Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  Wilhimena would be waiting for him to peel the potatoes for supper and if he wasn’t there on the dot there’d be an eruption that would make Vesuvius pale into insignificance. With a frantic glance at his watch he broke into a trot . . .

  HE stumbled up the steps of his modest bungalow with twenty seconds to spare. He let himself in quietly but before he could take off his damp brown overcoat or kick off his muddy rubbers his wife’s shrill voice cut through the stillness of the house like a knife.

  “Wilbur! Is that you?”

  She asked or rather bawled the same question every night. Once Wilbur had answered: “No, it’s Santa Claus!” but he had never tried it again.

  He answered now: “Yes, my dear,” as he shrugged out of his coat and scuffed off his rubbers with a resigned, hangdog listlessness.

  “Wilbur,” his wife’s voice conveyed a note of suspicious cordiality, “come into the front room at once. There’s someone here I’m just dying to have you meet.”

  Wilbur struggled against a sputtering, growing feeling of outrage. It was supper time but that didn’t bother Wilhimena, oh no. Her friends could lounge around the house from morning till night and that was just fine. He didn’t count. His friends were treated as if they had the mange.

  “Coming, my dear,” he said resignedly.

  He forced a weak smile over his features and then he marched through the hall into the front room and into the presence of his wife and another sour-looking female who squatted complacently in his lounging chair.

  His wife stood up and he wondered for the four-hundred-fifty-fifth time what he had ever seen in her. She was a tall thin creature with a strong hatchet face that seemed to be waiting to chop at something. Her black hair was pulled into a tight knot at the back of her leathery neck and her gray lips were usually pressed tightly together. Now they were parted slightly in a poor facsimile of a welcoming smile.

  “Wilbur,” she said sharply, “I want you to meet Miss Elvira Chittling. Miss Chittling, my husband.”

  Wilbur nodded and tried to look as if it were a great privilege. Miss Chittling was a huge, lumpy woman with a dull, bovine expression and coarse yellow hair that drooped discouragingly about her sloping shoulders.

  She was looking at him appraisingly, he noticed.

  “What house?” she asked suddenly. “H-house,” floundered Wilbur, “what do you mean?”

  “I mean what house were you influenced by,” she repeated in a slightly exasperated voice. “What stellar combinations guide your destiny? Sagittarius, Capricorn, Uranus—”

  “I’m sorry, Elvira,” his wife was acidly apologetic, “Mr. Wunch knows nothing of astrology. He refused to take lessons with me, refused to avail himself of the guidance of the stars—and look at him! Barely able to keep soul and body together. And as for me,” she stared heavenward like a martyr, “only they know what I’ve been through.”

  Wilbur sighed despairingly. “Who are they?” he asked.

  “The stars,” his wife said, in the voice of one who has learned not to look for intelligence in her listeners, “the stars that guide our destiny know the suffering I’ve seen.”

  She bowed her head and Miss Chittling bowed her head and Wilbur thought forlornly of his delayed supper.

  “Will you excuse me,” he said timidly, “you two girls probably have some er-er-stars to talk over so I’ll just step—”

  “Mr. Wunch,” the lumpy Miss Chittling’s voice disorganized his retreat, “have you ever been cast?”

  “You mean thrown?” Wilbur offered blankly.

  “I mean,” Miss Chittling gathered volume and dignity, “have you ever had your horoscope cast?”

  “Well, no,” Wilbur admitted guiltily. Miss Chittling surveyed him through narrowed lids and then beckoned imperatively. “Come here,” she said softly. “Your time has come. The time for the stars to make known to you their will and desires has arrived. Sit beside me.”

  “But,” Wilbur protested feelingly, “I don’t care what the stars have in store for me. I want my supper.”

  “Wilbur!”

  Wilbur winced at the lash of his wife’s tone. When her voice developed that particular edge it was no time to quibble.

  “All, right,” he said wearily. With a last wistful look in the direction of the kitchen he seated himself before the hefty figure of Miss Chittling.

  SHE was opening a leather portfolio and pulling out a number of sheets of heavy paper with intricate designs and circles drawn upon them. Wilbur noticed a clock-wise arrangement on the largest sheet of paper. It was crisscrossed by a half-dozen lines and in each division of the circle there was the picture of some animal. Bulls, goats and other animals that Wilbur couldn’t get a good look at.

  “Astrology,” he mumbled.

  He noticed that his wife and Miss Chittling looked up rather sharply at him so he laughed weakly. “Heh, heh. Astrology, great stuff. Fine hobby.”

  “Astrology,” Miss Chittling informed him sternly, “is no hobby.[*] Mr. Wunch, I want you to answer some questions for me. First the date of your birth.”

  Wilbur told her. He also confided rather reluctantly a number of other things which Miss Chittling digested in sombre silence.

  “Hmmm,” she pursed her lips and frowned moodily, “very interesting, very interesting.” Her fingers ran up and down the various charts like plump rabbits chasing one another, finally stopped in one of the divisions of the largest circle. The one with animals, Wilbur noticed.

  Miss Chittling then proceeded to take down some figures on a piece of scratch paper, then closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair.

  Wilbur watched her furtively. Her lips were moving, and he could hear her breath whistling through her uneven teeth. She seemed to be mumbling some strange words that made no sense at all to Wilbur. It might be, Wilbur thought worriedly, that there was something to this astrology business after all. Maybe—

  “Incredible!” Miss Chittling’s shout blasted through his furtive thoughts.

  “It’s incredible, simply incredible,” Miss Chittling repeated again with less volume but considerably more feeling. “In all my years of astrological research I have never encountered a more remarkable phenomenon.”

  “Elvira,” Wilhimena Wunch snapped out the word, “what is it? What is so remarkable about Wilbur’s horoscope?” Wilbur squirmed uneasily. Maybe he had been tried and found wanting by some unfriendly star.

  “It is one of those things,” Miss Chittling informed the world in general and Wilhimena Wunch in particular, “that occurs but once in millions of years.” She turned to Wilbur. “You are very fortunate, Mr. Wunch, that you have the benefit of this information.”

  “Am I?” Wilbur asked unenthusiastically.

  “Mr. Wunch,” Miss Chittling said, “tomorrow amazing things are in store for you. A galaxy of stellar bodies have centered their influence on you and you will be most susceptible to their effect tomorrow as the sun sets.”

  Wilbur tried to appear properly impressed. “Gosh,” he said. This sounded rather inadequate so he added, “Gee.”

  “IT is not a light matter,” Miss Chittling informed him sternly. “You must plan now to take advantage of the friendly influence of these myriad stars that have, for some reason, interested themselves in your welfare.”

  “That right nice of them,” Wilbur said politely, “but—”

  “Oh, Elvira!” his wife cried, “are things really that favorable?”

  “I have said,” Miss Chittling replied majestically, “that I have never seen anything like it.”

  “Well,” Wilbur said cautiously, “this has been a lot of fun but I’m kind of hungry now so I think—”

  “You stupid, miserable fool,” his wife blazed at him. “Is that all you can think about? Don’t you realize your own good fortune?”

  That was easy. “No,” said Wilbur, “I don’t.”

  Miss Chittling harrumphed herself into the conversation.

  “I will try and explain it to
you, Mr. Wunch. When one star’s friendly influence is directed toward a person that person is considered to be extremely fortunate or lucky. That is no doubt the origin of the expression ‘born under a lucky star’. But,” Miss Chittling paused to sniff, “there is no such thing as luck, merely stellar intervention in human affairs. But in your case, Mr. Wunch, not one, but millions of stars are interceding in your behalf.”

  “What for?” Wilbur asked breathlessly.

  “That, I cannot answer,” Miss Chittling replied with rare modesty, “but I do know, Wilbur Wunch, that tomorrow will be a miraculously fortunate day in your life.”

  “That’s fine—”

  “If,” Miss Chittling rumbled imperturbably on, “you know how to take advantage of your good fortune.”

  “You will help him, won’t you?” Wilhimena spoke imploringly, “you will be good enough to help him won’t you, Elvira?”

  Wilbur scratched his head. “I don’t understand,” he said bewilderedly. “If I’m going to be so lucky tomorrow what I need any help for?”

  Miss Chittling smiled. “Silly boy,” she murmured, “you will be lucky tomorrow, yes. But you need someone to coordinate and concentrate the diffused star force so that the total effect of its intercession will be felt. I can do this. I can, by special observation and interpretation, combine the loose threads of stellar influence so that your good fortune will be received in one lump, so to speak.”

  “How?” asked Wilbur.

  “By meteor study,” Miss Chittling declared impressively. “I study the relation of meteorites to star force to human destiny.”

  Wilbur swallowed. “T—that’s logical enough,” he offered timorously.

  Miss Chittling delved into the portfolio again and came up with a leather bag. The contents she emptied into her lap.

  WILBUR saw that they were stones and small rock fragments of various sizes, shapes and hues. Miss Chittling pawed through them and finally picked out three pieces of slate gray rock about the size of ice cubes.

  “What are those?” Wilbur asked uncertainly.

  “Meteor fragments,” Miss Chittling explained briefly. She seemed too busy now to talk any further. She had drawn forth from the portfolio a queer contraption of steel and wires that looked somewhat like a combination of a slide rule and grocery scale. Into a compartment she dropped a meteor fragment and then she moved an indicator along a calibrated bar until it seemed to catch in a tiny notch. Then she removed the meteor fragment from the compartment and inserted the remaining two.

  “I think this is it,” she said, spacing her words very carefully. “I think this is it.”

  “Oh, Elvira,” Wilhimena Wunch said breathlessly, “I hope you’ve found it.” In her excitement Wilhimena’s face flushed red and white like a barber pole. Her predatory nose was hooked forward like a sharp claw and her thin chest rose and fell like a bellows.

  Miss Chittling suddenly slumped against the back of her chair and closed her eyes. “It is over,” she murmured throatily. “I have succeeded. These meteor fragments possess the correct equation to balance the star forces with human destinies. Each of these fragments,” she raised the stones dramatically above her head, “are tuned to the galaxy of stars that are about to determine your fate. As the sun sets tomorrow your stars will be in the ascendency. Make known your desires then and they will be granted. Each stone represents an accumulation of good fortune and for each stone a wish can be granted.”

  “You mean,” Wilbur said unbelievingly, “because of the stones and the stars and everything my wishes will be granted tomorrow?”

  Miss Chittling nodded. She seemed to be spent from her exertions.

  “Oh, that’s simply wonderful,” Wilhimena cried in her crow-like voice. “Think of it! Riches, money, jewels—everything I’ve always wanted.”

  The enthusiasm was contagious. “Gee,” Wilbur said happily, “I can get that fishing rod I’ve always wanted.”

  “Fishing rod!” Wilhimena’s voice was close to the cracking point. “That’s all you can think of. I’ll decide what we’re going to get from your wishes and don’t you forget it.”

  Wilbur felt a shivery premonition crawl up his spine. Wilhimena, nagging and fretful, was bad enough, but Wilhimena, grasping and greedy, would be impossible. But the faint fires of revolt had long ago been stamped out in Wilbur’s soul.

  “Yes, my dear,” he replied meekly. Miss Chittling’s plump hand fluttered weakly. “Six dollars please,” she said, in a voice just above a whisper.

  “Pay her,” hissed Wilhimena. Wilbur’s hand automatically dug into his pocket but his soul writhed with injustice. He had six dollars—just six dollars—saved aside for the entrance fee in his bowling league. No money, no bowling!

  He laid the money in Miss Chittling’s pink palm and watched the fingers close over it like the leaves of some flesh-eating plant.

  “Thank you for the donation,” she murmured weakly. “Now I must go. I must rest, rest.”

  She handed the three stones t© Wilbur and climbed heavily to her feet. “Use your good fortune wisely,” she said as she started for the door.

  Wilbur watched her leave, feeling like the man who bought the Brooklyn bridge at a “sacrifice price.” So absorbed was he that he didn’t feel the tug on his sleeve until it was repeated with sufficient force to jerk him halfway around.

  His wife faced him. Her cold, hard features were stamped in a mask of greed and triumph. “Stop wool gathering, you fool,” she snapped, “and give me those meteor fragments.”

  “I SHOULD really have gone to work today,” Wilbur Wunch said plaintively the next afternoon. “I’ve never missed a day before. They’ll—”

  “Oh, shut up, you miserable little worm,” Wilhimena stormed wrathfully. She was pacing nervously up and down the length of the living room casting impatient glances at the bright afternoon sun.

  “Can’t you think of anything but that precious office?” she snapped viciously. “Can’t you think about me? You’ve never given me the things I deserved. Money, jewels, position! Other women have them, but not Wilbur Wunch’s wife. I’ve slaved and suffered and scrimped through the years and now that you have the chance to do something for me you worry about the office.”

  She paused and glanced down at the three stone fragments in her hand. “These will give me the things I’ve always craved. You couldn’t do it and now that you’ve got the opportunity you’d think that you’d be happy to make amends.”

  Wilbur Wunch sighed. Wilhimena had been particularly unbearable since the astrologist had predicted that his three wishes would come true. All she had talked about had been the money, the jewels, the servants that she expected. She had made him stay home from work that day to be on hand at sunset, the appointed hour. Wilbur had the very definite suspicion that life would be far from pleasant if Wilhimena’s desires were gratified.

  The sun, he noticed, was dropping into the horizon, a flaming red ball on the edge of the world. Wilhimena turned to him, her thin narrow features set rigidly.

  “It’s time,” she said. “I’ll tell you what to wish.”

  Wilbur squirmed uncomfortably. He didn’t like the set-up. He felt foolish. If Wilhimena was so interested and so greedy why shouldn’t she be the one to wish?

  “All right,” he said petulantly, “but

  I don’t see why I had to get lucky all at once. It’s upset my whole day. I’d be a lot happier if I didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “Don’t worry,” Wilhimena snapped acidly, “you aren’t going to have much to do with this affair. I’m going to arrange that.”

  “Why—why, what do you mean?” faltered Wilbur.

  “Just this,” Wilhimena faced him, her hands resting belligerently on her angular hips. “It’s time for you to wish now. The sun is going down. And you’re going to wish just what I tell you. Your first wish will be to wish that I had the wishing power for the remaining two stones. Do you understand me?”

  “Why sure,”
Wilbur said, “you want the power to make the wishes. That’s all right with me because I never wanted it anyway. That astrologer said I was going to be real happy and lucky today but I never felt worse in my life. So you’re welcome to it. I wish that you had the power to make the two remaining wishes. There! Does that make you feel any better?”

  “I’ll know in a little while,” Wilhimena cried excitedly. She squared her narrow shoulders and threw back her head. “I wish I had one million dollars,” she said loudly.

  Wilbur sighed discouragedly. If Wilhimena got her wish it would be a calamity. She would turn into an unbearable, arrogant over-proud snob. He shuddered contemplating it. What his own life would be he hardly dared think about. In the middle of these unpleasant thoughts the doorbell rang.

  WILHIMENA answered it and an instant later he heard a shrill, hysterical shriek sounding through the house. He started for the front of the house but he met Wilhimena scurrying wildly toward him. Her thin face was flushed with fanatical exultance.

  “It worked,” she screamed, “it worked.”

  “What did?” he asked her dazedly. For the first time he noticed the letter she was clutching in her hands.

  “The stars,” she cried, “the stars have done it. My wish has been granted. A distant relative of mine died and left me his fortune. It amounts to just exactly one million dollars. I’m rich, rich, d’y’hear? RICH!”

  She danced around the room, hugging the letter to her bosom, crying and screaming frantically.

  Wilbur watched her in silence. It was worse than he had thought it would be. And that was saying a lot. He watched her calm down, watched the greedy cunning creep into her face.

  “I suppose,” she said quickly, “that you think you have some claim on this money. I can see it in your face. You think because you gave me the wishes you deserve half of the money. Well you don’t, do you hear me? You don’t. It’s mine and I intend to keep every cent of it for myself.”

  Wilbur knew his wife too well to be surprised by her selfishness. He only wondered gloomily about the black, unenviable future that stretched before him. He thought of Joe Bloddget and sighed wistfully.