Philip Dick - In Milton Lumky Territory

“Well…by golly,” his father said. His reddish hairless hand appeared, and Bruce took it.

From the kitchen his mother appeared. The tiny, tanned, clever, churchy face beaming at him, the bright eyes. Here, in her own house, she wore plain clean clothes that he identified with the rural people, the small-town Idaho people. She smiled up at him, and her grayish, translucent false teeth, the color of a celluloid comb, caught the light and sparkled.

“Hi,” Bruce said, his hand still clasped in his father’s flat wet limp palm and fingers. “How have you been?”

“Fine,” his father said, letting go of his hand at last and reseating himself in his deep armchair; the springs twanged under him.

His mother caught hold of him and fastened her mouth to his cheek; it happened so fast that she had sprung back before he could stir. “How nice to see you!” she cried. “How’s Reno?”

“I’m not living in Reno any more,” he said. He seated himself, and she did so, too. They both watched him expectantly, his father’s face dull, his mother’s merry and kindly, catching every move he made, every word he said. “I’m living up in Boise. I got married.”

“Oh!” his mother gasped, wincing, shocked. His father remained unstirred.

“Just the other day,” he said.

His father still did not respond.

“I don’t believe it,” his mother wailed.

To her, his father said, “He wouldn’t tell you if it wasn’t true.”

“No,” she said, “I don’t believe it. Who is she?” she demanded, to first one of them and then the other.

“I don’t know,” his father said, tapping her on the knee. “Just settle down.” To Bruce he said, “Is that her out in the car?”

“Is she out there?” his mother cried, springing up and running to the window. “How did you know she was out there?” she asked his father.

His father answered in his slow way, “I heard the car stop so I looked out to see who it was stopping.”

“Bring her in,” his mother said, starting toward the door. “What’s her name?”

“Don’t you go and get her,” his father ordered.

“Yes,” his mother said. Opening the door she started out onto the porch.

“Come and sit down!” his father said loudly.

She returned, flustered and red-faced. “Why did you leave her out in the car?” she asked Bruce.

“He’ll tell you,” his father said.

“She’s feeling carsick,” Bruce said.

“Tell her to come inside and lie down,” his mother said.

“I want to talk to you first,” Bruce said. “I’m not bringing her in her until you swear on the Bible not to say anything mean to her.”

“Nobody is going to say anything mean,” his father said.

“I’m not bringing her in here until you both make up your minds to do what you ought to do and not what you feel like doing,” he said. “If you say anything mean to her, I’ll leave and you won’t see either of us again. I’ve thought it over and I’m sorry but I don’t feel like having you give her a hard time.”

His father said, “He’s right.”

“Yes,” his mother agreed. “Well, do we get to see her?”

Bruce said, “She’s older than I am.”

“How much older?” his mother said.

“That doesn’t matter,” his father said. “If Bruce married her that’s what you better concern yourself with. It’s not up to you to decide.”

“Ten years,” Bruce said. “She’s thirty-four.”

His mother began to cry.

“Ten years is a lot,” his father said, with gravity.

“Now I’ve told you,” Bruce said.

They both sat unhappily, collecting their emotions.

“What did you want to discuss with us first?” his father asked.

Bruce said, “I want to see what financial shape you’re in these days. Look,” he said. “You sent Frank to college but I had to go to work right after high school; in fact I worked while I was in high school. What about a wedding present?”

“We’ll give you a wedding present,” his father said.

“I don’t mean a ten-dollar bill,” Bruce said. “We need thousands of dollars, six or seven thousand.”

His father nodded, as if that seemed perfectly natural to him.

“I wanted to ask you first before I brought her in,” Bruce said. “It’s for me, so it has nothing to do with her. It’s so I can get started in business.” He told them a little about the store. They both listened, but he doubted that they understood. They were too numbed. Too taken by surprise. “I can’t fool around about it,” he said. “I can’t take time to be polite; we have to have it right away. I want to get it now, before I bring her in.” His voice had risen until he was shouting at them; they sat driven back against their chairs, not interrupting him. He had successfully intimidated them, which was the only way he could hope to get it. He talked on and on and they listened; he explained the whole thing to them and then he pounced on them demanding, “You sent Frank to college; it’s time you did something for me, and this is the time I really need it.” He ignored the fact that Frank had won one scholarship after another. “What do you say?” he said.

His father said, “We always intended to help you when you made up your mind what line you wanted to go into.” He spoke with dignity.

“Good,” Bruce said, delighted; he had beaten them. By the sheer weight of his voice he had made them accept what he said; he had gotten past their natural frugality and common sense. “Now, what can you do for me?” he said. “Look, I want to bring her inside; she’s getting cold out there and I told her I’d be back in a couple of seconds.” He leaped up and paced about urgently, forcing his impatience onto them.

His parents dithered in their desire to fix things up. His father sat down in the dining room and began searching ponderously for his check book; his mother ran upstairs for a fountain pen. A moment later he had his father’s check for one thousand dollars, and his parents were telling him that they wished they could give them more. His mother, weeping again, wanted only to see Susan; she had no interest in the money. His father muttered apologetically that maybe later on, when he had a chance to take a look at the bonds he had downtown in his bank deposit box, he might be able to add something to it.

“I’ll go get her,” Bruce said, as if he had now been released. He strode out onto the porch; his parents accompanied him as far as the steps and stood fearfully as he opened the car door.

Susan said, “I feel better. Are those your parents?” She could see them on the porch. “I wish I didn’t have to go in, but I guess I have to.” Carefully holding her skirt down, she slid across the car seat; he held the door open and she stood up beside him, holding her purse and gloves, preparing herself.

“We won’t stay long,” he said to her as together they climbed the steps to the porch.

“It leans,” she said.

“It always did. It won’t collapse.” He took her arm. The porchlight had been turned on, and in the uneven glare Susan’s face took on a mottled cast. His parents, on the porch above them, peered down in a state of near hysteria; he had never seen anyone so deeply affected by the sight of anyone else. As soon as Susan reached the porch—she moved as slowly and regularly as possible—his mother seized her and propelled her inside. That was the last he saw of them for some time, but their voices, from different parts of the house, remained audible.

His father, accompanying him indoors, said, “Nobody would have any idea that she’s older than you.”

That was not true, but he felt it to be well-meant. “Her name’s Susan,” he said. And then, for the first time, it struck him that possibly one or both of his parents might have met her back when she had been his teacher; there had been PTA meetings—I wish I had thought of it before, he thought, because now it was too late. “We can’t stay long,” he said.