Judith Merril - The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 2

“Whatever you say,” said Richard Anson Newell.

He waved to Miss Thomas, who watched from the corridor, and behind her, Hildy Jarrell, who wept, and he went down the steps to the street.

“We’re making a mistake, Doctor,” said Miss Thomas, “letting him—them—go.”

“Why?” he asked, curious.

“All that brain power packed in one skull . . .”

The doctor wanted to laugh. He didn’t. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” he agreed.

“Meaning it’s not so at all,” she said suspiciously. “Why not?”

“Because it isn’t twice the amount of brains any individual has. It’s only as much as any two distinct individuals have. Like you and me, for instance. Mostly we supplement each other—but just here and there, not everywhere, adding up to a giant double brain. Same with Newell and Anson. And any two people can be counted on to jam one another occasionally. So will they—but not like before treatment.”

They watched until Richard Anson Newell was out of sight, then went back to check the multiple personality cases that Miss Jarrell had dug out of the files.

Four months later, the doctor got a letter:

Dear Fred,

I’ll write this because it will do me good to get it off my chest. If it doesn’t do enough good, I’ll send it. If that doesn’t help, I don’t know what I’ll do. Yes, I do. Nothing.

Dick is...incredible. He takes care of me, Fred, in ways I’d never dreamed of or hoped for. He cares. That’s it, he cares—about me, about his work. He learns new things all the time and loves old things over again. It’s . . . could I say miracle?

But, Fred—this is hateful of me, I know—the thing I told you about, the thing I used to wish for and live to remember, no matter what. . . it’s gone. That’s probably good, because of what happened between times.

But sometimes I’d trade my perfect husband for that louse and a wet handkerchief, if I could have the other thing along with it somehow.

There, I’ve said it.

Osa

The doctor galloped through the clinic until he found his head technician in the electrical lab.

“Tommie,” he said jovially, “did you ever go out and get drunk with a doctor?”

The tears were streaming down his face. Miss Thomas went out and got drunk with the doctor.

It may have occurred to you (even before the excursion with flashbulbs and amplifiers into the darkest interior of “The Other Man”) that the psychiatric profession is one requiring considerable poise and equanimity. But have you ever really thought of what it takes to be an undertaker?

Garson Kanin, the celebrated actor-director-playwright, herewith presents a homey scene in the life of one of the unsung heroes whose work begins where the doctor’s ends.

The undertaker came home early. He kissed his wife, then went upstairs to wash up for supper. When he came down, she kissed him.

“Be five, six minutes,” she said. “Legga lamb.”

“Okay. I’ll get me a drink,” said the undertaker.

“And boiled leeks,” she added, before returning to the kitchen.

The undertaker went into the sitting room and sat. Beside his chair, on a large end table, lay a copy of the evening paper. Beside it stood a nearly full bottle of whisky and a tumbler. He put the paper on his lap and smiled at the bottle as he would at a friend.

“Boy, oh, boy,” he mumbled. He reached out and grasped the bottle firmly by its neck, keeping his thumb on the cork. He turned the bottle upside down once, then uncorked it. Next, he slowly decanted about two inches of liquor into the tumbler, corked the bottle, set it down, picked up the tumbler and drained it. He then put his nose into the empty glass and took one deep breath. Finally he put the glass beside the bottle and picked up his paper. His face was without expression as he scanned the top half of the front page, but when he flipped the paper over to look at the bottom half, a small headline took his attention, and he said to it, quietly, “You don’ say so!”

He returned the paper to his lap, reached out and grasped the bottle firmly by its neck, keeping his thumb on the cork. He turned the bottle upside down once, then uncorked it. Next, he slowly decanted about four inches of liquor into the tumbler, corked the bottle, set it down, picked up the tumbler and drained it. He then put his nose into the empty glass and took one deep breath. Finally he put the glass beside the bottle and picked up his paper. As he did so, his wife appeared in the archway which led to the dining room.

“Let’s go,” she said. “Everything’s on.”

“Right there,” he replied, and made his way to his place at the table. His wife was already seated at hers, piling food onto her plate. He reached to the platter of lamb and served himself, meagerly.

His wife bristled. “What’s the matter? Against lamb?”

“No.”

“Then so what?”

“I think I just killed off my whole appetite.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t mean it, only I did. With an extry slug of whisky.”

“What’d you want t’do that for?”

“I didn’t want, I just did. A double slug, if you want the truth.”

“You’da told me in time, I coulda saved myself in the kitchen, Arthur. Far as I’m personally concerned, delicatessen suits me as soon as lamb.”

“I didn’t know I was going to.”

“How about tomorrow you cook a legga lamb and I’ll get crocked an’ not eat? Why not?”

“Don’ make a situation, Rhoda. I said I’m sorry.”

“When? I didn’ hear no sorry.”

“All right, I’m saying it now. Sorry.”

“You’re welcome.”

They ate in silence, until Arthur ended it. “Good piece of meat. Gristede’s?”

“A lot you know. Drunk.”

He put down his fork. “Rhoda, I want to assure you this much. That I’m not drunk. Far from it. In fact, I wish we had the habit of a glass of wine with meals. Red, white, I don’ know which it is you’re supposed to with lamb. But in the store, they prob’ly give a free booklet. It’s a nice habit to have. Very civilized. In many countries they wouldn’t think of without it. And got nothing to do with drunk in any way, shape, manner or form.” He picked up his fork and resumed the meal.

“If I knew what’s got into you all of a sudden,” said Rhoda, “I would be happy. I’m always telling how at least you, whatever faults you got, don’t make a pig of yourself when it comes to alcoholic beverage. You’ve always been strictly moderation. Practice and preach.”

“I’m still.”

“So what’s all this extry slugs and you want suddenly wine in addition?”

“The wine I just happened to mention. A civilized habit.”

“An’ the extry slugs?”

“Slug, not slugs.”

“So slug?”

“That’s something else again.”

“What else again?”

“Rhoda, if you knew the thing happened to me today, you absolutely wouldn’ begrudge me.”

“I don’t begrudge, Arthur. I like you to have anything in the world if you want it. Only I worry if I see you turning into like Gunderson over there with nothing in his stomach only rye whisky and prunes for a year an’ two months, Mrs. Gunderson tells me.” She munched her food sadly.

“Rhoda, I advise you put your mind at rest. With all my faults, as you mentioned—an’ one of these days, by the way, if I get the time I appreciate you telling me just what you call faults; not now, though—one of them is not I’m alcoholic or even nearly. The wine talk was one thing, just a topic of conversation, figure of speech, y’might say. The other thing, the extry slug—not slugs, slug —this is something else again. This I admit to, in fact, brought up myself. An’ the reason was what happened to me today down to the place. When I tell you, if I tell you, you will definitely not begrudge me. In fact, take a slug yourself, I wouldn’ be surprised. Only I don’ know should I tell you.”