Philip Dick - In Milton Lumky Territory

“Somebody’s out there,” Susan said, smoothing her hair.

He opened the door. Standing on the porch, in the dark, was Milt Lumky. “Is that your Merc out there?” Lumky said. “With the Nevada plates?” Entering the house, he held out a bit of dried, wrinkled, torn paper to Bruce. “I took the liberty of tearing this off it,” he said.

It was the remains of the C.B.B. sticker that had been glued to the rear window.

Milt nodded hello to Susan. His face, flushed, radiated heat. He wore a bright yellow short-sleeved sports shirt, a crinkly nylon. And soft gray slacks, without belt. And crêpe-soled shoes.

“What’s the good word?” Milt said. “You can’t kill a guy for dropping by. I drove by and saw your car still here, so I knew you hadn’t left yet.” He seated himself on the sofa.

“If I don’t seem glad to see you,” Susan said, “it’s because I’ve got a lot on my mind.” Turning her back to him she made a face of lamentation to Bruce. For both of them this could become an ordeal. It depended on how determined Milt was to stay.

“Nice place you have here,” Milt said, entrenched in the center of the living room, his hands on his knees. He seemed ill at ease, conscious that he had butted himself into the house against their wishes, but at the same time he intended to stay. He wanted to be there. Obviously he had no other place to go. “I guess you’re wondering how to get rid of me,” he said in his rough, humbled, but determined growl. “I won’t stay long. I’ll leave when Bruce does.”

What he meant by that, only God knew. It made Bruce uneasy; he had an intuition that the man would crash around until he accidently or deliberately did some damage…he wondered if Susan knew any more. She continued to eye Milt with suspicion, but at the same time she seemed amused. Perhaps because he had been drinking. He exasperated and amused her at the same time, and Bruce thought of all the times he had felt like that about friends of his when they had had something to drink. The need to be alert…and in this situation, an additional need. But Milt did not have anything against them; that was obvious. He wanted to be around them, as he said. He needed their company, as friends.

But it was not a good time. They had no use for visitors; they were not in the mood to be good company. He had made a mistake. His purposeful manner showed that he recognized that, although possibly he did not understand why it was such a mistake. Now he would begin to ponder that. Why did they seem so displeased to see him? Bruce saw that kind of thought begin to circulate through the man’s mind. They had to be friendly to him or he would grasp the nature of the relationship between them. In a second or so he would discover that Bruce was not going to leave. And then they would have to be careful with him.

The sight of Milt Lumky in his yellow nylon sports shirt, all tanked up with beer, started in Susan a mischievous, heedless quality that Bruce had never seen before. He had known people who got perpetual amusement from the sight of drunks. Milt, of course, was not drunk. But he had lost the capacity to hold his tongue. And that released Susan from the obligation to be polite. It buoyed her up. She, too, could say what she wanted; she could shed at least some of her concern. She could rattle back at him with impunity, and Bruce thought to himself, If that’s something she enjoys men there must be a lot inside her bottled up that she’s either afraid to express or doesn’t know how to express. It’s a bad sign, he thought, watching the two of them. Suppose she takes advantage of him. He hated that. He could never understand anyone tormenting a person whose reflexes had slowed down after a few drinks. Cripples, drunks, and animals had never inspired him. In fact they generally depressed him. He always felt that he should do something for them, but he never knew what.

“What about your coat?” Susan said. “Did you leave it somewhere?”

Milt muttered, “It’s in the car.”

“You must have got cold wandering around outside without it.”

“No,” he said. “I didn’t get cold.”

Susan said, “You mean you didn’t feel cold.”

“Have it your way,” Milt said. “Hello little girl,” he said, looking past them toward the hall. “Come on in.”

Turning, Bruce saw that Taffy, in her red-striped pajamas, had come out of her room and was standing at the door of the living room, staring at them all.

“Doesn’t she talk?” Milt said.

Susan said, “She woke up and heard your voice. She probably thought it was Walt.” To the child, Susan said, “You run along back to bed. I’ll go tuck you in. It’s not Walt. You can see it isn’t.”

Milt said, “My name is Milton Lumky and I’m a pipefitter from Philadelphia, P.A.” He held out his hand. “Come over here and sit, instead of standing there.”

Walking cautiously toward him, Taffy said, “Why is your face so red?”

“I don’t know,” Milt said, as if it was a riddle. “Why is my face so red?”

Taffy giggled. “I asked you first.”

He reached down and lifted her up on the couch. “What was the idea of saying you had chicken pox that night in November 1956 when I wanted to have a big dinner and go dancing?”

Giggling, Taffy said, “I don’t know.”

To Bruce, Milt said, “Did you ever know a child who wasn’t a liar? How old are you?” he asked Taffy.

“Seven and a half,” she said.

“You see?” Milt said to Bruce.

“She is,” Susan said. “Seven and a half.”

“Here,” Milt said to Taffy. “I have something for you.” He reached into his pocket and hauled out a cylindrical metal object. “Combination bottle opener and ball point pen,” he said. The thing, made out of tin and plastic, had stamped on it COMPLIMENTS OF WHALEN INC. SPOKANE WASH. “For writing on the inside of bottles,” Milt said, showing her how to scratch blue lines on the back of her hand. “Can’t be erased. Good for the rest of your life. I’ll tattoo you.” He drew a sailing boat on her wrist, with gulls flapping over it. Taffy giggled incessantly, embarrassed.

“What would she do with a bottle opener?” Susan said.

“She could pull off the heads of dolls,” Milt said.

Seeing him and the child, Bruce realized that he had never considered her in his relationship with Susan. He and Taffy had no contact, and neither of them expected any to develop. But Taffy had gone directly to Milt Lumky, full of curiosity and friendliness.

It occurred to him, then, that he had never had any contact with children. And certainly he had no experience; he did not know what to do or say, so he did and said nothing.

Susan would want someone who likes children, he thought. Or would she? She had made no attempt to stir up his interest in Taffy. Maybe she did not care. Maybe she intended to be everything herself, fill all roles. If Taffy became dependent on him, then it would be difficult for her if he left as Walt and Pete—and perhaps others—had left.

That isn’t what I’m wanted for, he realized. To jiggle Taffy on my lap and tell stories and play games. And, for the first time, he had a deep sinking sensation. Susan had absolutely no idea of an equal relationship. The complete inequality of it confronted him in a sort of revelation, full and undeniable.

But how could he complain? He had made no move to approach the child. No use blaming Susan; he had shown her that he did not notice or care about Taffy. Too late now. But perhaps if he had—as Lumky was busy doing—he would have put an end to his relationship with Susan. He saw her expression as she watched Milt Lumky. There was no sweetness there. No pleasure at his interest in the child. Only a frigidity, a wariness. Almost an outright hostility, as if, at the first pretext, she would snap her fingers and demand Taffy back.