Avram Davidson - The Avram Davidson Treasury - a tribute collection

Bob’s relaxed gaze took in, one by one, the pictures in the mantelpiece. He sat up a bit, pointed. “Who is that?” he asked. The young man looked something like Bentley and something like Bentley’s father.

“That’s my oldest boy, Barton, Junior,” said Mother B. “You see that nice vest he’s wearing? Well, right after the War, Bart, he was in the Navy then, picked up a piece of lovely brocade over in Japan, and he sent it back home. I thought of making a nice bed-jacket out of it, but there wasn’t enough material. So I made it into a nice vest, instead. Poor old Uncle Peter, he liked that vest, took a picture of Bart in it. Well, what do you know, a few years later fancy vests became quite popular, and, of course, by that time Bart was tired of his (“Of course,” Bob murmured), so he sold it to a college boy who had a summer job at Little and Harpey’s. Got $25 for it, and we all went out to dinner down town that night.”

Kitty delicately stenciled another star on her toenails.

“I see,” Bob said. After a moment, “Little and Harpey’s?” he repeated.

Yes, that same. The publishers. Bart, and his younger brother Alton, were publishers’ readers. Alt had been with Little and Harpey but was now with Scribbley’s Sons; Bart had worked for Scribbley’s at one time, too. “They’ve been with all the biggest publishing houses,” their mother said, proudly. “Oh, they aren’t any of your stick-in-the-muds, no sirree.” Her hands had been fiddling with a piece of bright cloth, and then, suddenly, cloth and hands went up to her head, her fingers flashed, and — complete, perfect — she was wearing an intricately folded turban.

Bentley came in carrying a pitcher of drink in one hand and five glasses — one to each finger — in the other. “I told you to mix yours separately, I think,” his mother said. Taking no notice of her youngest’s Ahhh, she turned to Bob. “I have a whole basket of these pieces of madras,” she said, “some silk, some cotton…and it’s been on my mind all day. Now, if I just remember the way those old women from the West Indies used to tie them on their heads when I was girl…and now, sure enough, it just came back to me! How does it look?” she asked.

“Looks very nice, Mommy,” said Bart, Sr. And added, “I bet it would cover up the curlers better than those babushkas the women wear, you know?”

Bob Rosen bet it would, too.

So here it was and this was it. The sources of the Nile. How old Peter Martens had discovered it, Bob did not know. By and by, he supposed, he would find out. How did they do it, was it that they had a panache —? or was it a “wild talent,” like telepathy, second sight, and calling dice or balls? He did not know.

“Bart said he was reading a real nice manuscript that came in just the other day,” observed Mrs. Benson, dreamily, over her glass. “About South America. He says he thinks that South America has been neglected, and that there is going to be a revival of interest in non-fiction about South America.”

“No more Bushmen?” Barton, Sr., asked.

“No, Bart says he thinks the public is getting tired of Bushmen. He says he only gives Bushmen another three months and then — poo — you won’t be able to give the books away.” Bob asked what Alton thought. “Well, Alton is reading fiction now, you know. He thinks the public is getting tired of novels about murder and sex and funny war experiences. Alt thinks they’re about ready for some novels about ministers. He said to one of the writers that Scribbley’s publishes, ‘Why don’t you do a novel about a minister?’ he said. And the man said he thought it was a good idea.”

There was a long, comfortable silence.

There was no doubt about it. How the Bensons did it, Bob still didn’t know. But they did do it. With absolute unconsciousness and with absolute accuracy, they were able to predict future trends in fashion. It was marvelous. It was uncanny. It—

Kitty lifted her lovely head and looked at Bob through the long, silken skein of hair, then brushed it aside. “Do you ever have any money?” she asked. It was like the sound of small silver bells, her voice. Where, compared to this, were the flat Long Island vocables of, say, Noreen? Nowhere at all.

“Why, Kitty Benson, what a question,” her mother said, reaching out her glass for Bentley to refill. “Poor Peter Martens, just to think — a little more, Bentley, don’t think you’re going to drink what’s left, young man.”

“Because if you ever have any money,” said the voice like the Horns of Elfland. “We could go out somewhere together. Some boys don’t ever have any money,” it concluded, with infinitely loving melancholy.

“I’m going to have some money,” Bob said at once. “Absolutely. Uh — when could—”

She smiled an absolute enchantment of a smile. “Not tonight,” she said, “because I have a date. And not tomorrow night, because I have a date. But the day after tomorrow night, because then I don’t have a date.”

A little voice in one corner of Bob’s mind said, “This girl has a brain about the size of a small split pea; you know that, don’t you?” And another voice, much less little, in the opposite corner, shrieked, “Who cares? Who cares? ” Furthermore, Noreen had made a faint but definite beginning on an extra chin, and her bosom tended (unless artfully and artificially supported) to droop. Neither was true of Kitty at all, at all.

“The day after tomorrow night, then,” he said. “It’s a date.”

All that night he wrestled with his angel. “You can’t expose these people to the sordid glare of modern commerce,” the angel said, throwing him with a half-nelson. “They’d wither and die. Look at the dodo — look at the buffalo. Will you look?” “You look,” growled Bob, breaking the hold, and seizing the angel in a scissors-lock. “I’m not going to let any damned account executives get their chicken-plucking hands on the Bensons. It’ll all be done through me, see? Through me! ” And with that he pinned the angel’s shoulders to the mat. “And besides,” he said, clenching his teeth, “I need the money …”

Next morning he called up his agent. “Here’s just a few samples to toss Mr. Phillips Anhalt’s way,” he said grandiosely. “Write ’em down. Soupbowl haircuts for men. That’s what I said. They can get a sunlamp treatment for the backs of their necks in the barber-shops. Listen. Women will stencil stars on their toe-nails with nail polish. Kate Greenaway style dresses for women are going to come in. Huh? Well, you bet your butt that Anhalt will know what Kate Greenaway means. Also, what smart women will wear will be madras kerchiefs tied up in the old West Indian way. This is very complicated, so I guess they’ll have to be pre-folded and pre-stitched. Silks and cottons… You writing this down? Okay.

“‘Teen-agers will wear, summer-time, I mean, they’ll wear shorts made out of cut-down blue jeans. And sandals made out of cut-down sneakers. No shirts or undershirts — barechested, and — What? NO , for cry-sake, just the boys! ”

And he gave Stuart the rest of it, books and all, and he demanded and got an advance. Next day Stuart reported that Anhalt reported that Mac Ian was quite excited. Mac had said — did Bob know what Phil said Mac said? Well, Mac said, “Let’s not spoil the ship for a penny’s worth of tar, Phil.”

Bob demanded and received another advance. When Noreen called, he was brusque.

The late morning of his date-day he called to confirm it. That is, he tried to. The operator said that she was sorry, but that number had been disconnected. He made it up to the Bronx by taxi. The house was empty. It was not only empty of people, it was empty of everything. The wallpaper had been left, but that was all.