Philip Dick: In Milton Lumky Territory

One light guided him, the bathroom light. He made his way down the hall, to the closet, opened it and found his coat. Thank God, he thought. He put it on and then entered the living room.

A smell of cigarettes hung over the living room. An odd lonely empty place, with the people gone…the warmth and reminders of them, crumpled cigarette package in an ashtray, glasses, even an earring on the end-table. As if they had gone up in smoke, like elves. Ready to return as soon as mortals—himself, for instance—had turned their back. Standing, listening, he heard a hum.

The phonograph has been left on. Its tiny red light shone as he lifted the lid to shut it off. So evidently they hadn’t intended to be gone very long, or they had rushed out on the spur of the moment.

The mystery of the abandoned sailing ship, he thought, as he wandered into the kitchen. Food on the table…on the drainboard the bottle of bourbon, now only half-full, remained. The bowl of now-melted ice cubes. Lemon rind. More empty glasses. And, in the sink, dishes.

What am I waiting for? he asked himself. I have my coat. Why don’t I just go?

Damn it, he thought. If that accident hadn’t happened regarding my purchase at Hagopian’s, I might be staying here tonight.

As he stood there, partly in the kitchen and partly in the hall, his hands down deep in his pockets, he heard someone sigh. Far off, in another room of the house, someone rustled and sighed.

It frightened him.

I better be careful, he thought. Making no noise at all, he walked back down the hall, to the living room and the front door. At the door he paused, his hand on the knob, feeling a little more secure, listening.

No sound.

Now it seemed less menacing. He opened the door, hesitated, and then, leaving it slightly open, walked back. The house was so dark that he knew he could not be seen; at least, not very well. An outline, at most, his shape, too vague to be identified. There was something exciting in this, almost a child’s game. Memory of earlier days… Again stopping, he raised his head, put his hand behind his ear, and holding his breath, listened.

Distinct breathing from what he knew to be a bedroom. The door had not been shut. Trembling, anticipating, he approached it one step at a time and stuck his head past the door to look into the room. There was just enough light for him to make out the bed, the dresser, a lamp.

On the bed lay Susan Faine, smoking a cigarette, one arm under her head, gazing up at the ceiling. She had kicked off her sandals. At the foot of the bed various coats and purses had been piled up, those of the other guests. At once she became aware of him; sitting up she said, “Back already?”

“No,” he mumbled.

She gazed at him. Then she said, “I thought you left a long time ago.”

“I forgot my coat,” he said, foolishly.

“You have it on.”

“Now I’ve got it,” he said. Presently he said, “Where did they all go?”

“Off to buy some more mixer,” she said.

“I got back in through the window,” he said. “The front door was locked.”

“That’s what that noise was,” she said. “I thought it was them on the porch opening the door. I wondered why I didn’t hear anyone talking. I must have dozed off. Apparently I have some virus infection. What I’m afraid of is that it’s something I picked up in Mexico. Since I got back I’ve been continually nauseated. I can’t drink anything and keep it down; it comes right back up. And every now and then I feel so darn weak and dizzy. I just have to lie down.”

“Oh,” he said.

Susan Faine said, “Down there we were warned not to eat any of the leafy vegetables or any fruits or even unboiled water. But when you go into a restaurant you can’t ask them to boil your glass of water. Can you? You can’t boil the dishes they give you.”

“Could it be just Asiatic Flu?” he asked.

“That’s possible,” she said. “I have these recurrent pains in my stomach.” She had unbuckled her belt and now she rubbed her flat waist. Then she sat up, put out her cigarette, and arose from the bed. “They should be right back,” she said, as she put her feet into her sandals. “Unless they stopped off somewhere. I think I’ll fix myself some coffee. Would you like some?” She passed by him—her motions were agile, but obviously weary—and out of the room. When next he caught sight of her, she had switched on the kitchen light and was standing on tiptoe to peer into a cupboard above the sink. There, she found a jar of instant coffee.

“None for me,” he said, hanging around in the general region of the kitchen table.

“Walt, my husband, I mean my former husband, lived in dread that one of us would get amoebic dysentery when we were down in Mazatlan one summer. That’s supposed to be quite serious. Sometimes fatal. Have you ever been down there?”

“No,” he said.

“You ought to go sometime.”

In his mind he had a notion of Mexico; he had talked with a couple of fellows who had driven down from Los Angeles, across the border at Tijuana. Their tale built up in him a picture of girls in bathing suits, T-bone steaks at fancy restaurants for 40¢, the best hotel rooms for $2.00 a night, maid service, no tax on whiskey, and any sort of pleasure wanted, picked up then and there on the street. Gas cost only 20¢ a gallon and that appealed to him particularly, because he used so much on his trips for his job. And there were top-quality English woolens in clothing stores, at dirt-cheap prices.

Of course, it was true as she said; you had to watch what you ate, but if you kept off the native foods you were okay.

At the stove, Susan Faine put on a pot of water to boil for the coffee. So he said, “Better late than never.”

“What?” she said.

“Boiling the water,” he said.

“This is for the coffee,” she said, in a serious voice.

“I know that,” he said. “I was just kidding. I guess I shouldn’t kid anybody who doesn’t feel well.”

She seated herself at the table, rested her arms on the table, and then laid her head on her arms. “Do you live here in town?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I’m up from Reno.”

“You know what I’m going to do?” she said. “I’m going to put some cognac in the coffee. I saw a bottle up in the upper shelf of the cupboard. Would you get it down for me? It’s pushed back so nobody’ll find it who just happens to be wandering through.”

Obligingly, he got the cognac bottle down for her. It had not been opened. She examined it at great length, reading the label, holding the bottle up to the light. On the stove the water boiled.

“It looks good,” she said. “Peg won’t care. Somebody probably gave it to her. Anyhow I’ll probably throw it up.” She handed it back to him, and he understood that he was expected to open it.

The bottle had a cork for a stopper, and it gave him trouble. He had to clasp the bottle between his knees, stoop down like an animal, and, running a knife through the opener, get grip enough to pull with all his might. The cork traveled up by degrees, and at last out of the bottle entirely, expanding at once. To him it seemed offensive, and he stood holding the opener only, not touching the cork.

All the time, Susan watched critically. Then, when he had gotten the cork out, she poured the boiling water into the cup, stirred the instant coffee in, and added some of the cognac.

“Please have some,” she said.

“No thanks.” He did not care for brandy, especially French brandy. Standing to one side, he rearranged his sleeves, which had become wrinkled; the tugging and straining had done it.

“Aren’t you old enough?”

“Sure,” he grumbled. “It’s just too sweet for me. Scotch is my drink.”