Offbeat: Uncollected Stories

by Richard Matheson

Henry stood there patiently while she unraveled a spool of various complaints. “Yes, d—” he interposed once, but she wasn’t finished. “Yes, dear,” he repeated, when she had stated her case.

  He went into the living room and opened a window to let the smell out. He kicked a wagon aside, threw Willie’s basketball into the dining room, and picked up jigsaw pieces which were strewn all over the rug.

  At length, with a sigh, he lowered himself onto the couch and sat there a few moments, breathing in inurement to his surroundings. Then he lay on his back and pressed his eyes shut. The room drifted away. He plied his secret.

  In the beginning it had only been pretense, the release of imagining. But that was a thousand days ago. Now he believed it.

  When he closed his eyes he was in Marilyn Taylor’s bedroom.

  “I’m on her bed,” he whispered in his mind. “I can hear the drapes whispering as warm California breezes float through the tall French windows which open on the terrace which overlooks the free-form swimming pool which has gorgeous starlets sitting around it, flexing their golden bodies.”

  Henry Shrivel sighed. He had it down pat now. After a thousand nights—minus one—of mental positioning he was certain of it. Only one item remained. He had to kiss Marilyn Taylor. That was the cachet. Just kiss her.

  And then . . .

  Yes. He could actually feel the room around him now. He knew every detail of it, he’d seen it from so many angles in the movie magazines—the magazines he’d scoffed at when Bella stacked them around the apartment, but which he pored over, devoured, all the while pretending that he was looking down his nose at them.

  He knew Marilyn Taylor’s house as well as he knew his own apartment. The shelves of book-club selections in the paneled library, the parabolic couch sprawling in front of the vast fieldstone fireplace in the living room, the hi-fidelity equipment, the spongy rugs, the chairs and tables, the lamps. The sparkling chrome and copper kitchen where Marilyn posed in lacy aprons making biscuits. “Marilyn is quite the cook.” Fanland Magazine had said it.

  Every night for a thousand nights less one he had projected himself into that house, walked around it, lay on her bed, waiting for her.

  “I am on Marilyn’s bed,” he whispered again. “I’ve just had a hard set of tennis with her. I’ve already taken my shower and I’m lying here without my clothes on. In the bathroom I can hear the water spattering over her body. I can hear her squealing in delight as the streams of bubbles snake over her bronzed flesh.”

  Henry shriveled on the couch. It was there! He could sense it, feel it, hear it.

  And why not? Time and space—what were they really? Elastic media subject to personal expansion and contraction. If a man concentrated long enough anything was possible.

  “Soon the shower will be turned off. She will toss a thick terrycloth robe over her wet body. Like the one she wore in Corpse on the Beach. She will come gliding out of the bath­room and smile at me, a sensuous smile. ‘Why, Henry, honey,’ she’ll coo. She’ll come to the bed. She’ll sit beside me.”

  The scene gained more reality with every second. Tonight he knew he would actually feel the bed yielding to her lissome weight, feel her fingers caressing his cheek. “You’re such a handsome rogue,” she’d say, and he’d really hear her say it. Really.

  He’d keep his eyes shut, of course. She’d beg for a kiss as she had nine hundred and ninety-nine times before. Only this time—this thousandth night—he’d wait until his brain powers were irresistible. Then he’d put his hands on her shoulders. He’d pull her down. He’d feel the swell of that fantastic bust against him. Then he’d kiss her, and he’d actually feel those satiny lips yielding to his.

  “And then I’ll open my eyes. And I won’t be in the apartment anymore. I’ll be in Hollywood with her, holding her. Really! The escape will be made. I’ll be away from everything, with Marilyn Taylor in my arms. Sighing in ecstasy in my male embrace. And then—”

  “Henry! Eat!”

  The bubble burst. Henry Shrivel was catapulted back into his living room. He gritted his teeth and pounded his fists into the cushions. Dust scaled up into the air.

  “Damn,” he muttered under his breath. “Oh . . . double damn.”

  He sat up. He picked up a movie magazine from the table next to the couch and flipped it open to a feature story about Her. She beamed at him over the handle of a vacuum cleaner. “Marilyn is quite the housekeeper,” said the caption. Henry Shrivel relaxed; he smiled. No need to fret. Tonight the break would be made. Tonight. Oh, blessed tonight.

  At supper he was almost charitable.

  He patted Willie on the head and inquired about the doings at P. S. 106. He kissed the baby’s cheek with infinite tenderness. He clucked sympathetically at Bella’s tirade about her feet, her legs, her back, her eyes, her teeth, her head, and anything else she felt inclined to complain about. All in all, he acted very much like the soldier on the eve of departure for the wars—gallant and definitely underplaying it. It was unfortunate that no one noticed it but him.

  When the meal had ended, Henry complimented Bella on the excellence of the cuisine. This made her narrow her eyes into suspicious slits.

  “You feel all right?” she asked.

  “I feel wonderful,” said Henry Shrivel.

  She peered at him. A mild sense of alarm burst in his chest. Then he relaxed. Bella couldn’t possibly suspect. It was all in the mind, where she couldn’t reach him.

  She stopped the visual inquisition after a while. But all night she glanced at him occasionally while they sat in the living room watching half-hour murder mysteries and reading movie magazines.

  Henry deliberately avoided thinking about Marilyn Taylor all evening. He wanted to store up the longing. He just sat in his easy chair staring at the television set without seeing anything, thinking about what the neighbors would say when he was gone.

  “Disappeared! Yes! That’s what I said! Just like that! Went to bed and the next morning he was gone, pajamas and all! Not a sign of him! Yes! Swallowed up! No one knows what to make of it!”

  Henry Shrivel smiled a secret smile.

  Bedtime.

  The moment drew nigh. Despite rigid control, Henry found his heart beating rapidly, his breaths coming fast. While he brushed his teeth he noticed how his hands shook. Nothing to be nervous about, he told himself. This is what you’ve been working toward. Tonight you reap your harvest. You’re going to make it, boy, you’re going to make it!

  His hands still shook.

  When he went into the bedroom, Bella was just getting into bed, the faded blue nightgown hanging from her lean body. Henry Shrivel’s lips trembled, his legs shook. He sat down quickly on the bed.

  “Set the clock,” said Bella.

  “Huh? Oh. Yes, dear. I will.” His voice was drawn and shaky.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Bella asked.

  “Noth-ulp.” He swallowed. “Nothing. Something in my throat, that’s all.”

  “Oh. Well, goodnight.”

  He kissed her on the cheek. His body shook. He fell back on the pillow with a thump. Am I doing right? he wondered. Is it right I should leave her and the children like this? Will my small insurance be enough?

  His face tightened. By George, he hadn’t gone through all this mental strain to back down now. Not after nine hundred and ninety-nine days and nights of aching concentration. It was only fair he should be rewarded for all the work.

  If worse came to worst, he conceded, he could always get a train back from Hollywood. But he was sure Marilyn would get him a movie contract playing character parts, and he could send anonymous checks to Bella. Sure!

  He smiled and closed his eyes. He tensed his body, willed it over the miles. Almost instantly, he was there. He felt Marilyn’s bedroom around him; no point in walking through the whole damned house tonight. He was in her bed. He heard the drapes whispering. Outside, the starlets laughed by the pool. It was still late afternoon out there. In the bathroom shower, h
e heard Marilyn squealing.

  “Come out of the shower,” he said.

  “Wha’?” Bella asked, thickly.

  Henry’s eyes jerked open, his heart pounding. He caught his breath and lay there until he heard Bella snoring. Then he closed his eyes and fled back to Marilyn’s bedroom. A great effort forced the surroundings into his mind’s eye.

  “Come out of the shower,” he said again, this time in his mind.

  He listened. Breath caught once more. There was no sound but that of the breeze through the windows, the distant laughter of the starlets.

  There!

  A door opened. He heard bare feet on the rug. It was clear, so clear.

  “Why, Henry, honey.”

  He heard it! Heard it! His heart hammered against the wall of his chest. He gritted his teeth, but they kept chattering. The footsteps moved across the rug. His hands twitched at his sides. He almost screamed as the bed sank at his side. She was sitting by him! His shoes shook; his entire frame was covered by waves of heat.

  A hand caressed his cheek. A real hand, a warm, sensually stroking hand. Henry Shrivel shook with a palsy.

  “You’re such a handsome rogue.”

  Her low, inviting voice filled his brain with delirium. She was there. He felt her hand, heard her voice, smelled the perfume of her body, her hair. Every sense proclaimed her presence.

  “Kiss me, Henry honey,” she said in a begging whisper.

  Now. It was the test, the crucial moment of moments. If he was strong now he could have her always. Marilyn Taylor—his. He drew every cell of his body into a tight, resourceful mass. He fired willpower through his throbbing veins.

  “Kiss me,” Marilyn begged.

  Slowly, carefully, he raised his hands.

  They closed over her shoulders, tightened. He began to pull her down slowly, with the utmost caution. Once she almost vaporized. He drove a stronger jolt of volition through his system. She returned. She was there, fully then.

  Now he felt her gelatinous breasts against his chest. The perfume of her clouding breath intoxicated him. His body shivered uncontrollably as her warm lips closed over his, the mass of her silky hair cascaded over his cheeks. His arms slid around her. Her robe fell open, her body pressed against him. Abandon raged in Henry Shrivel’s blood. He had succeeded!

  He opened his eyes. Slight surprise made his brow contract. It wasn’t afternoon, it was pitch black night. Well, no matter. She was still in his arms; he felt her there. They writhed and groaned in each other’s embrace.

  “What’s going on?”

  Light flooded suddenly into Henry Shrivel’s face: He jolted to a sitting position, eyes wide with nerve-shattered shock. His open-mouthed stare flashed from Marilyn Taylor’s startled expression to his other side—to Bella’s gaping features, her look of absolute astonishment.

  “Henry Shrivel!” she gasped. “What’s going on here!”

  “Yeah!” said Marilyn, “What the hell is?”

  Henry sank back, goggling. The last thing he saw, before his eyes closed in a dead faint, was the ceiling of his own bedroom.

  And Now I’m Waiting

  Mary let me in as soon as I rang the bell. She must have been waiting in the hallway.

  I’d never in my life seen my sister look so unhappy. Sorrow had woven lines into her face unnatural for her age. And although neatness was an ingrained habit, not even her hair was combed. It fell around her shoulders in tangled brown swirls.

  I leaned over to kiss her cheek and felt how cool and dry it was.

  “Give me your things,” she said.

  I took off my hat and coat and handed them to her. She put them in the hall closet. I noticed how her once straight shoulders were now bowed. I grew taut with anger at what he’d done to her.

  Then a shiver ran through me. I realized it was almost as cold in the house as outside. I rubbed my hands together.

  Then she was beside me.

  “Mary,” I said, and put my arms around her. I felt her shudder.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I can’t bear it anymore.”

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  She hung onto me for a moment. Then she pulled away and looked toward the study.

  “Alone?” I asked.

  Her eyes avoided mine. She nodded once.

  I took her hand again. “It’ll be all right.”

  She lifted my hand and pressed it against her cheek. Then she turned away.

  “Will you wait here?” I asked.

  “All right, David,” she said.

  I watched her walk to a chair against the stairs. She sat down and folded her hands on her lap.

  I turned and walked to the study door, stood before it a second. Then, taking a deep breath, I knocked.

  “What is it?” he called impatiently.

  “David,” I said.

  It was silent. Finally he said, “Oh, come in.”

  Richard was standing in front of the fireplace, a giant of a man. His back was turned to me. He was staring into the crackling flames, an aura of light outlining his powerful form, casting shadows of him on the walls and ceiling.

  “What is it?” he said, without turning.

  “Mary told me I’d find you here,” I said.

  “Clever,” he said. “Is that all?”

  I shut the door behind me.

  He turned as I walked toward him, a familiar expression of arrogance on his handsome features.

  “So Mary told you I was in here, did she?” he said.

  I sat down on the couch facing him.

  “I want to talk to you,” I said.

  He looked down at me, then turned away.

  “Talk about what?” he said.

  I twisted around and turned on a lamp on the table behind me.

  “I don’t want that lamp on,” he said.

  “I want to see what you look like.”

  He turned around again. I felt a shudder run down my back as his icy eyes looked into mine. His lips drew back in a contemptuous smile.

  “Do I pass?” he said. “Are you satisfied?”

  “You’re not as I’d expected,” I said.

  “Or as Mary led you to expect.”

  “She said only—”

  “I can imagine what she said,” he interrupted. “Turn off that lamp.”

  I reached back and turned it off. Once more his shadow billowed on the walls and ceiling.

  “You look ill,” I told him.

  “Come twenty miles to tell me that?”

  He stretched out his arms and rested them across the top of the fireplace. For a brief moment, I had the sensation that I was watching some ancient monarch in his hunting lodge.

  “No, I didn’t come twenty miles to tell you that,” I said. “You know why I came.”

  “She sent for you,” he said.

  My fingers shook as I took out my cigarettes and lit one. I hoped he wouldn’t notice.

  “That’s beside the point,” I said. “Suppose you tell me what’s wrong.”

  “You haven’t answered my question,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said, “she sent for me. I’m surprised she waited so long.”

  “Surprised?”

  “Mary is about to have a nervous breakdown,” I said.

  “Oh,” he said, “I see.”

  “You don’t see at all,” I said. “You don’t care at all.”

  “Care!” he cried in a burst of temper. “How many nights have I sat with her trying to explain, trying to reason with a . . . block of wood!” He clenched his fists. “But who can explain that—”

  He broke off the sentence and walked to a shadowy portion of the room. I heard him drop into a chair.

  “That what?” I asked.

  “Why don’t you finish it?” he said.

  “That you’ve been constantly unfaithful,” I said.

  I half expected him to leap out of the shadows. I tensed myself for it.

  When he chuckled, my body jerked with the unex
pected reaction.

  “Unfaithful,” he said.

  “Is that all you have to say?” I asked.

  I heard him stand abruptly, felt his baneful eyes on the back of my head. Then he walked around the couch and stood before the fireplace again. He clasped his hands in back of him.

  “Unfaithful,” he said. “Yes. And no.”

  “Is that supposed to be funny?” I asked.

  “If you wish.”

  “See here, Richard!” I flared. “This is no—”

  “—no laughing matter,” he cut in. “This is grim business. This is serious. This is bad. This is . . . laughable.”

  He chuckled and stood looking at me in amusement.

  “You know,” he said, “I believe I’ll tell you.”

  “If there’s any decency in—”

  “Decency?” He snorted. “What a slapstick word.” He turned away and leaned against the fireplace, resting his forehead against his arms. He looked into the flames for a long time in silence. He seemed to have forgotten me. I coughed. He stirred and shifted on his feet.

  “You recall my last book?” he asked.

  “What of it?”

  “Do you recall the character of Alice?”

  “What about her?” I said impatiently, certain that he was evading the issue.

  “It is with Alice,” he said, “that I’ve been, as you so quaintly put it, unfaithful.”

  “Very funny,” I said.

  He turned and looked at me coldly.

  “I should have expected this from you,” he said. “Why did I think for a moment that you could possibly understand?”

  “Are you serious?” I asked.

  He barked a scornful laugh. “You fool! Can’t you see that?”

  He turned away and took deep breaths. Then he spoke as though he were speaking to himself.

  “Alice became so real,” he said, “that Mary believed in her existence. As a person. An actual person. And this is my unfaithfulness.”

  He looked over his shoulder at me.

  “But why do I even mention this to you?” he said. “Why should I dare hope to penetrate that skull of yours?”

  “You’re lying,” I said. “I know my sister better than that.”

  “Do you?” he said.

  “It’s a lie.”

  “Oh, go home,” he said.