The Broken Bubble

by Philip Kindred Dick

  “No,” she said. “I just want to look at you.”

  That seemed to trouble him; he did not enjoy being looked at. Gradually he became embarrassed.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “I don’t know, It’s so light in here.”

  “The light?” She raised herself up. “Oh,” she said. “You think it’s wrong for me to see you. Is that it?”

  “I just don’t understand why, you like to lie around doing nothing.”

  But still she sat, resting back on her heels, her bare knees jutting out before her, her palms resting on her thighs. And his dismay increased. “There’s nothing wrong with this,” she said. “Are you ashamed of me? Are you ashamed of yourself?” She tossed the covers away from him; the covers settled to the floor, leaving both of them uncovered. “You have a nice body . . . you should be proud of it.”

  He got up, picked up his clothes, and dressed. And she watched that, too.

  “Let’s eat,” he said.

  Remaining on the bed, she said, “I just want to lie here.”

  “Come on!” His face was sullen.

  She said, “Lie here with me.” Stretched out on the bed, she lifted up her hand, reaching toward him. “I thought you were insatiable.” His discomfort struck her as ironic. “Now that I’m rested up, you don’t want to. Or do you just want to do it at night?”

  “You’re only supposed to do it at night,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s dark,” he said.

  She laughed. The bizarre modesty . . . the stilted ideas. Old teachings: concealment and—the word that came to her mind was prudery.

  During the night he had battled with her until she was sore and worn out, but now, in the sunlight, he refused even to stay in the room.

  “How was it?” she asked.

  “Okay,” he said angrily.

  And, she thought, he could not bring himself to speak of it. Wrong to speak, she thought. And she thought: My god. Wrong to talk about it in front of a woman. He can talk about it with his drugstore pals; they probably talk about it all the time. But I’m like his mother or a teacher, I shouldn’t hear about it.

  And she thought that in a stupid sense she was in love with him. She had a crush on him, an adolescent crush; the kid in her was aroused.

  But she could not help being contemptuous. What did he have to say? He was ignorant, young; he shuffled his feet and stood inert. But he was nice-looking. He was strong and, she thought, he had a natural purity. From his youth. The fact that he was so young. He had done so little; he knew so little.

  “How did you imagine it would be,” she said, “when you were a child? Is it anything like you expected? Or did you have a lot of idealistic dreams and notions . . .”

  He grunted.

  “Do you know anything about erogenous zones?” she said.

  On his face was an expression of distrust and horror: he did not know what she meant, but he did not like the sound of it.

  “I think there’re nine of them,” she said. “In a woman. Probably it differs between different women.”

  At the door he lingered; he was unable to leave. But he wanted to leave.

  She said, “Would you feel better if I put something on?”

  “You ought to get up,” he said.

  “Did you know that some women can tome to a climax by fondling their breasts?”

  He left the room. In the kitchen he collected eggs and bacon from the refrigerator. For a while she remained on the bed, and then she got up and put on a skirt and blouse. And then she changed her mind. She put on only a half slip, from her waist to her knees. Wearing that, she followed him into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

  Smoking a cigarette, she watched him fix himself breakfast. “What is it?” she said. “Do I bother you?”

  “Go put something more on,” he said.

  “I don’t get a chance to do this,” she said. “How many times in my life can I loll around like this? I don’t have to work today . . . I can’t go to work with my eye the way it is.”

  “Suppose somebody comes.”

  She shrugged. “Suppose they do. You can answer the door.”

  “Suppose Jim Briskin shows up.”

  “Oh,” she said, eyeing him, “does that worry you?”

  “I d-d-don’t like it.”

  “What do you want me to put on? Do you want me to dress up? Are we going somewhere?”

  He seated himself across from her and began to eat . . .. The smell of bacon made her ill, but she remained at the table. Smoke from her cigarette drifted around him; turning his chair, he ate with his plate between his knees.

  “That’s no way to eat,” she said.

  “Go to hell,” he mumbled, his mouth full, his face flushed.

  “Didn’t your mother teach you how to act at the table? Does Rachael let you eat that way? There’s so many things you’re going to have to learn. What about your clothes? You can’t wear those again today. Don’t you have anything else you can wear?”

  “They’re home.”

  “Then buy some more. Or go get them.” Lazily she leaned back, her arm over the top of the chair. “Why don’t you take the car and go by your place and pick up your clothes? And you need a shave.” Reaching, she touched his chin; he ducked away. “It’s true. You can’t go out like that.”

  She went into the bedroom and finished dressing. When she came out, he was standing at the living room window, his hands in the back pockets of his slacks. The crease was gone from the slacks, and they hung unevenly, bagging at the knees. All night his clothes had been piled up on the chair.

  “How do you like this skirt?” she said; she had put on a bright blue skirt and a white frilly blouse.

  He said nothing; he did not look.

  “I thought I’d go downtown and shop,” she said. “If I’m not going to have to go to work, there’re some clothes I want to buy. I have a list of errands.”

  “How about your eye?”

  “It’s improving.” She went to the basin in the bathroom and splashed cold water on it. The skin was discolored, but it was not as hard, not as distended.

  “You can’t go outside looking like that,” he said at the bathroom door. “You look awful.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Well stay here, then.”

  “I’m not sticking around here,” he said vehemently. “I can’t stand just s-s-sitting around. Anyhow, I have to get over to Larsen’s. I’m supposed to be there every day.”

  “All right,” she said, “you do that. I’ll stay here and catch up on my letter writing.” As an afterthought she added, “there’s another thing you probably should do.”

  “What?”

  “Shouldn’t you call Rachael and tell her you’re okay? She’s probably worried about you.”

  Art said, “Let’s go away.”

  “Go away? With you?”

  He gave her a deadly, impassioned look.

  Sobered, she said, “What do you mean? For how long?”

  “Let’s just go.”

  “My job,” she said.

  “The hell with your job. Pack your stuff up and let’s go.”

  “Do you have any money?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Then,” she said, “how can we go away?” Now she felt more secure. “And I don’t have any money. If you want, you can look around; look in my purse if you care to.”

  “You can sell your car.”

  “No, I can’t.” The presumption shocked her, the absolute disregard of her interests. “I don’t have the pink slip. I still owe eighteen hundred dollars on it. I won’t own it until May 1958.”

  “You can borrow on it.” He seemed to have made up his mind. Dealing her possessions out, she thought.

  “Why do you want to go away?” she asked, unable to follow the process involved. Impulsive, she thought; it was a boy’s whim. But the coolness was shocking. The assumptions.

  Art said, “Somebody might c-c-c
ome here.”

  “Like who?”

  “Jim Briskin.”

  “Why does Jim Briskin worry you?”

  “Because,” he said in his brusque, unreasoning voice, “you’re his girl.”

  He made her pack all her things: her clothes from the closet, medicine from the bathroom, the cosmetics from her vanity table in the bedroom, the slips and bras and underpants and stockings and sweaters and blouses from the dresser drawers. As fast as he could, he carried everything to the bed, on which her suitcases rested end to end, one of them already full, the next half full. Whenever she looked up, there he was with more things. No limit, she thought. How systematic he was. And, she thought, in the face of this flow she drifted along she was captured and held fast.

  “What else?” he demanded.

  “There’s enough here already,” she said. “I don’t really need all this.” He said, “I don’t know what you need. Let’s not take it; take what you need.”

  “If you won’t tell me where we’re going or how long we’ll be gone, I can’t tell what I need. Isn’t that so?”

  But his mind was on the car. “People sell cars they don’t own. You can get something out of it.” Picking up the telephone, he called a number. As she packed, she listened to him; be was asking questions in monosyllables and grunts.

  She thought: If I am not careful and do not keep some control, I will give him the car. I will let him take everything.

  “Who was that?” she said when he hung up. “Who did you call?”

  “My brother.”

  “I didn’t know you had a brother. Is he older than you?”

  The idea was ominous: a bigger, more formidable Art. The same, she thought, the same but larger.

  “He says you can sell your equity,” Art said.

  “How does he know?”

  “He has a used car lot.”

  “It doesn’t make any difference,” she said. “I’m not going to part with my car.”

  “How big’s your equity?”

  She said, “You can forget it, Art. I have to have that car.” From the heap which he had assembled on the bed, she separated towels; they would not need towels.

  “Once you get on something,” she said, “you just go on and on. If you’ll shut up about the car—” She pretended not to see him; she carried the towels back to the dresser. “I have some money in a savings account.”

  “How much?”

  “The passbook’s in the drawer.” She indicated the table. “I forget. Whatever it is, you can have it.” He opened the passbook. “Two hundred dollars,” he said, pleased. “That’ll do.”

  “What are you going to do about clothes?” she asked. “Your own clothes.” Reluctantly he said, “What kind of clothes do I need?”

  “Don’t you know? Good god, don’t you buy your own clothes? Does she buy them for you?”

  His eyes on the floor, he said, “Socks, I guess.”

  “Socks and shirts and a suit of some kind and underwear.” Her voice was rising, and she remembered the trouble it had caused, the fights with Jim; she heard herself gain the acrimonious tone, the animation. And underneath it was something different, something that she did not recognize. “You’re as helpless as a baby. Go out and go to some men’s clothing store and tell them your stuff was destroyed or it was all lost. Get a neutral suit, blue or brown or gray, single-breasted. Don’t get any sport coats.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” she said, “sport coats make you look like a kid dressed up for Saturday night.” He was attending, aware of her conviction. “Get a couple of sport shirts,” she said, “and some plain white shirts.” And then the yearning beneath the anger came out, and she said, “I’ll go with you.”

  “No,” he said.

  But she had made up her mind. Going through her purse, she kept alive a running patter of talk; her eagerness was working through her, and she could not shut it off. “Why should I stake you to an outfit? What kind of a thing is this? Am I supposed to buy your clothes and feed you and support you? Am I keeping you, is that it? What am I supposed to be getting out of it?”

  He had no answer; he hung his head.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” she said. “You’re supposed to look out for a woman, not live off her. I even have to think for you; I have to tell you how to dress yourself and cross the street. How long do you think I’m going to put up with this? I think I’ve had just about enough. This really is something. You better take a good look at yourself.”

  “Calm down,” he said.

  But she could not calm down. “Do you know what’s going to happen?” she said. “I’m the one who’s going to have to suffer for all this. I’ll lose my lease here. I’ll probably lose my job. And Rachael’s probably after me, and Jim Briskin too. And I’ll wind up borrowing on my car. I can’t afford to do that, Art; I just can’t. And that’s the last of Bob Posin. You don’t have to worry. If the police show up, it’ll be me they’ll arrest. Contributing to the delinquency of a minor. God, you’re just a child; you’re like a baby, a little boy. My little boy.” She swept past him, hurrying away from him so that she was not close enough to touch him; she did not trust herself so close to him.

  Going into the bedroom, she closed the door, stood for a moment, and then she thought, what’s gone wrong with me? What is it? Taking off her skirt and blouse, she changed to a blue suit. She made herself up with more powder than usual; she obscured the discoloration around her eye. Then she put on stockings and heels and a white hat with a veil. That does it, she thought. Except for the purse and gloves. She put her things into a dark leather purse, tugged on her gloves, and opened the door. Her muscles were so unresponsive that she thought some blight had fallen onto her; she was dominated by invisible fluids. As if the blight had made a passage into her nerve centers and had lodged there.

  “I don’t think my eye will be too noticeable like this,” she said.

  Art said, “You look like you’re going to a wedding.”

  “Do I?” Approaching him, she said, “What about my eye? How does it look?”

  “Not too bad. You c-c-can still see it.”

  But she saw his admiration; she knew how good this suit was for her. She saw the response. “Jim likes this suit,” she said.

  “You look okay,” he said, and that was as much as he would say. Disappearing into the bathroom, he spent a long time with his hair. She waited, knowing that he was fixing himself up as best he could.

  Her suit made her feel superior. She was raised up, maintained. She went about the apartment, smoking, pausing to watch his progress. In this high state she was lazy and at ease. Art, in the bathroom, labored at the mirror; she walked in to inspect his progress. The mirror gave back their combined reflection. How much larger he was than she. But, she thought, she looked good with him; she looked trim and tidy. This was a deep pleasure for her, and she made the most of it. She felt wealthy, expansive; supervising him, she felt aristocratic.

  “You have to shave,” she said.

  “With what?”

  Returning to the bedroom, she rested one of the suitcases on the chair arm; opening it, she took out a plastic-wrapped package from a side pocket. “You can use mine.”

  He was astonished to see a regular razor and blades. Beside the plastic package was a blue box; on its side were elegantly printed letters, and as he accepted the razor, he read the letters, slowly, unbelievingly. On his face the dismay was so great that she had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  No words were audible. He stared at the box.

  “Oh,” she said innocently, “my diaphragm. I had that out the other night. Didn’t you notice?” Still he said nothing. “No,” she said, “I guess you didn’t. I have to use it.” She was curious. “Doesn’t Rachael own a diaphragm?”

  “Do you know what a diaphragm is?”

  His lips moved. “Sure.”

  “She can get one now,” she
said. “Now that she’s married. She ought to have one. Tell her. What do you use instead?”

  “N-n-nothing.”

  “She should use something. A diaphragm is the safest. She can go to a gynecologist and get herself fitted. They’ll measure her, and then she can get it at any drugstore. This one belongs to me and Jim . . . I got it when we were married. By the California Joint−Property Laws half of it is his.” She was enjoying herself, and she pursued him back into the bathroom. His arms and face vanished under the spray of water in the bowl; his back to her, he began industriously to wash and lather himself.

  While he shaved—stripped down to his pants—she was leaning against the door-jamb, her arms folded. The bathroom was steamy and warm, and she thought how much it was like some safe cavern; it was womb-like, isolated from the world. The noise of the water, blanked out other sounds. The smell of lather filled her nose, the sweet, wet smell.

  “Jim shaves twice a day,” she said. “His beard is heavy; It’s like steel wires in the morning. Do many men shave that often? I guess having to shave is really the worse of the two.”

  “Two what?” Washing his face, he began to dry himself; he buried his face in a towel.

  “You wouldn’t want to know,” she said, teasing him, playing with him. She walked nearer to him, and then all at once her delight vanished. In its place was lust, and she put her arms around his bare waist and clutched him as lightly as she could; she prevented herself from laying hold of him with her real devotion.

  “Watch it,” he said, a little apprehensively. And then she thought, with clarity, that her ambition had been opened to him at last. At once she released him; flustered and embarrassed, she retreated.

  My child, she thought. Now he put his shirt back on and began to button it. A sullen boy, she thought, controlling her hunger, permitting the mere dreams, the desires and hallucinations, to gallop through her mind. The scenes fled past and she reviewed them; she identified them as old fantasies that had always been with her but could never be acted out. She waited and remained placid until they subsided. But they were not gone. They would never be gone.