The Best of Richard Matheson

by Richard Matheson

  “There’s no point in continuing this, my son.”

  The prisoner reached up despairing hands and drove them against his temples.

  “My God, isn’t there anyone to listen?”

  “Yes,” murmured the priest.

  Footsteps again. There was loud grumbling from the other prisoners.

  Charlie appeared.

  “You better go, Father,” he said. “It’s no use. He don’t want your help.”

  “I hate to leave the poor soul in this condition.”

  The prisoner jumped up and ran to the barred door. Charlie stepped back.

  “Watch out,” he threatened.

  “Listen, will you call my wife?” begged the prisoner. “Will you? Our home is in Missouri, in St. Louis. The number is . . .”

  “Knock it off.”

  “You don’t understand. My wife can explain everything. She can tell you who I really am.”

  Charlie grinned.

  “By God, this is the best I ever seen,” he said appreciatively.

  “Will you call her?” said the prisoner.

  “Go on. Get back in your cell.”

  The prisoner backed away. Charlie signaled and the door slid open. Father Shane went out, head lowered.

  “I’ll come back,” he said.

  “Won’t you call my wife?” begged the prisoner.

  The priest hesitated. Then, with a sigh, he stopped and took out a pad and pencil.

  “What’s the number?” he asked wearily.

  The prisoner scuttled to the door.

  “Don’t waste your good time, Father,” Charlie said.

  The prisoner hurriedly told Father Shane the number.

  “Are you sure you have it right?” he asked the priest, “Are you positive?” He repeated the number. The priest nodded.

  “Tell her I . . . tell her I’m all right. Tell her I’m well and I’ll be home as soon as . . . hurry! There isn’t time. Get word to the governor or somebody.”

  The priest put his hand on the man’s shaking shoulder.

  “If there’s no answer when I call,” he said. “If no one is there, then will you stop this talk?”

  “There will be. She’ll be there. I know she’ll be there.”

  “If she isn’t.”

  “She will be.”

  The priest drew back his hand and walked down the corridor slowly, nodding at the other prisoners as he passed them. The prisoner watched him as long as he could.

  Then he turned back. Charlie was grinning at him.

  “You’re the best one yet, all right,” said Charlie.

  The prisoner looked at him.

  “Once there was a guy,” recalled Charlie. “Said he ate a bomb. Said he’d blow the place sky high if we electrocuted him.”

  He chuckled at the recollection.

  “We X-rayed him. He didn’t swallow nothing. Except electricity later.”

  The prisoner turned away and went back to his bunk. He sank down on it.

  “There was another one,” said Charlie, raising his voice so the others could hear him. “Said he was Christ. Said he couldn’t be killed. Said he’d get up in three days and come walkin’ through the wall.”

  He rubbed his nose with a bunched fist.

  “Ain’t heard from him since,” he snickered. “But I always keep an eye on the wall just in case.”

  His chest throbbed with rumbling laughter.

  “Now there was another one,” he started. The prisoner looked at him with hate burning in his eyes. Charlie shrugged his shoulders and started back up the corridor. Then he turned and went back.

  “We’ll be giving you a haircut soon,” he called in. “Any special way you’d like it?”

  “Go away.”

  “Sideburns, maybe?” Charlie said, his fat face wrinkling in amusement. The prisoner turned his head and looked at the window.

  “How about bangs?” asked Charlie. He laughed and turned back down the wall.

  “Hey Mac, how about we give big boy some bangs?”

  The prisoner bent over and pressed shaking palms over his eyes.

  —

  The door was opening.

  The prisoner shuddered and his head snapped up from the bunk. He stared dumbly at Mac and Charlie and the third man. The third man was carrying something in his hand.

  “What do you want?” he asked thickly.

  Charlie snickered.

  “Man, this is rich,” he said, “What do we want?”

  His face shifted into a cruel leer. “We come to give you a haircut big boy.”

  “Where’s the priest?”

  “Out priesting,” said Charlie.

  “Shut up,” Mac said irritably.

  “I hope you’re going to take this easy son,” said the third man.

  The skin tightened on the prisoner’s skull. He backed against the wall.

  “Wait a minute,” he said fearfully. “You have the wrong man.”

  Charlie sputtered with laughter and reached down to grab him. The prisoner pulled back.

  “No!” he cried, “Where’s the priest?”

  “Come on,” snapped Charlie angrily.

  The prisoner’s eyes flew from Mac to the third man.

  “You don’t understand,” he said hysterically. “The priest is calling my wife in St. Louis. She’ll tell you all who I am. I’m not Riley. I’m Phillip Johnson.”

  “Come on, Riley,” said Mac.

  “Johnson, Johnson!”

  “Johnson, Johnson come and get your hair cut Johnson, Johnson,” chanted Charlie, grabbing the prisoner’s arm.

  “Let go of me!”

  Charlie jerked him to his feet and twisted his arm around. His face was taut with vicious anger.

  “Grab him,” he snapped to Mac. Mac took hold of the prisoner’s other arm.

  “For God’s sake, what do I have to do!” screamed the prisoner, writhing in their grip. “I’m not Johnson. I mean I’m not Riley.”

  “We heard you the first time,” panted Charlie. “Come on. Shave him!”

  They slammed the prisoner down on the bunk and twisted his arms behind him. He screamed until Charlie backhanded him across the mouth.

  “Shut up!”

  The prisoner sat trembling while his hair fluttered to the floor in dark heaps. Tufts of hair stuck to his eyebrows. A trickle of blood ran from the edge of his mouth. His eyes were stricken with horror.

  When the third man had finished on the prisoner’s head, he bent down and slashed open his pants.

  “Mmmm,” he grunted. “Burned legs.”

  The prisoner jerked down his head and looked. His mouth formed soundless words. The he cried out.

  “Flash burns! Can you see them? They’re from an atomic explosion. Now will you believe me?”

  Charlie grinned. They let go of the prisoner and he fell down on the bunk. He pushed up quickly and clutched at Mac’s arm.

  “You’re intelligent,” he said. “Look at my legs. Can’t you see that they’re flash burns?”

  Mac picked the prisoner’s fingers off his arm.

  “Take it easy,” he said.

  The prisoner moved toward the third man.

  “You saw them,” he pleaded. “Don’t you know a flash burn? Look. L-look. Take my word for it. It’s a flash burn. No other kind of heat could make such scars. Look at it!”

  “Sure, sure, sure,” said Charlie moving into the corridor. “We’ll take your word for it. We’ll get your clothes and you can go right home to your wife in Saint Louis.”

  “I’m telling you they’re flash burns!”

  The three men were out of the cell. They slid the door shut. The prisoner reached through the bars and tried to stop them. Charlie punched his arm and shoved him bac
k. The prisoner sprawled onto the bunk.

  “For God’s sake,” he sobbed, his face twisted with childish frenzy. “What’s the matter with you? Why don’t you listen to me?”

  He heard the men talking as they went down the corridor. He wept in the silence of his cell.

  —

  After a while the priest came back. The prisoner looked up and saw him standing at the door. He stood up and ran to the door. He clutched at the priest’s arm.

  “You reached her? You reached her?”

  The priest didn’t say anything.

  “You did, didn’t you?”

  “There was no one there by that name.”

  “What?”

  “There was no wife of Phillip Johnson there. Now will you listen to me?”

  “Then she moved. Of course! She left the city after I . . . after the explosion. You have to find her.”

  “There’s no such person.”

  The prisoner stared at him in disbelief.

  “But I told you . . .”

  “I’m speaking truth. You’re making it all up in a vain hope to cheat . . .”

  “I’m not making it up! For God’s sake listen to me. Can’t you . . . wait, wait.”

  He held his right leg up.

  “Look,” he said eagerly. “These are flash burns. From an atomic explosion. Don’t you see what that means?”

  “Listen to me, my son.”

  “Don’t you understand?”

  “Will you listen to me?”

  “Yes but . . .”

  “Even if what you say is true . . .”

  “It is true.”

  “Even if it is. You still committed the crimes you’re here to pay for.”

  “But it wasn’t me!”

  “Can you prove it?” asked the priest.

  “I . . . I . . .” faltered the prisoner. “These legs . . .”

  “They’re no proof.”

  “My wife . . .”

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know. But you can find her. She’ll tell you. She can save me.”

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing that can be done.”

  “But there has to be! Can’t you look for my wife? Can’t you get a stay of execution while you look for her? Look, I have friends, a lot of them. I’ll give you all their addresses. I’ll give you names of people who work for the government who . . .”

  “What would I say, Riley?” interrupted the priest sharply.

  “Johnson!”

  “Whatever you wish to be called. What would I say to these people? I’m calling about a man who was in an explosion ten years ago? But he didn’t die? He was blown into . . .”

  He stopped.

  “Can’t you see?” he entreated. “You must face this. You’re only making it more difficult for yourself.”

  “But . . .”

  “Shall I come in and pray for you?”

  The prisoner stared at him. Then the tautness sapped from his face and stance. He slumped visibly. He turned and staggered back to his bunk and fell down on it. He leaned against the wall and clutched his shirtfront with dead curled fingers.

  “No hope,” he said. “There’s no hope. No one will believe me. No one.”

  —

  He was lying down on his bunk when the other two guards came. He was staring, glassy-eyed, at the wall. The priest was sitting on the stool and praying.

  The prisoner didn’t speak as they led him down the corridor, only once he raised his head and looked around as though all the world was a strange incomprehensible cruelty.

  Then he lowered his head and shuffled mutely between the guards. The priest followed, hands folded, head lowered, his lips moving in silent prayer.

  Later, when Mac and Charlie were playing cards the lights went out. They sat there waiting. They heard the other prisoners in death row stirring restlessly.

  Then the lights went on.

  “You deal,” said Charlie.

  DRESS OF WHITE SILK

  Quiet is here and all in me.

  Granma locked me in my room and wont let me out. Because its happened she says. I guess I was bad. Only it was the dress. Mommas dress I mean. She is gone away forever. Granma says your momma is in heaven. I dont know how. Can she go in heaven is shes dead?

  Now I hear granma. She is in mommas room. She is putting mommas dress down the box. Why does she always? And locks it too. I wish she didnt. Its a pretty dress and smells sweet so. And warm. I love to touch it against my cheek. But I cant never again. I guess that is why granma is mad at me.

  But I amnt sure. All day it was only like everyday. Mary Jane came over to my house. She lives across the street. Everyday she comes to my house and play. Today she was.

  I have seven dolls and a fire truck. Today granma said play with your dolls and it. Dont you go inside your mommas room now she said. She always says it. She just means not mess up I think. Because she says it all the time. Dont go in your mommas room. Like that.

  But its nice in mommas room. When it rains I go there. Or when granma is doing her nap I do. I dont make noise. I just sit on the bed and touch the white cover. Like when I was only small. The room smells like sweet.

  I make believe momma is dressing and I am allowed in. I smell her white silk dress. Her going out for night dress. She called it that I dont remember when.

  I hear it moving if I listen hard. I make believe to see her sitting at the dressing table. Like touching on perfume or something I mean. And see her dark eyes. I can remember.

  Its so nice if it rains and I see eyes on the window. The rain sounds like a big giant outside. He says shushshush so every one will be quiet. I like to make believe that in mommas room.

  What I like almost best is to sit at mommas dressing table. It is like pink and big and smells sweet too. The seat in front has a pillow sewed in it. There are bottles and bottles with bumps and have colored perfume in them. And you can see almost your whole self in the mirror.

  When I sit there I make believe to be momma. I say be quiet mother I am going out and you can not stop me. It is something I say I dont know why like I hear it in me. And oh stop your sobbing mother they will not catch me I have my magic dress.

  When I pretend I brush my hair long. But I only use my own brush from my room. I didnt never use mommas brush. I dont think granma is mad at me for that because I never use mommas brush. I wouldnt never.

  Sometimes I did open the box up. Because I know where granma puts the key. I saw her once when she wouldnt know I saw her. She puts the key on the hook in mommas closet. Behind the door I mean.

  I could open the box lots of times. Thats because I like to look at mommas dress. I like best to look at it. It is so pretty and feels soft and like silky. I could touch it for a million years.

  I kneel on the rug with roses on it. I hold the dress in my arms and like breathe from it. I touch it against my cheek. I wish I could take it to sleep with me and hold it. I like to. Now I cant. Because granma says. And she says I should burn it up but I loved her so. And she cries about the dress.

  I wasnt never bad with it. I put it back neat like it was never touched. Granma never knew. I laughed that she never knew before. But she knows now I did it I guess. And shell punish me. What did it hurt her? Wasnt it my mommas dress?

  What I like real best in mommas room is look at the picture of momma. It has a gold thing around it. Frame is what granma says. It is on the wall on top the bureau.

  Momma is pretty. Your momma was pretty granma says. Why does she? I see momma there smiling on me and she is pretty. For always.

  Her hair is black. Like mine. Her eyes are even pretty like black. Her mouth is red so red. I like the dress and its the white one. It is all down on her shoulders. Her skin is white almost white like the dress. And so are her hands. She is so pretty
. I love her even if she is gone away forever. I love her so much.

  I guess I think thats what made me bad. I mean to Mary Jane.

  Mary Jane came from lunch like she does. Granma went to do her nap. She said dont forget now no going to your mommas room. I told her no granma. And I was saying the truth but then Mary Jane and I was playing fire truck. Mary Jane said I bet you havent no mother I bet you made up it all she said.

  I got mad at her. I have a momma I know. She made me mad at her to say I made up it all. She said Im a liar. I mean about the bed and the dressing table and the picture and the dress even and every thing.

  I said well Ill show you smarty.

  I looked into granmas room. She was doing her nap still. I went down and said Mary Jane to come on because granma wont know.

  She wasnt so smart after then. She giggled like she does. Even she made a scaredy noise when she hit into the table in the hall upstairs. I said youre a scaredy cat to her. She said back well my house isnt so dark like this. Like that was so much.

  We went in mommas room. It was more dark than you could see. I said this is my mommas room I suppose I made up it all.

  She was by the door and she wasnt smart then either. She didnt say any word. She looked around the room. She jumped when I got her arm. Well come on I said.

  I sat on the bed and said this is my mommas bed see how soft it is. She didnt say nothing. Scaredy cat I said. Am not she said like she does.

  I said to sit down how can you tell if its soft if you dont sit down. She sat down by me. I said feel how soft it is. Smell how sweet it is.

  I closed my eyes but funny it wasnt like always. Because Mary Jane was there. I told her to stop feeling the cover. You said to she said. Well stop it I said.

  See I said and I pulled her up. Thats the dressing table. I took her and brought her there. She said let go. It was so quiet and like always. I started to feel bad. Because Mary Jane was there. Because it was in my mommas room and momma wouldnt like Mary Jane there.

  But I had to show her the things because. I showed her the mirror. We looked at each other in it. She looked white. Mary Jane is a scaredy cat I said. Am not am not she said anyways nobodys house is so quiet and dark inside. Anyways she said it smells.

  I got mad at her. No it doesnt smell I said. Does so she said and you said it did. I got madder too. It smells like sugar she said. It smells like sick people in your mommas room.