Ira Levin: The Stepford Wives

"You must think we're a townful of geniuses," the man in the middle said.

"Believe me, we're not."

"You're the men who put us on the moon," she said.

"Who is?" he said. "Not me. Frank, did you put anybody on the moon?

Bernie?"

"Not me," Frank said.

The short man laughed. "Not me, Wynn," he said. "Not that I know of."

"I think you've got us mixed up with a couple of other fellows," the man in the middle said. "Leonardo da Vinci and Albert Einstein, maybe."

"My gosh," the short man said, "we don't want robots for wives. We want real women."

"Get away and let me go on," she said.

They stood there, darker than the darkness. "Joanna," Frank said, "if you were right and we could make robots that were so fantastic and lifelike, don't you think we'd cash in on it somehow?"

"Tbat's right," the man in the middle said. "We could all be rich with that kind of know-how."

"Maybe you're going to," she said. "Maybe this is just the beginning."

"Oh my Lord," the man said, "you've got an answer for everything. You should have been the lawyer, not Walter."

Frank and the short man laughed.

"Come on, Joanna," Frank said, "p-put down that b-bat or whatever it is and-'

"Get away and let me go on!" she said.

"We can't do that," the man in the middle said. "You'll catch pneumonia. Or get hit by a car."

"I'm going to a friend's house," she said. "I'll be inside in a few minutes. I'd be inside now if you hadn't-oh Jesus… She lowered the branch and rubbed her arm; and rubbed her eyes and her forehead, shivering.

"Will you let us prove to you that you're wrong?" the man in the middle said. "Then we'll take you home, and you can get some help if you need it."

She looked at his dark shape. "Prove to me?" she said.

"We'll take you to the house, the Men's Association house-"

"Oh no.

"Now just a second; just hear me out please. We'll take you to the house and you can check it over from stem to stem. I'm sure nobody'll object, under the circumstances. And you'll see there's-"

"I'm not setting foot in-"

"You'll see there's no robot factory there," he said. "There's a bar and a card room and a few other rooms, and that's it. There's a projector and some very X-rated movies; that's our big secret."

"And the slot machines," the short man said.

"Yes. We've got some slot machines."

"I wouldn't set foot in there without an armed guard," she said. "Of women soldiers."

"We'll clear everyone out," Frank said. "You'll have the p-place all to yourself."

"I won't go," she said.

"Mrs. Eberhart," the man in the middle said, "we're trying to be as gentle about this as we know how, but theres a limit to how long we're going to stand here parleying."

"Wait a minute," the short man said, "I've got an idea. Suppose one of these women you think is a robot-suppose she was to cut herself on the finger, and bleed. Would that convince you she was a real person? Or would you say we made robots with blood under the skin?"

"For God's sake, Bemie," the man in the middle said, and Frank said, "You can't-ask someone to cut herself just to-"

"Will you let her answer the question, please? Well, Mrs. Eberhart? Would that convince you? If she cut her finger and bled?"

"Bernie "Just let her answer, damn it!"

Joanna stood staring, and nodded. "If she bled," she said, "I would-think she was-real…"

"We're not going to ask someone to cut herself. We're going to go to-"

"Bobbie would do it," she said. "If she's really Bobbie. She's my friend.

Bobbie Markowe."

"On Fox Hollow Lane?" the short man asked.

"Yes," she said.

"You see?" he said. "It's two minutes from here. Just think for a second, will you? We won't have to go all the way in to the Center; we won't have to make Mrs. Eberhart go somewhere she doesn't want to Nobody said anything.

"I guess it's-not a b-bad idea," Frank said. "We could speak to Mrs.

Markowe…"

"She won't bleed," Joanna said.

"She will," the man in the middle said. "And when she does, you'll know you're wrong and you'll let us take you home to Walter, without any arguments."

"If she does," she said. "Yes."

"All right," he said. "Frank, you run on ahead and see if she's there and explain to her. I'm going to leave my flashlight on the ground here, Mrs.

Eberhart. Bernie and I'll go a little ahead, and you pick it up and follow us, as far behind as makes you comfortable. But keep the light on us so we know you're still there. I'm leaving my coat too; put it on. I can hear your teeth chattering."

SHE WAS WRONG, SHE KNEW it. She was wrong and frozen and wet and tired and hungry, and pulled eighteen ways by conflicting demands. Including to pee.

If they were killers, they'd have killed her then. The branch wouldn't have stopped them, three men facing one woman.

She lifted the branch and looked at it, walking slowly, her feet aching.

She let the branch fall. Her glove was wet and dirty, her fingers frozen.

She flexed them, and tucked her hand into her other armpit. She held the long heavy flashlight as steadily as she could.

The men walked with small steps ahead of her. The short man wore a brown coat and a red leather cap; the taller man, a green shirt and tan pants tucked into brown boots. He had reddish-blond hair.

His sheepskin coat lay warm on her shoulders. Its smell was strong and good-of animals, of life.

Bobbie would bleed. It was coincidence that Dale Coba had worked on robots at Disneyland, that Claude Axhelm thought he was Henry Higgins, that Ike Mazzard drew his flattering sketches. Coincidence, that she had spun intointo madness. Yes, madness. ("It's not catastrophic," Dr.

Fancher said, smiling. "I'm sure I can help you.")

Bobbie would bleed, and she would go home and get warm.

Home to Walter?

When had it begun, her distrust of him, the feeling of nothingness between them? Whose fault was it?

His face had grown fuller; why hadn't she noticed it before today? Had she been too busy taking pictures, working in the darkroom?

She would call Dr. Fancher on Monday, would go and lie on the brown leather couch; would cry a little maybe, and try to become happy.

The men waited at the corner of Fox Hollow Lane.

She made herself walk faster.

FRANK STOOD WAITING IN Bobbie's bright doorway. The men talked with him, and turned to her as she came slowly up the walk.

Frank smiled. "She says sure," he said. "If it'll make you feel b-better she'll be glad to do it."

She gave the flashlight to the green-shirted man. His face was broad and leathery, strong-looking. "We'll wait out here," he said, lifting the coat from her shoulders.

She said, "She doesn't have to…"

"No, go on," he said. "You'll only start wondering again later."

Frank came out onto the doorstep. "She's in the kitchen," he said.

She went into the house. Its warmth surrounded her. Rock music blared and thumped from upstairs.

She went down the hallway, flexing her aching hands.

Bobbie stood waiting in the kitchen, in red slacks and an apron with a big daisy on it. "Hi, Joanna," she said, and smiled.

Beautiful bosomy Bobbie. But not a robot.

"Hi," she said. She held the doorjamb, and leaned to it and rested the side of her head against it.

"I'm sorry to hear you're in such a state," Bobbie said.

"Sorry to be in it," she said.

"I dont mind cutting my finger a little," Bobbie said, "if it'll ease your mind for you." She walked to a counter. Walked smoothly, steadily, gracefully. Opened a drawer.

"Bobbie…" Joanna said. She closed her eyes, and opened them. "Are you really Bobbie?" she asked.

"Of course I am," Bobbie said, a knife in her hand. She went to the sink.

"Come here," she said. "You can't see from there."