by Isaac Asimov
You have a responsibility in this matter, and I aim to see that you fulfill it.
The tone of your letter of August 19 makes me madder than spit. Who in blazes are you to call me shortsighted? How many shortsighted people do you know who have nursed along, loved and cared for a single automobile for twenty-five years? Let me assure you I can and will find hubcaps. They will cost you a pretty penny, because I am going to charge you for the time I spend searching, and when I find them I expect they may be dented and rusty. Repair, including re-chroming, will be part of the bill.
On August 19 I stopped in at your office to discuss this matter in person, but your secretary said you were out, and she said she didn’t know when you would be back. Bull! Or were you too busy writing that goddamned letter dated the 19th to see me? There’s no need for me to ask why I got the same answer from her every time I tried to reach you by phone.
I expect an immediate reply by return mail that you will honor the bill for my new hubcaps. Don’t phone about this. I want it in writing. I don’t trust you.
Dennis Daggett
P.S. Needless to say, I have found another place to park my car.
August 22, 1975
Mr. Dennis Daggett
14 Pepper Lane
Chatham, O.
Dear Mr. Daggett:
It pains me that I find it necessary to warn you about the intemperate language you are using in your letters. I understand perfectly well the circumstances surrounding the loss of hubcaps from your old car.
It strikes me that, for a person who parked in our facility for three years, you were remarkably unobservant, even singularly inattentive to the prominently posted stipulations regarding vehicles left on our premises. There was not a day you parked at Acme when we at Acme Parking Plaza carried a single iota of responsibility for your vehicle or, for that matter, your person.
It’s as simple as that. We have no responsibility. Period.
Cordially,
Elroy R. Kent
for Acme Parking Plaza
P.S. If your vision is so bad you couldn’t see the three-by-four-foot signs stating in letters two inches high THE MANAGEMENT IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR LOSS OR DAMAGE FROM ANY CAUSE TO VEHICLES, CONTENTS, DRIVERS OR PASSENGERS — well, in that case you shouldn’t even be on the road with your old heap.
August 25, 1975
Kent:
There is only one way you can avoid a lawsuit. I stated in my letter of August 20 that I do not trust you. Double that. Prove to me that you and the rest of your crew at Acme are not a bunch of crooks and I may even forgive your insult to my fine old Kaiser. I’ll have you know it is a choice and carefully preserved part of automobile Americana. I can accept anything in the way of insults, but you went too far when you called my Kaiser an old heap.
If you wish to prove your point, take down one of those “prominent” signs next Tuesday and bring it to Rose’s Cafe across from your Congress St. entrance. Be there at 6:15 P.M. Don’t make me wait, because I have lost my patience. If this keeps you from your 9-to-5 routine, count it as small cost to get me to drop this affair without other courses of action.
I don’t recall seeing the signs you mention. You better not bring a freshly painted, trumped-up version, and you know damned well I’d never set foot on Acme property to see one.
Don’t forget: September 2 at 6:15 sharp.
Dennis Daggett
P.S. Confirm our appointment in writing, and don’t be late.
August 28,1973
Mr. Dennis Daggett
14 Pepper Lane
Chatham, O.
Dear Mr. Daggett:
Your request of August 25 is ridiculous, but I am going to humor you just so I can see the silly look on your face when you read the sign. I will bring one from the open parking lot rather than one from the inside area. That way you will be able to see the weathering for yourself.
I say I will show up to humor you. Closer to the truth is my desire to get a look at the priceless pile of old tin and rust you call auto Americana.
Aside from the fact I will be carrying a big sign, you will have no problem identifying me. I will be the one who is laughing — probably uncontrollably after seeing the Kaiser at the curb.
See you on the 2nd, Dennis.
Cordially,
Elroy R. Kent
for Acme Parking Plaza
September 17,1975
Mr. Dennis Daggett
14 Pepper Lane
Chatham, O.
Dear Mr. Daggett:
Just this morning I reviewed for the first time the correspondence of Elroy R. Kent. I note that you and he exchanged letters during the month of August. Obviously, there was a strong disagreement between you and Acme Parking Plaza regarding the loss of hubcaps from your car while it was parked on C level of our garage.
To the regrets expressed by Mr. Kent I wish to add my own. Further than that, I think it might be in order for me to apologize on behalf of Mr. Kent for his failure to keep the appointment he had with you on September 2. I do not know if you read the Akron papers, since you are a resident of Chatham, but Mr. Kent met with a tragic accident which kept him from meeting you. As you already know, he was planning to bring with him one of the signs from the parking area — a rather unusual agreement on his part, but perhaps in keeping with the strange nature of the correspondence the two of you conducted.
As he was crossing the street, Mr. Kent was struck by a hit-and-run car. I add with personal sorrow that he died on the way to the hospital without regaining consciousness.
The police have theorized that the sign obscured Mr. Kent’s vision, and that he stepped in front of the car which hit him. However, there is so little traffic on Congress St. at that hour I cannot understand how the driver missed seeing Mr. Kent. How could he have missed seeing a man carrying a three-by-four-foot sign? I devoutly hope the police find him.
No one in the cafe saw the accident, and apparently no pedestrians or other drivers witnessed it. As I said above, the street is not very busy at 6:15 of a summer evening.
Perhaps you wondered why Mr. Kent failed to keep the appointment. The police interviewed everyone in the cafe, and took names. Since you were not on that list, I can only assume you were late for the meeting in spite of your insistence on Mr. Kent’s punctuality.
My primary reason for writing this letter is to settle the disagreement which culminated in Mr. Kent’s untimely death. I must apologize for the manner in which your loss was handled. I cannot say for sure until I read some of his old files, but I do not believe it was customary for Mr. Kent to be quite so caustic. I’m sure you understand, however, that he had to be firm in his capacity as arbiter in customer problems.
Mr. Daggett, Acme Parking Plaza wishes to make full financial restitution for your loss. We will do so, although I am obliged to reiterate that Mr. Kent was accurate in his assessment that we are devoid of responsibility. Please stop in to see me with your bill, and I will personally hand you a check to cover it.
Sincerely yours,
Robert Winsett
Vice President
Acme Parking Plaza
September 19,1975
Mr. Robert Winsett
Acme Parking Plaza
2135 Congress St.
Akron, O.
Dear Mr. Winsett:
Isn’t that a shame about Mr. Kent!
Thanks for the offer to buy my hubcaps, but that won’t be necessary. I had a little accident with my Kaiser several days ago, and you know how hard it is to get parts for an old heap like that — especially such things as grills, lamps and so on.
I figured the best thing to do was get rid of it, so I drove it to an auto junkyard. They would only give me $20!
A couple of days ago I stopped to see if I could check the glove compartment for a pen I think I missed when I emptied the car. One of the guys in the yard said they had put my car through the crusher and shipped it out for scrap the day before.
I suppose it’s on t
he way to Japan already.
Yours truly,
Dennis Daggett
14 Pepper Lane
Chatham, O.
P.S. Seeing you are in the automobile business in a manner of speaking, I sure would appreciate your dropping me a line if you ever learn of anyone with a 1956 Hudson Hornet for sale — in nice shape, that is.
As the Wheel Turns
by Jane Speed
Paula Thorpe drank three cups of coffee, slowly, without being interrupted by so much as a glance from her two breakfast companions. There they sat, the pair of them: Howard, her husband of six months, poring over Art Treasures of Ancient Syria; and his mother, a fat little mountain of a woman squeezed into a wheel chair, applying herself assiduously to the one pursuit which fully engaged her interest — eating.
Paula slammed her empty cup down into its saucer. Mother Thorpe lifted her head at the sound like a startled rabbit and hastily snatched the last blueberry muffin from the bun warmer. Howard merely shifted in his chair and murmured, without looking up, “Excellent breakfast, my dear.”
Paula sighed, gathered up a stack of dishes, and carried them out to the kitchen.
From earliest memory Paula had yearned for the company of artists. She had not been able to coax forth any noticeable talent of her own, so she had set her sights on what seemed the next best means of entry into the charmed circle — to be the guiding genius of some creative spirit.
And then, at a cocktail party last fall, she met Howard Thorpe. His gaunt, tousle-haired good looks and his habit of protracted, brooding silences made him appear a romantic figure of Byronic proportions. And when Paula learned that his field was art (he “earned his bread and butter” by teaching art at a small New England college) and that he was in New York to discuss the possible publication of a book he was working on, she could hardly be blamed for feeling that here indeed was the embodiment of the chance she’d been looking for.
They were married quietly in New York the day after Thanksgiving and set out immediately for his home in Vermont. Howard’s teaching schedule and his modest Assistant Professor’s salary precluded any honeymoon, but Paula didn’t mind in the least. She had embarked on this marriage willing, even eager, to starve in a garret (or the small college-town equivalent) for the sake of her very own struggling artist.
She had plunged with fanatical zeal into her new role. His mother’s welfare seemed a matter of prime importance with Howard, therefore it became so with Paula, too. Great plans were afoot for the celebration of the good lady’s sixty-fifth birthday which was to occur late in the spring, and Paula fell in with these plans enthusiastically, adding many small refinements of her own to make the occasion more festive.
And every clear day since the first real thaw she had dutifully pushed Mother Thorpe in her rickety wheel chair to the fat little woman’s favorite spot, the top of a steep rise which commanded an impressive view of the neat, stonewalled campus. Here, beneath the shade of an ancient elm, Paula, who didn’t trust the brake on the venerable contraption, carefully settled one wheel of the chair into a rut. Then she sat patiently while the old woman droned on and on until she finally talked herself into her morning nap.
Mother Thorpe was touched by Paula’s devotion and often in her rambling monologues she reiterated her regret that she couldn’t do more for her dear Howard and his dear wife. Howard’s father, she would explain vaguely, though a dear man, had been a bit of an eccentric and had tied up his sizeable fortune in a complicated trust fund which she herself didn’t altogether understand.
“But never you mind, dear,” went her favorite refrain as she patted Paula’s shoulder with her pudgy hand, “you shall have it all one day, and soon.”
But the days dragged into weeks and the weeks into months, and Paula found herself pinning her hopes increasingly on her mother-in-law’s words. For the harsh truth was, there was very little else to pin them on.
It had by this time become painfully clear that the perpetual frown which drew Howard’s brows down at his nose in such a devilishly attractive way was not a sign of the outrage of a gifted rebel but of a mildly fussy disposition; he was essentially a silent man for the simple reason that he had very little to say; and his teaching of art history at this small college was not a means to the end of being recognized in his field, but rather an end in itself. In short, Howard was not an artist, but a schoolmaster.
And the book? Paula had clung to this long after her other illusions about Howard were dashed. True, it was to be a scholarly text, hardly destined for a place on the best-seller lists. Still, Paula had rather counted on being able to refer casually to “Howard’s book” when she wrote to her friends back in New York. But just yesterday had come a letter from the publisher informing Howard that another house was bringing out a work on substantially the same subject and therefore it would be inadvisable to go ahead with the tentatively proposed publication. So even that satisfaction was to be denied her.
“Well, dear,” said Howard, appearing at the kitchen door, “I’m off to the wars.” Paula offered her cheek for his husbandly peck — and waited. Without fail, he added, “Lovely day.” And then, as though a bright new thought had just occurred to him, “Why don’t you take Mother up to the hill this morning?”
But you know I take her every day, Paula opened her mouth to protest. Then she closed it. What was the use? He’d say the same thing tomorrow anyhow. She merely nodded silently and went on with the dishes.
Half an hour later she was trundling the old lady up the hill. She settled the chair into its accustomed place and flung herself down on the ground nearby. The view of the well-trimmed campus surrounded by its stone wall seemed to Paula like nothing so much as a neat, orderly trap. She paid even less attention than usual to her mother-in-law’s monotonous prattle, catching only, “You shall have it all one day, and soon.”
The familiar words made Paula ache with restless longing. If only “soon” could be right now. Money, she had always piously maintained, wasn’t important; and yet, when one had nothing else—
With enough money she could pry Howard out of his narrow little life; a year in Paris, then perhaps Rome; maybe they could finally live in Switzerland as so many people were doing. It just might make all the difference. There might still be some hidden spark to be struck in Howard if only he could be freed from the deadening influence of this dismal town and its suffocating college.
A gentle snoring from the wheel chair brought Paula rudely back to reality. Not a chance, she thought bitterly. The famous sixty-fifth birthday was only a week away, and the old woman, sleeping peacefully in the shade, looked fit for another fifteen years at least. Oh, it just wasn’t fair!
Paula yanked her sleep-numbed leg out from under her and extended it sharply. Her foot accidentally struck the wheel of the chair. She gasped as the chair, loosened from its place, rolled forward a few feet and came to a stop precariously near the beginning of the long downward slope.
For a few seconds Paula sat rigid, hardly able to breathe. And through it all, like an idiotically benign counterpoint, the snoring continued unbroken. The old woman apparently slept as wholeheartedly as she ate. Paula relaxed at last, exhausted from fear. What a close call!
And then, insidiously, a second thought crept into her consciousness. How easy it had been. Almost before she realized what was happening, Paula found herself sliding forward along the ground. She stretched her leg out cautiously, and with her foot gave the chair another shove. It moved only a few inches this time and then held, caught by a rut at the very edge.
Again Paula waited, her heart pounding. And again there was no sound except the snoring, and no movement from the woman in the wheel chair.
Paula rose silently. She seemed to have lost all sense of what it was she was trying to do and was filled only with a determination to accomplish it. She grasped the back of the chair with both hands. Gently she eased the front wheels and then the back ones over the obstructing spot. Then with a strong thrus
t she sent the chair forward.
It started down the grade slowly, then gained momentum. The fat little woman, squeezed in so tightly, didn’t even waken fully enough to cry out. There was scarcely any sound at all till the distant, splintering thud as the chair with its heavy passenger crashed into the solid stone wall...
It was more than three hours later when Howard finally came out of his mother’s room. Paula, sitting in the hall outside, knew by his face that the old woman was dead. The tension in which Paula had spent the intervening hours broke suddenly and she gave way to hysterical sobbing.
“Oh, dear,” murmured Howard, distressed. He came to her quickly and sat beside her. “Paula, you mustn’t... Don’t blame yourself, my dear. It was a dreadful accident, that’s all.” Then, as her sobbing continued unabated, he went on nervously. “Please, dear, try to look at it this way. These last few months have been the happiest Mother has ever known, thanks largely to you. Really, she remarked many times about your great kindness to her.”
Paula buried her face even deeper in her hands to hide the blush that flared up in her cheeks. It was several painful minutes before she could control her sobs enough to mumble, “She didn’t even get to have her birthday party.”
“That’s true,” said Howard with a sad smile. “Poor Mother. That would be her only regret, I think. She had so counted on being able to turn over Father’s money to us.”
Paula lifted her head at this and stared at Howard through a blur of tears, “What do you mean?” she asked finally.
“Why — didn’t Mother explain to you about Father’s will?”
“Not — very clearly,” Paula managed to say. Her mouth felt dry.