Selections

by Theodore Sturgeon

  There was nothing down there at all. Nothing. I saw Mrs. Stoye jump out, ran to the window, it couldn’t have been more than three seconds later; and there was nothing there.

  But I’m saying now how I felt. I mean to say first what I did, because the two are so different, from this point on.

  I looked down; there was no underbrush, no flowerbed, nothing which could have concealed her had she rolled. There were some people—a stocky man and a young boy, perhaps fourteen or fifteen—standing nearby. The man seemed to be searching the ground as I was; I don’t remember what the boy was doing. Just standing there. The man looked up at me; he looked badly frightened. He spoke to the boy, who answered quietly, and then they moved off together to the road.

  I looked down once more, still could not see Mrs. Stoye, and turned and ran to the signal-button.

  I rang it and then rushed out into the hall. I must have looked very distraught.

  I ran right into Dr. Knapp, all but knocking him over, and gasped out that Mrs. Stoye had jumped.

  Dr. Knapp was terribly decent. He led me back into the room and told me to sit down. Then he went to the window, looked down and grunted. Miss Flaggon came in just then. I was crying.

  Dr. Knapp told her to get a stretcher and a couple of orderlies and take them outside, under this window. She asked no questions, but fled; when Dr. Knapp gives orders in that voice, people jump to it. Dr. Knapp ran out, calling to me to stay where I was until he came back. In spite of the excitement, he actually managed to make his voice gentle.

  I went to the window after a moment and looked down. Two medical students were running across the lawn from the south building, and the orderlies with their stretcher, still rolled, were pelting down the path. Dr. Knapp, bag in hand, was close behind them.

  Dr. Carstairs and Dr. Greenberg were under the window and already shunting away the few curious visitors who had appeared as if from out of the ground, the way people do after an accident anywhere. But most important of all, I saw Mrs. Stoye’s body. It was lying crumpled up, directly below me, and there was no doubt of it that her neck was broken and her skull badly fractured. I went and sat down again.

  Afterward Dr. Knapp questioned me closely and, I must say, very kindly. I told him nothing about the strange disappearance of the body. I expect he thought I was crying because I felt responsible for the death. He assured me that my record was in my favor, and it was perfectly understandable that I was helpless to stop Mrs. Stoye.

  I apparently went quite to pieces then, and Dr. Knapp suggested that I take my two weeks’ leave—it was due in another twenty days in any case—immediately, and rest up and forget this thing.

  I said, “Perhaps I will.”

  I went out to the Quarters to bathe and change. And now I had better say how I felt during all this….

  I was terrified when Mrs. Stoye jumped. When I reached the window right afterward, I was exactly as excited as one might expect.

  But the instant I looked down, something happened. It wasn’t anything I can describe, except to say that there was a change of attitude. That doesn’t seem to mean much, does it? Well, I can only say this; that from that moment I was no longer frightened nor shocked nor horrified nor anything else. I remember putting my hands up to my mouth, and I must have given a perfect picture of a terrified nurse.

  I was actually quite calm. I was quite cool as I ran to the bell and then out onto the hall. I collapsed, I cried, I sobbed, I produced a flood of tears and streaks for my face. But during every minute of it I was completely calm.

  Now, I knew that was strange, but I felt no surprise at it. I knew that it could be called dishonest. I don’t know how to analyze it. I am a nurse, and a profound sense of duty has been drilled into me for years. I felt that it was my duty to cry, to say nothing about the disappearance of the body, to get the two weeks’ leave immediately, and to do the other things which I have done and must do.

  While I bathed I thought. I was still calm, and I suppose I behaved calmly; it didn’t matter, for there was no one to see.

  Two people had seen Mrs. Stoye jump besides myself. I realized that I must see them. I didn’t think about the disappearing body. I didn’t feel I had to, somehow, any more than one thinks consciously of the water in the pipes and heaters as one draws a bath. The thing was there, and needed no investigation.

  But it was necessary to see that man and the boy. What I must do when I saw them required no thought either. That seemed all arranged, unquestionable, so evident that it needed no thought or definition.

  I put away the white stockings and shoes with a feeling of relief, and slipped into underthings with a bit of lace on them, and sheer hose. I put on my wine rayon with the gored skirt, and the matching shoes. I combed my hair out and put it up in a roll around the back, cool and out of the way. Money, keys, cigarette case, knife, lighter, compact. All ready.

  I went round by the administration offices, thinking hard. A man visits the hospital with his boy—it was probably his boy—and leaves the boy outside while he goes in. He would be seeing a wife, in all probability. He’d leave the boy outside only if the woman’s condition were serious or if she were immediately post-operative or post-partem.

  So many patients go in and out that I naturally don’t remember too many of them; on the other hand, I can almost always tell a new patient or visitor … marvelous the way the mind, unbidden, clocks and catalogs, to some degree, all that passes before it….

  The chances were that these people, the man and the boy, were visiting a new patient. Maternity would be as good a guess as any, to start with.

  It was well after nine o’clock, the evening of Mrs. Stoye’s death, and the administration offices were deserted except for Miss Kaye, the night registrar. It was not unusual for nurses to check up occasionally on patients. I nodded to Miss Kaye and went back to the files. The maternity admission file gave me five names for the previous two days. I got the five cards out of the patients alphabetical and glanced over them. Two of these new mothers had other children; a Mrs. Korff, with three sons and a daughter at home, and a Mrs. Daniels who had one son. Here: “Previous children: One. Age this date: 14 yrs. 3 months.” And further down: “Father age: 41.”

  It looked like a bull’s eye. I remember feeling inordinately pleased with myself, as if I had assisted particularly well in an operation, or had done a bang-up job of critical first-aid.

  I copied down the address of the Daniels family, and, carefully replacing all the cards, made my vacation checkout and left the building.

  It seemed late to go calling, but I knew that I must. There had been a telephone number on the card, but I had ignored it. What I must do could not be done over the phone.

  I found the place fairly easily, although it was a long way out in the suburbs on the other side of the town. It was a small, comfortable-looking place, set well back from the road, and with wide lawns and its own garage. I stepped up on the porch and quite shamelessly looked inside.

  The outer door opened directly into the living room, without a foyer. There was a plate-glass panel in the door with a sheer curtain on the inside. I could see quite clearly. The room was not too large—fireplace, wainscoting, stairway in the left corner, big easy chairs, a studio couch—that sort of thing. There was a torn newspaper tossed on the arm of one fireside chair. Two end table lamps were lit. There was no one in the room.

  I rang the bell, waited, rang again, peering in. Soon I saw a movement on the stairs. It was the boy, thin-looking and tousled, thumping down the carpeted steps, tying the cord of a dark-red dressing gown as he came. On the landing he stopped.

  I could just hear him call “Dad!” He leaned over the banister, looking up and back. He called again, shrugged a shrug which turned into a stretch, and, yawning, came to the door. I hid the knife in my sleeve.

  “Oh!” he said, startled, as he opened the door. Unaccountably, I felt a wave of nausea. Getting a grip on myself, I stepped inside before I spoke. He stood looking a
t me, flushing, a bit conscious, I think, of his bare feet, for he stood on one of them, trying to curl the toes of the other one out of sight.

  “Daniels….” I murmured.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m Ronald Daniels.” He glanced quickly into the room. “Dad doesn’t seem to be … I don’t … I was asleep.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Gosh, that’s all right,” he said. He was a sweet little chap, not a man yet, not a child—less and less of a child as he woke up, which he was doing slowly. He smiled.

  “Come in. Let me have your coat. Dad ought to be here now. Maybe he went for cigarettes or something.”

  It was as if a switch had been thrown and a little sign had lit up within him— “Remember your manners.”

  Abruptly I felt the strangest compulsion—a yearning, a warming toward this lad. It was completely a sexual thing, mind you—completely. But it was as if a part of me belonged to a part of him … no; more the other way round. I don’t know. It can’t be described. And with the feeling, I suddenly knew that it was all right, it was all quite all right.

  I did not have to see Mr. Daniels after all. That business would be well taken care of when the time came, and not by me. Better—much better—for him to do it.

  He extended his hand for my coat. “Thank you so much,” I said, smiling, liking him—more than liking him, in this indefinable way—”but I really must go. I—if your father—” How could I say it? How could I let him know that it was different now; that everything might be spoiled if his father knew I had come here? “I mean, when your father comes back….”

  Startlingly, he laughed. “Please don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t tell him you were here.”

  I looked at his face, his round, bland face, so odd with his short slender frame. That thing like a sense of duty told me not to ask, but I violated it. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

  He shook his head. “Not really. But it doesn’t matter. I won’t tell dad.”

  “Good.” I smiled, and left.

  IV

  As told by Jennie Beaufort…

  You never know what you’re going to run up against when you’re an information operator, I mean really, people seem to have the craziest idea of what we’re there for. Like the man called up the other day and wanted to know how you spell conscientious—”Just conscientious,” he says, “I know how to spell objector” and I gave him the singsong, you know, the voice with a smile, “I’m soreee! We haven’t that infor-may-shun!” and keyed him out, thinking to myself, what a schmoe. (I told Mr. Parker, he’s my super, and he grinned and said it was a sign of the times; Mr. Parker’s always making jokes.) And like the other man wants to know if he gets a busy signal and hangs on to the line, will the signal stop and the bell ring when the party he is calling hangs up.

  I want to say to him, what do you think I am, Alexander Graham Bell or something, maybe Don Ameche, instead of which I tell him “One moment, sir, and I will get that information for you?” (not that I’m asking a question, you raise your voice that way because it leaves the customers breathless) and I nudge Sue and she tells me, Sue knows everything.

  Not that everything like that comes over the wire, anything is liable to happen right there in the office or in the halls to say nothing of the stage-door Johnnies with hair oil and cellophane boxes who ask all the girls if they are Operator 23, she has such a nice voice.

  Like the kid that was in here yesterday, not that he was on the prowl, he was too young, though five years from now he’ll be just dreamy, with his cute round face and his long legs. Mr. Parker brought him in to me and told me the kid was getting up a talk on telephones for his civics class in high school, and tells the kid to just ask Miss Beaufort anything he wants to know and walks off rubbing his hands, which I can understand because he has made me feel good and made the kid feel good and has me doing all the work while he gets all the credit.

  Not that I felt good just at that particular moment, my stomach did a small flip-flop but that has nothing to do with it; it must have been the marshmallow cake I had for my lunch, I should remember to keep away from the marshmallow when I have gravy-and-mashed, at least on weekdays.

  Anyway this kid was cute, with his pleases and his thank you’s and his little almost-bows-from-the-waist like a regular Lord Calvert. He asked me all sorts of questions and all smart too, but he never asked them right out, I mean, he would say, “Please tell me how you can find a number so fast?” and then listen to every word I said and squiggle something down in his notebook. I showed him the alphabeticals and the central indexes and the assonance file (and you can bet I called it by its full name to that nice youngster) where we find out that a number for Meyer, say, is listed as Maior. And he wanted to know why it was that we never give a street address to someone who has the phone number, but only the other way around, and how we found out the phone number from just the street address.

  So I showed him the street index and the checking index, which has the numbers all in order by exchanges with the street addresses, which is what we use to trace calls when we have to. And lots more. And finally he said he wanted to pretend he was me for a minute, to see if he understood everything. He even blushed when he said it. I told him to go ahead and got up and let him sit down. He sat there all serious and bright-eyed, and said, “Now, suppose I am you, and someone wants to know the number of—uh—Fred Zimmerman, who lives out at Bell Hill, but they have no street number.”

  And I showed him how to flip out the alphabetical, and how to ask the customer which one he wants if there should be more than one Fred Zimmerman. He listened so carefully and politely, and made a note in his book. Then he asked me what happens if the police or somebody has a phone number and wants the address, we’ll say, out in Homeland, like Homeland 2050. I showed him the numerical index, and he whipped it out and opened it like an old hand. My, he caught on quickly. He made another note in his book … well, it went on like that, and all in twenty minutes.

  I bet he could take over from me any time and not give Mr. Parker a minute’s worry, which is more than I can say for some of the girls who have been working here for years, like that Patty Mawson with her blonde hair and her awful New Look.

  Well, that boy picked my brains dry in short order, and he got up and for a moment I thought he was going to kiss my hand like a Frenchman or a European, but he didn’t. He just thanked me as if I had given him the crown jewels or my hand in marriage, and went out to do the same for Mr. Parker, and all I can say is, I wish one-tenth of the customers showed as much good house breaking.

  V

  As told by Helmuth Stoye…

  Grace … Grace … Grace!

  Oh, my little darling, my gentle, my soft little bird with the husky voice. Miss Funny-Brows. Little Miss Teeth. You used to laugh such a special laugh when I made up new names for you, Coral-cache, Cadenza, Viola-voice … and you’ll never laugh again, because I killed you.

  I killed you, I killed you.

  Yesterday I stopped all the clocks.

  I couldn’t stand it. It was wrong; it was a violation. You were dead. I drew the blinds and sat in the dark, not really believing that it had happened—how could it happen? You’re Grace, you’re the humming in the kitchen, the quick footfalls in the foyer as I come up the porch steps.

  I think for a while I believed that your coming back was the most real, the most obvious thing; in a moment, any moment, you would come in and kiss the nape of my neck; you would be smelling of vanilla and cut flowers, and you’d laugh at me and together we’d fling up the blinds and let in the light.

  And then Tinkle struck—Tinkle, the eight-foot grandfather’s clock with the basso profundo chime. That was when I knew what was real. It was real that you were dead, it was real… .

  I got angry at that violation, that sacrilege, that clock. What right had the clock to strike, the hands to move? How could it go on? It was wrong. I got up and stopped it. I think I spoke to it, not harshly, angry as
I was; I said, “You don’t know, do you, Tinkle? No one’s told you yet,” and I caught it by its swinging neck and held it until its ticking brain was quiet.

  I told all the clocks, one by one, that you were dead—the glowing Seth Thomas ship’s clock, with its heavy threads and its paired syllables, and Drowsy the alarm, and the cuckoo with the cleft palate who couldn’t say anything but “hook-who!”

  A truck roared by outside, and I remember the new surge of fury because of it, and then the thought that the driver hadn’t been told yet … and then the mad thought that the news would spread from these silent clocks, from these drawn blinds, spread like a cloud-shadow over the world, and when it touched birds, they would glide to the ground and crouch motionless, with no movement in their jeweled eyes; when it touched machines, they would slow and stop; when it touched flowers they would close themselves into little soft fists and bend to knuckle the earth; when it touched people they would finish that stride, end that sentence, slowing, softening, and would sink down and be still.

  There would be no noise or confusion as the world slipped into its stasis, and nothing would grow but silence. And the sun would hang on the horizon with its face thickly veiled, and there would be eternal dusk.

  That was yesterday, and I was angry. I am not angry today. It was better, yesterday, the sitting in turmoil and uselessness, the useless raging up and down rooms so hollow, yet still so full of you they would not echo. It got dark, you see, and in good time the blinds were brighter than the walls around them again. I looked out, squinting through grainy eyelids, and saw a man walking by, walking easily, his hands in his pockets, and he was whistling.

  After that I could not be angry any more, not at the man, not at the morning. I knew only the great cruel pressure of a fact, a fact worse than the fact of emptiness or of death— the fact that nothing ever stops, that things must go on.