondered. On any topic at all? Am I free to do that? Pretend anything I wish?

  “I think I’ll write about what’s going to happen,” he said. I’ll imagine ahead into the future a few months. Even more: several years. How it would have worked out between us. If everything had gone okay. If I could have brought the goddamn typewriters back and go to working on them down at the office, in the evenings, until for almost no money I had transformed them so that they could be sold at a really good price. If she hadn’t gone behind my back and dumped them, and then, when I found out—as I was inevitably going to find out—she dumped me, too. And put an end to everything. So all I can do is lie here and put together an imaginary composition.

  The title, he said to himself, is:

  HOW WE MADE A KILLING WITH THE JAP TYPEWRITERS.

  AND WHAT BECAME OF US BECAUSE OF THAT.

  When the Mithrias typewriters get sold, he decided, we’ll have enough money to interest some major American typewriter company. We can really represent them, once we get the franchise. Maybe they won’t want to dole out any more franchises in Boise. But that won’t bother us. We can open up a place somewhere else with all the money we’ve made. We can operate anywhere we want.

  He thought, For instance, we could open a store in Montario. I know the town so darn well we’d really have an edge. I’ll have to drop down there, some Sunday, by myself. And see what the situation is.

  * * * * *

  The Luxury Movie Theater was open, since it was Sunday, and a few boys in jeans and girls in skirts and blouses had collected around the box office.

  At each end of town the drugstores were open and doing business, but except for them and the cafés and the movie theater everything was shut up tight. Most of the parking slots were empty. Dust and a litter of paper lay spread out over the pavement and street. Beyond the railroad tracks the cut-rate gas station was doing a fair business with out-of-state cars. And, in the front of the Roman Columns Motel, on the lawn, a woman in shorts sat reading a magazine.

  Getting out of his car he strolled around, gazing into the shop windows. Most of the stores had been there all his life, but he saw them now from a different perspective; he was not a kid or even a customer but a potential business-equal wanting to open up his own place. And it was not a dream but a very real, close possibility.

  Down at the corner, in his drugstore, Mr. Hagopian puttered about with a display of insect repellent. There goes the fat old man, Bruce thought. Still glum. If he saw me he’d revert to being sore at me. As long as he lives.

  I wonder, he thought, what old man Hagopian would think if I opened up a store next to his.

  Will he have a heart attack? Will he chase me around with a broom? Or, he thought, maybe he’ll be unable to understand that it’s me.

  Hands in his pockets he wandered on, across the railroad tracks and then back past the abandoned warehouses. On the bench at the train station an elderly man with a cane sat slapping at the long-winged lake flies that gathered in the afternoon air.

  Far off on the highway a truck horn tooted.

  * * * * *

  In August they closed up the store in Boise and moved everything to Montario. They had rented what had formerly been the town’s older hardware store. It had been vacant for months, a narrow, dust-begrimed building squeezed in between a Scandinavian bakery and a laundry. But rent was low. And they did not have to buy any of the fixtures; the owner let them simply rip out the ancient counters and lighting and throw everything away.

  Early in the morning he and his wife arrived wearing old clothes. First they scoured and then they painted. And then, using basalt blocks and mortar, he built a new front the length of the display window. He put up a sturdy stone window
box for shrubs and planted a couple of evergreens and some short-stemmed perennials. And finally he took off the door and mounted in its place a modern glass and copper door with a star-shaped lock.

  Business, almost from the start, flowed in satisfactorily. But during the second or third month he became conscious of something that neither he nor Susan had anticipated. Nothing in the town interested him any longer. Even operating his own business there had a monotony to it; the same old Hill Street from his childhood confronting him every day, and the same Idaho farmers, and even with a good steady business he would never be really happy. So he began to cast around, trying to stir up some new opportunity. Now, for the first time, he began to think in terms of a real move; not just down the highway a dozen miles, but a move perhaps to a city he had never seen before, another state entirely.

  And, too, this was still Milton Lumky territory.

  One afternoon Lumky dropped by with his leather satchel, on his official rounds for the Whalen Paper Company.

  “Where’s your car?” Susan said. “I don’t see it.”

  “I sold it,” Milt said. “Too hard to get service for it out on the road.” He pointed out the window at a foreign sedan parked at the curb. “I traded it in on a Swedish car.”

  “Won’t you have trouble getting service on a Swedish car?” Bruce asked. They walked outdoors, to the far side of the street, to view the car.

  “It’s new,” Milt said. “It won’t need service.”

  From where they stood they could see Susan inside the office, at work behind one of the desks.

  “How’d you happen to locate yourselves in a dinky out-of-the-way town like Montario?” Milt asked him.