by Ellery Queen
“Aah. . .aah. . .!”
The snoring had ceased, and at the familiar, urgent summons, Millicent scrambled hurriedly out of bed, her night’s rest at an end, and hastened to her mother’s bedside.
Too late; but of course the poor old creature couldn’t help it. Wrinkling her nose as she edged the soiled sheet, inch by inch, from under the inert, unhelpful length of flesh, it came to her, with sudden, piercing intensity, that if only she had the courage of her convictions, she would never have to do this again.
Never. Ever. By tonight she could be free. Free to go to bed, and sleep and sleep and sleep the whole night through, for the first time in years. And her mother, her beloved mother, could be lying clean and dignified at last, in a nice clean coffin, all the humiliations at an end.
Clean. Clean. That, somehow, seemed the most important thing of all for someone like Mother, so proud, so capable, bustling around her shining, well kept home, full of flowers, and with windows thrown wide to the sweet morning air.
And later Millicent said to herself, I will do it. I will do as she asked. I promised her I would, and I will.
But not today. Not with my nerves all to pieces from that awful dream. Not with my hands trembling like this and my throat closing up with fear at the very idea—
No, not today. Tomorrow.
But that night she had the same dream all over again. Well, not exactly the same, though it started off in just the same way—with the pillow held quietly but firmly over the sleeping face, and the thin acquiescent figure lying so still and unprotesting beneath the bedclothes; and there was, too, that same sense of vague surprise, of uneasy relief, that it was all so simple.
But after that the dream changed. This time there was no yellow, accusing face lunging upward. Instead, just as Millicent was beginning to feel sure that the thing was finished, that breath and heartbeat were at an end—at just this moment there came suddenly from beneath the bedclothes an ominous gurgling sound, louder and louder.
So, even after death, this was going to go on—and on and on and on—to all eternity? To Millicent’s dreaming brain there seemed no absurdity in the idea, and she stared, numb with horror, at the silent, murdered figure. . .
Again Millicent woke in a sweat of terror; again she had to lie for a few minutes, recovering, getting her breath back, reassuring herself that it had only been a dream.
And even after this, and even though the familiar, rasping snores could be clearly heard from across the landing, she still did not feel wholly at ease. The dream itself was nonsense, obviously, but what more likely than that some sound, some disturbance from the next room had triggered it off? The most probable thing was that the old woman, failing to rouse her daughter with her feeble moans, had had another accident; and that Millicent, subliminally aware of this, and subliminally guilty about sleeping on when she should have wakened, had converted the whole thing into a hideous dream.
Yes, that’s what must have happened. And so, tired though she was, her eyes drooping with sleep, there seemed no alternative but to tiptoe across the landing and investigate.
It was all right. There was no accident—only the unchanging, all-pervading odor of sickness and old age, and this would go only when the old woman, too, was gone. Strange that it is death alone that has the power, like a mighty sea wind, to sweep away the smell of death.
The old woman was deeply snoring, and did not stir as Millicent leaned over her. The sunken yellow face looked as peaceful as it would ever look this side of the grave, but even so it was not entirely at rest. Every so often, while Millicent watched, it would twitch a little, as if at some small irritation—the gnats and midges, perhaps, of some long-past summer evening in a more leisured world than this: friends gathered for after-dinner conversation on the terrace: the tinkle of coffee spoons, the easy rise and fall of long-dead talk and laughter, far into the summer night. . .
I ought to do it now—now—so that these tranquil thoughts will be the last she will ever have; so that a sort of dim peace, at least, and the absence of discomfort, may be her last experiences on this earth.
Slowly, carefully, and making every effort not to rouse the sleeping figure, Millicent reached for the spare pillow and laid it softly across the dreaming face. Then, leaning forward with all her weight, she pressed down. . .down. . .
Not even the most frightful of the recent nightmares, not even the most exaggerated of all her fevered imaginings, had prepared Millicent for anything like this. Instantly, and as if galvanized into hideous life by some sort of monstrous shock treatment out of science fiction, the body leaped and plunged beneath her, with a strength that was beyond belief.
The old withered arms, like sticks, flailed and fought their way out from under the blankets and battered at the empty air. The knees, immobile for years, jackknifed beneath the bedclothes, pitching blankets and eiderdown to left and right; the legs, weak as string, kicked out in all directions, pounding against the mattress. The whole moribund body, which had scarcely stirred in years, lashed this way and that beneath the covers, arching, heaving—even with all her strength, all the weight of her body, Millicent could barely hold the creature down.
Promises, promises! How could either of them, making their humane and civilized pact all those years ago, have guessed that this was what they were undertaking? That Life, even at its last gasp, even with all its faculties rotted beyond repair and all its muscles wasted away to nothing, is like a tiger, mad with purpose, glittering with awful power; with teeth bared, claws outstretched, hurling into the face of the universe its surging, unquenchable determination to go on and on and on.
Half sobbing with the effort to hold the creature down, Millicent cried aloud, “I can’t. . .I can’t!”—or rather, fancied she was crying it aloud; but somehow no sound came. It was in her head that the words were pounding, “I can’t. . .I can’t!” and the sobbing was deep in her heart, and it only felt as if her cheeks were wet with tears. . .
This time when she woke, it was bright morning, and she started up in dismay, knowing at once, from the bright bands of sunlight across the carpet, that it was late, very late. And on a Wednesday, too, just when there was such a lot to do, with the doctor coming, and everything! How dreadfully unfortunate—though of course it was obvious how it had happened. Lying in bed recovering from that first nightmare, she must have dropped off again and gone straight into a second nightmare, almost like a continuation of the first.
Two nightmares in a single night! It was getting past a joking matter. Something would really have to be done.
And that afternoon, when Dr. Ferguson paid his routine visit to Mother, Millicent braced herself to tell him about the bad nights she’d been having lately, and how she’d been suffering from nightmares. At once he was full of sympathy, as she’d known he would be. He readily prescribed sleeping tablets for the next few nights, quite strong ones, guaranteed to eliminate dreaming of any kind.
“You’ve been overdoing it, my dear,” he said, as he’d said so often. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to get onto the Social Services and arrange for—”
But Millicent was adamant.
“I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “All I need is to catch up on my sleep, and then I’ll be as right as rain.”
He did not press the matter. He knew how proud they could be, these single women of Millicent’s generation, how self-sufficient, how determined never to show any weakness. You couldn’t help admiring it, in a way; and perhaps it was a fortunate thing that such people did still exist, what with nursing help being in such short supply, and most of his other patients, untroubled by pride, clamoring and badgering for every kind of help that was available.
And of course he couldn’t guess—or if he did guess—he was certainly going to keep his own counsel about it—that Millicent’s main reason for not wanting a nurse or a home-help around was that once such a professional was installed, it would at once become enormously more difficult to carry out her plan.
That night she took one of the new sleeping pills, and it was marvelous. She felt herself sinking, within minutes, into a deep dreamless sleep such as she hadn’t enjoyed in years. And when morning came, she couldn’t remember when she’d felt so refreshed, so strong, so rested; so right, somehow, and ready for anything. And at once it came to her, with quiet, overwhelming certainty, and even with a strange sense of exhilaration, that now was the time.
Now, in the first bright freshness of the morning, with the early sunshine glinting through the trees, and herself feeling so well, so vigorous. And there had been no nightmares, either, this was the biggest blessing. For months now it had been the nightmares that had stood between the decision and the execution.
The sun was brightening every moment, and the soft air was filled with birdsong. A lovely morning to die. And to die in one’s sleep, too, without—in all probability—a single pang.
It must be nearly seven now, but the snores from across the landing were still deep and regular. With any luck the poor creature would know nothing, her dark, comatose world growing merely a little darker, a little more bewildering, before it blacked out forever. Her last sensation—if indeed there would be any sensation—would surely be a sensation of peace, like sweet rain pattering down on her parched soul, and filling to the brim the dried-up hollows and spaces of her ruined mind.
Yes, that’s how it would be. A small quiver, perhaps, as the snores rasped to an unaccustomed halt, and then the laboring lungs would be at rest, the flaccid, long-useless muscles would sink, almost imperceptibly, into a deeper stillness.
That was all. Those fevered nightmares, which had transformed a helpless, harmless old woman on her deathbed into a monstrous effigy of malignancy and power—these had been nothing but the sick fantasies of Millicent’s own mind—a mind strained almost beyond endurance, and racked by anxiety, guilt, and indecision. Nothing to do with the reality at all. The reality was merely sad, and almost ordinary—just one more ancient, helpless body which had outlived its mind—outlived its owner, in a manner of speaking. A body already dead, to all intents and purposes, and laid out ready for the small final formality of “Clinical Death,” entitling it, at last, to a funeral and a proper death certificate.
Nothing alarming, then, in what Millicent was about to do. Nothing even very important. Just a small formality.
Tiptoeing round the wide bed, as she had done so often in her dreams, Millicent paused for a moment, clutching the fat feather pillow to her breast, and holding her breath, fearful lest the old woman was about to wake. The snoring, though still loud, seemed not quite so regular as it had been a minute earlier; and when she ventured to creep nearer, Millicent observed that the invalid’s crumpled yellow face was no longer wholly at rest. A small grimace twisted her mouth, as though at some twinge of pain pushing up through the dim medley of her dreams; and the eyelids, too, were twitching uneasily, as though the old eyes beneath, restless from too much darkness, were fumbling inexpertly for the light.
This was Mother! It was incredible, it was beyond the power of the human imagination to encompass, but this creature really, actually, was her! Mother, who had once laughed and chatted and run a home and bounced children on her knee and cooked meals for everybody. Somewhere, hidden deep, deep behind that withered mask, in a darkness and a silence that no voice could any longer penetrate, she was still there.
It was Mother whom Millicent was about to kill—and how could she be sure, absolutely sure, that this was still what Mother wanted? Locked away in there, beyond the range of communication—how could one know?
And instantly, it seemed to Millicent, the answer came, loudly and clearly across the years, in Mother’s own dear, familiar voice: “Do what I ask you, darling! Don’t allow that old hag to decide how I am going to die!”
“She won’t, Mum! She won’t!” Millicent whispered, low and urgent, “I won’t let her!”—and with tears pouring down her cheeks, and her heart overflowing with tenderness and love, she laid the pillow gently over the twitching, wizened face, and pressed down. . .down. . .down. . .Leaning close, as though gathering her mother up in a final, loving embrace. . .
Perfect love casteth out fear. Why, then, this chill of terror creeping through every limb? Why this sense of awful foreboding, this pounding of the heart, louder, louder, like the very tramp of doom?
When she woke this time, it was to the sound of voices; low voices, not much above whispers:
“A stroke. . .Yes. Yes, completely, I’m afraid—right down both sides.” And then another voice, strangely familiar this time, though for some reason Millicent could not put a name to it.
“I’ve been afraid that something like this would happen. High blood pressure. All that heavy nursing, and adamant about refusing any outside help—always so proud. Yes, rather odd, that; she must have collapsed while making the bed, because they found her on the floor in a great tangle of bedclothes, and the pillows all everywhere, and the poor old woman shivering and groaning on not much more than the mattress. Quite a problem she’ll be, now that there’ll be no one at home to look after her. They’ve brought her here for the time being, but—”
Here? Where was “here”? And who were all these people, anyway? What was going on? Millicent tried to open her eyes, but somehow it was too difficult. What had happened? Where was she? Was she still asleep, perhaps, still dreaming?
“Where am I?” she tried to say, and now she was sure she was still dreaming, for her voice made no sound, as is the way of dreams; and when she tried to sit up she found that her limbs, too, were paralyzed as so often happens in a nightmare.
As anyone who has ever suffered from nightmares well knows, it is no use struggling to wake up. All you can do is lie there quietly and wait, in the certain knowledge that you are bound to wake up in the end.
And so it was that Millicent lay there quietly and waited. And waited. . .
Julian Symons
The Boiler
One of Julian Symons’ finest short stories, destined to become a favorite choice of anthologists on both sides of the Atlantic. The story of Harold Boyle, who lived under the curse of being a boiler—“a boiler fails in everything he tries.” The story will grip your attention from first word to last, and then hang on. . .
Harold Boyle was on his way out to lunch when the encounter took place that changed his life. He was bound for a vegetarian restaurant deliberately chosen because to reach it he had to walk across the park. A walk during the day did you good, just as eating a nut, raisin, and cheese salad was better for you than consuming chunks of meat that lay like lead in the stomach. He always returned feeling positively healthier, ready and even eager for the columns of figures that awaited him.
On this day he was walking along by the pond, stepping it out to reach the restaurant, when a man coming toward him said, “Hallo.” Harold gave a half smile, half grimace, intended as acknowledgement while suggesting that in fact they didn’t know each other. The man stopped. He was a fleshy fellow, with a large aggressive face. When he smiled, as he did now, he revealed a mouthful of beautiful white teeth. His appearance struck some disagreeable chord in Harold’s memory. Then the man spoke, and the past came back.
“If it isn’t the boiler,” the man said. “Jack Cutler, remember me?”
Harold’s smallish white hand was gripped in a large red one.
From that moment onward things seemed to happen of their own volition. He was carried along on the tide of Cutler’s boundless energy. The feeble suggestion that he already had a lunch engagement was swept aside, they were in a taxi and then at Cutler’s club, and he was having a drink at the bar although he never took liquor at lunchtime.
Then lunch, and it turned out that Cutler had ordered already, great steaks that must have cost a fortune, and a
bottle of wine. During the meal Cutler talked about the firm of building contractors he ran and of its success, the way business was waiting for you if you had the nerve to go out and get it. While he talked, the large teeth bit into the steak as though they were shears. Then his plate was empty.
“Talking about myself too much, always do when I eat. Can’t tell you how good it is to see you, my old boiler. What are you doing with yourself?”
“I am a contract estimator for a firm of paint manufacturers.”
“Work out price details, keep an eye open to make sure nobody’s cheating? Everybody cheats nowadays, you know that. I reckon some of my boys are robbing me blind, fiddling estimates, taking a cut themselves. You reckon something can be done about that sort of thing?”
“If the estimates are properly checked in advance, certainly.”
Cutler chewed a toothpick. “What do they pay you at the paint shop?”
It was at this point, he knew afterward, that he should have said no, he was not interested, he would be late back at the office. Perhaps he should even have been bold enough to tell the truth, and say that he did not want to see Cutler again. Instead he meekly gave the figure.
“Skinflints, aren’t they? Come and work for me and I’ll double it.”
Again he knew he should have said no, I don’t want to work for you. Instead, he murmured something about thinking it over.
“That’s my good old careful boiler,” Cutler said, and laughed.
“I must get back to the office. Thank you for lunch.”
“You’ll be in touch?”
Harold said yes, intending to write a note turning down the offer. When he got home, however, he was foolish enough to mention the offer to his wife, in response to a question about what kind of day he had had. He could have bitten out his tongue the moment after. Of course she immediately said that he must take it.