Puttering About in a Small Land

by Philip K. Dick

  “He jumped from the back of the truck—this old junk-heap in the yard—and landed on a bent piece of metal. It practically cut off his big toe. We thought it was funny. I remembered kind of sneaking around with my hand over my mouth, laughing. Anyhow, he got lockjaw and died.” Roger threw himself down at the kitchen table and put his head on his arm.

  “Then he is dead,” Virginia said.

  Taking off his glasses, Roger looked up at her vacantly.

  “Years ago you told me he was living down in Texas,” she said, feeling indignation.

  He went on staring at her in his sightless fashion, holding his glasses in his hands. “Oh.” He nodded. And then he put on an expression of such weariness that she at once seated herself next to him and rested her head against his.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” she said.

  Roger said, “What did you do? Tell them you wanted this woman to pick Gregg up on weekends?”

  “Mrs. Alt said something about it.”

  “I met her,” Roger said. “She and her husband were both up there, and their kids. Gregg played football with them. Liz and Chic Bonner. I guess they live down here.”

  “I think they live in San Fernando.”

  Rousing himself he said, “I have to get down to the store.” He kissed her on the mouth—his body smelled of the Arrid that he had just used—and left the house. Still in the kitchen, at the table, she heard the Oldsmobile start up and then fade away down the street.

  That evening, after dinner, while she was showing Gregg the use of different crayons, Roger said to her, “Come on into the bedroom. I want to talk to you.”

  “Just a minute.” She finished setting up Gregg’s coloring book and then followed her husband from the room.

  In the bedroom he leaned against the wall, hands behind his head. He seemed in a good mood, and so, she also felt cheered. “You want to do it?” he asked.

  Puzzled, she said, “Do what?” For a moment she imagined that he meant an action for which they used no direct name; it usually happened in the bedroom. She became embarrassed. But he did not mean that.

  “Up there,” he said.

  “You mean the school?” So he had finally come around. “Isn’t it too late?” she said, but already she calculated their best bet; both of them, she and Roger, should appear at the school with Gregg, his assortment of articles, and the check. No telephoning. No preliminaries. “We’d have to drive up tomorrow,” she said. “And we’d have to get all this stuff packed tonight.”

  “You have a list.” He grinned at her.

  “Would you help?”

  “Sure.”

  Together, they packed feverishly. At midnight they were still at it. Gregg was not told; they did not want to excite him and keep him from sleeping.

  “Mrs. Alt is going to think we’re crazy,” Virginia said. “I wonder what she’ll say. She probably won’t be able to think of anything to say. You want to pretend—I mean just for a joke—that everything seems ordinary to us, completely ordinary? We’ll just say, Here we are. Here’s Gregg. Oh, yes. Here’s the check.”

  “We’ll tell her it’s all in her mind,” Roger said.

  “Yes, let’s say she’s just imagining it—we’ll look her straight in the eye.” Sleepy and tired as they both were, they enjoyed the packing; it had the exhilarating breath of change, of some new level of existence. It marked the end of one period and the beginning of another, and neither of them was quarrelsome or anxious about it, now.

  At one a.m. they finished and stacked the suitcases and boxes by the front door. Then, in the kitchen, they both had a drink.

  “He can always come home,” Virginia said.

  “I don’t think he wants to. He liked it up there.”

  “But he could.”

  “He won’t,” Roger said. “Except on the weekends.”

  Early the next morning they fixed Gregg up in his best suit, loaded all the baggage into the Oldsmobile, locked the front door of the house, and set off for Ojai.

  Roger did the driving. They reached the Valley at eight-thirty; the sunlight was cold and white and all the trees dripped moisture from the night. The air smelled good, and they drove with the windows down.

  From the moment he understood where they were going, Gregg kept up a ceaseless account of what he intended to do; he intended to ride the horse, shoe the horse, hike up to the top of the mountains and plant the U.S. flag and the California Bear flag there, feed the possum, win at football, help put up the tents, find out why James had dark skin, give up his room in favor of an underground cave equipped with atomic devices run by clock motor, bring Mrs. Alt (he still called her Mrs. Ant) home to dinner, take all his old friends up to see the school and him in it, bring all his new friends down to L.A. to see his old school, and so on. In addition, he cataloged and commented on each place and object that the car passed; he gave long spurious accounts of the trees, houses, condition of the road, make of cars, purpose of individuals seen in fields or by the road.

  “All right,” Roger said at last. “Take it easy.”

  Hugging the boy, Virginia said, “We’re almost there.” She had begun to feel sentimental and tearful; from her purse she got a comb and worked with Gregg’s hair. He did not pause in his monologue.

  “And then,” to hold them, “I ran and ran and nobody could catch up with me; I ran so fast nobody even knew where I was; they all said, Where did he go? Where did he go? And I was up at the place where the water comes from. Maybe I swam part of the way. I think I swam part of the way. That was where all the branches were. And nobody knew where I was.”

  “Okay,” Roger said. “Knock it off.”

  This time he parked inside the school grounds. Nothing had changed, except that today cars were everywhere. Other parents, with their children, could be seen wandering about, along the paths and trails between the buildings. The air smelled of breakfast.

  “I guess we’re not the only ones,” Virginia said. How well-dressed the parents were. The mothers had on furs; all the men were in business suits. “It’s an important day,” she said.

  Roger said, “Looks like a wedding or something, everybody dressed up.” They got out of the car, leaving the luggage behind. At the sight of the other parents with their children, Gregg fell silent. He seemed awed.

  “Wouldn’t it be funny,” Roger murmured, as the three of them walked up the steps to the main building, “if she says the register is full? We never thought of that.”

  The lobby of the building was crowded with parents and children, all formal and on their best behavior. Small groups had collected; conversation went on in low tones. Now the smell of cigarettes and perfume and pipes and leather filled the rooms and halls.

  “We better start looking for her,” Virginia said. “She must be around somewhere.”

  “Keep your fingers crossed.” Roger said to his son.

  “Okay,” Gregg said, crossing his fingers.

  They found Mrs. Alt talking with several couples. As soon as she spied them she broke away and came toward them. She did not seem surprised, only rushed and business-like. “Did you bring Gregg back after all?” She shook hands with Virginia. “I’m glad to see you again. You just got in under the wire. Did you bring his things? If not you still have a day or so. Actually, we have children coming in all during the first month.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Ant,” Gregg said.

  Mrs. Alt smiled. “Hello, Gregg. Welcome back.” She propelled the Lindahls into the office and shut the door; the murmur of voices cut off behind them. “This is always a hectic day—the day the children arrive. It’ll be like this from now on.” At her desk she unscrewed her fountain pen and began writing. “I’ll have James carry Gregg’s things up to his room. They’ll be six in a room. Some of his roommates are already here; he can meet them right away. What turmoil.” She tore off a receipt and passed it to Roger; he gave her back the check which Virginia had made out.

  “Fine,” Mrs. Alt said. “What about so
me coffee? You can go in the dining room if you wish: the doors are open. When I have a chance I’ll introduce you to some of the parents, especially of his roommates.” Arising, she showed them to the office door. “I’ll try to get hold of one of the teachers to show you around while you’re here. Or did you see the grounds? Anyhow, you’re free to go anywhere you want; this is open-house day.”

  A teacher approached her; she said good-bye to the Lindahls and hurried off.

  “Well,” Virginia said, “that’s that.” She was a little dazed. “It’s settled.”

  From a phone in the hall, Roger called the store and told Pete that he wouldn’t be in until later. When he had hung up he found his wife and son standing with a group of parents.

  “…Oh, it’s a wonderful school. We’ve had Louis and Barbara here three years, now. When all the children are here, it’s about evenly divided. You see more boys, now; for some reason they’re the first to arrive. Some of the boys stay over between terms. I guess a few of the girls do, too. They keep them very well supervised. You don’t have to worry. They’ll write you at the end of each week and tell you how he’s making out. Remember to tell them how much allowance he’s to get. Don’t forget about the laundry; that’s extra. They send it out.” The talk went on.

  Leaving them, Roger wandered about, overhearing the various conversations, noticing the different parents. Most of them were young. All of them were well-dressed. The women, like Virginia, were for the most pan thin and tall, pretty, with sharp faces; their voices were louder than the men’s, and they seemed to be doing most of the talking. The men smoked, listened, nodded; exchanged a few remarks with one another. They had been pushed into the background.

  The young arithmetic teacher Van Ecke passed by in his sweater and unpressed slacks, and Roger greeted him.

  “Oh hello,” Van Ecke said, obviously not recognizing him. “How are you making out?”

  “Fine,” Roger said.

  Pausing, Van Ecke said, “This is the day the parents get to look us over and see if it’s worth the money. Most of them don’t show up again until the end of the term. Of course, a few drive up now and then, but not very many.” He eyed Roger. “Lets see.”

  “Lindahl is my name,” Roger said.

  “Oh. Of course. How’s your child? Say, did you get that all cleared up? Something about his room or his clothes.”

  “It’s fine now,” Roger said.

  “I see your wife over there,” Van Ecke said. “What an attractive woman. Mrs. Alt says she dances. What sort of dancing? Ballet?”

  He explained.

  “Oh, like Cyd Charisse,” Van Ecke said. “Yes, they have a lot of that down in the town. Experimental art stuff—I’m afraid it’s too deep for me. What line are you in, Mr. Lindahl?”

  “I have a TV store in L.A.,” Roger said.

  “I’ll be darned. I guess TV’s the coming thing for everything. Plays and sports and comedy, everything.”

  Roger said, “Have you seen the Bonners around?”

  Van Ecke shook his head. “No, they left early this morning. They stayed overnight. Their boys are here. I guess they’re older than your boy; they’re eleven or twelve.” He edged away. “I hope to see you again, Lindahl.”

  The time was nine-thirty. He entered the dining room, attracted by the coffee smell. Most of the tables were bare, not in use, but in one corner of the room cups and cream pitchers and sugar shakers and silverware and napkins had been put out. One of those two-level metal cans had just now come pushing through the kitchen doors, carrying on it glass pots of coffee; the woman behind the cart, vast, dark, probably Mexican, began filling cups at the tables. Men and women clustered around. It all seemed pleasant. He walked over and took a cup for himself.

  He had been sitting for a few minutes, stirring his coffee, when a man in a blue business suit took the chair next to his, glanced at him, found a cup for himself, asked someone for the sugar, and at last said, “You’re not one of the teachers, are you?”

  “No,” Roger said. “A parent.”

  The man nodded. “Nice school they have here.” He stirred his coffee, ill at ease. “Sure a drive up, though. Those turns.”

  “Just don’t brake on the turns,” Roger said. “Keep your foot on the gas.”

  “Then don’t you get going too fast?”

  “You never brake on a curve,” he repeated. “You always have the engine pulling. Brake before you hit the curve. Otherwise your rear end will break away on you.”

  “I see,” the man said. He continued stirring his coffee and then mumbled, “Pardon me,” and got up and wandered off elsewhere.

  I’m not doing very well, Roger thought to himself. He felt lonely. But he did not have any desire to rejoin his wife. At his table other people seated themselves, nodded to him or said hello, sat for a while, and then moved on.

  Finally he put down his cup and left the dining room. He walked out of the building, through a side door, onto the terrace. For a few minutes he stood smoking and looking at the view. Eventually he continued down a flight of steps to the road, and from there into a grove of fir trees and out onto the dirt ridge overlooking the football field.

  No children in sight.

  His hands in his pockets, he stood meditating about nothing in particular, feeling no special feeling. The time was about ten o’clock and the first real warmth was beginning to get into the day. Far off, along a valley road, a truck moved. Its diesel smoke followed it like a tail.

  From behind him he heard footsteps. He turned around. A Negro came toward him, carrying some folded papers. “Are you Mr. Rank?” the Negro said.

  “No,” Roger said.

  “I beg your pardon.” The Negro wheeled around and set off in the direction from which he had come.

  That’s James, Roger decided. Hello, James. Good-bye. And in him the fear, the always-present memory of them, the pain at his mouth.

  After an interval he meandered on, in no particular direction.

  Ahead of him was a small square concrete building from which stuck a funnel. Part of the schools heating system, he decided. He passed the building and climbed a steep trail to a bluff. Not far away was another building, tumble-down; from it came an odor of feed and manure and animals, but not a familiar smell. Not horses, he thought, walking toward it.

  The building had no door. He entered into the gloom. A row of cages—nothing more. In the cages shapes shuffled and sniffed. Rabbits. He stopped by the first cage. The dark ochre rabbit peeped up at him, twitching. The smell was overpowering, but he did not object. He looked into each of the cages. Some of the rabbits noticed him; some had their broad backs to the wire, poking their fur through in patches. He chucked one rabbit; the rabbit shifted slightly and squatted down, away from the wire. And all the time the noses of the rabbits were in motion. Their great tepid eyes watched him.

  He left the shed and walked at random. Once he saw a group of parents and their children. He stepped over a heap of boulders—a dry creek bed—and jogged up the far side. No sound. No stirring.

  Forcing a path through bushes he stepped out. Onto the football field, the far side.

  Walking with his head down he crossed the field, step by step, over the weeds. At the spot where they had been he stopped. Here, he thought. In the shadow, under the rise. Away from the sun. He fooled aimlessly, kicking at clumps of soil.

  On the ground was a long straw of grass, several cigarette butts pushed into the loose soil. Right here. The straw of grass had been tossed down when Mrs. Bonner left to go find Mrs. Alt.

  Bending down he picked up the straw of grass and put it in his pocket.

  I must be nuts, he said to himself.

  Then he walked on, up the same trail as before, to the top of the rise. No, he thought. What a mistake that would be.

  I really am nuts.

  He walked until he came to his parked car. Unlocking the door he got in and sat, with the windows down. He put on the radio and listened to music and news and
commercials; then he shut it off, got out of the car, and locked the door again. The goddam windows. He hadn’t rolled them up. Opening the door he stretched across the seat and rolled up the window on the far side.

  After that he started back in the direction of the main school building.

  In the lobby he found a chair and settled down. Some of the parents had drifted off upstairs to the children’s quarters, or to the classrooms, or outdoors; the lobby was less crowded.

  Mrs. Alt, noticing him, came over and dropped into the cane-bottom chair beside him. “I’m worn out,” she said.

  “It’s a mess,” he agreed.

  “You know, I’m so glad you changed your mind.”

  He nodded.

  “Can I say something about your wife?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  Mrs. Alt said, “I think she’s very cold with children. Withdrawn. I don’t really think she’s very good with children. That’s my snap-judgment for the day. I told her that, or I wouldn’t be saying it to you. I told her that was why I was willing to take Gregg.”

  “It’s true,” he said. “I guess.”

  “Did she want to have a child?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “What’s her mother like?”

  “Worse.” He grinned.

  “She said something about her mother living near you.”

  “Too near,” he said. “She followed us out from the East.”

  “I think you’re doing the right thing,” Mrs. Alt said. “Your wife passes on too much of a sense of menace to Gregg.”

  “So do I.”

  “Yes. You do, too.”

  “But,” he said, “it’s Virginia you don’t like.”

  Mrs. Alt said, “That’s true. I don’t really care much for that kind of person.”

  “I’m surprised you’d come right out and say it.”

  “Why?” She turned toward him. “Virginia senses it.”

  “Virginia thinks you’re wonderful.”

  “Of course she does.”

  He did not grasp that kind of utterance.

  “I suppose the thing that set me off,” Mrs. Alt said, “is her snobbery, her feeling about her own stock. I come from Iowa; I take that very personally.” She laughed, a deep noisy laugh.