Confessions of a Crap Artist

by Philip K. Dick

  “I don't believe you would have got this idea in your mind,” Nathan said, “this idea about murdering her, except for this situation between her and me.”

  “You calling me a liar?” Charley said.

  Gesturing, Nathan said, “I know it's because of me.”

  “Then you know wrong. Believe me. I wouldn't lie to you. Why should I lie to you?”

  Nathan said, “If you kill her, I'll go to my grave considering myself responsible.”

  At that, Charley had to laugh. “You? What do you think you are in this? When did you get mixed up in this? I'll tell you. About ten minutes ago. Ten seconds! My fucking busted back.” He lapsed into silence, then.

  “FU always know it was because of my getting mixed up with her,” Nathan repeated. “You're simply so outraged about this that you've lost control of your own mental processes. You don't really know what your motive is.”

  “I know what my motive is,” Charley said.

  At that moment a nurse, smiling apologetically, entered the room, looked around on the table for something, smiled at them both, and departed, leaving the door open. Nathan got up and closed it.

  “Well I'll tell you,” he said slowly, as he returned. “If you do try to do something to her, I'll stand up for her.”

  “Like standing up for Christ?” Charley said.

  Nathan said, “I'll do what I can to stop you.”

  “Now I've heard everything,” Charley said. “Man, I've really heard it. A snot-nosed punk, a college kid, comes in here and tells me he's going to take me on in a situation having to do between me and my wife. Why, you god damn punk nothing kid, what business is this of yours? Who the hell do you think you are? If I wasn't lying here recuperating so I could get back up to Drake's Landing I'd get up out of here and kick your balls down the hall and down the stairs to the main floor.”

  Nathan said, “It's too god damn bad, but as far as I'm concerned you're an irrational, compulsive—” He groped for words. “Anyhow,” he said, “I feel sure I can handle you when the time comes. The type of man who beats up a woman is a pretty soft pile of shit when it comes down to it, in my books.” Arising, he started out of the room.

  “She's really got you hooked,” Charley said.

  At the door, Nathan said, “I'll see you.”

  “Boy, she really has.” He tried to whistle, to show his incredulity, but his lips were too stiff. “Listen, I'll tell you what she is. I've read books. You're not the only one who can talk and discuss intellectual matters. I've seen you guys sitting around discussing Picasso and Freud. Listen to this. She's a psychopath. You know that? Fay's a psychopath. Think about that.”

  Nathan said nothing.

  “You know what a psychopath is?” Charley demanded.

  “Sure,” Nathan said.

  “No, you don't because if you did you'd recognize her right off. The reason I know is that I talked to Doctor Andrews and he told me.” Actually, that was a lie. But he was too mad to keep to the truth. He had come across the term in an article in This Week magazine, several years ago, and the description had sufficiently fitted Fay to awaken his interest. “I don't have to take a mail-order college course to know that. What is it she does that's the key? She always wants her own way.” He pointed a finger at Nathan. “And she can't wait, can she? She's like a child; she always wants her own way and she can't wait. Isn't that a psychopath? And she don't care about nobody else. That's a psychopath. It is. I'm not kidding you. “ He nodded with triumph, panting. “The world's something for her to drain dry, and people—”

  He laughed. “That proves it. The way she treats people. Look it up.”

  “I admit she has certain character disturbances,” Nathan said.

  “You know why she's set her cap for you? By the way, you don't think for a minute that getting hooked up with her was your idea, do you?”

  Nathan shrugged, still standing by the door.

  “She needs you,” Charley said, “because she knew if this heart attack didn't kill me I'd come back and kill her, and she wants some man to step in and protect her. Exactly what you're doing.” But even to him it sounded contrived and lame. “That's why,” he said, but his tone lacked conviction, and he knew that he could not convince Nathan. For a moment he had had him going, but now he had lost him. “That's one of the reasons,” he said, amending his statement. “There are others. She also figures she'll need a husband when I'm dead. That's a big reason, too. You two can sit around and talk, yak, yak, yak it up the rest of your lives. I can see you two sitting there at the dining room table.” He saw so clearly in his mind's eye the table, the big windows overlooking the patio, the field … he saw the sheep, the horse—his horse— and the dog. The dog wagging her tail for Nathan exactly as she wagged it for him, greeting him in the same way. He saw Nathan hanging his coat in the closet where his coats hung— had hung. He saw him washing his face and hands in his bathroom, using his towel; he saw him looking into the oven to see what was for dinner. He saw him playing with the kids, playing airplanes—carrying them around at arms' length—

  He saw him with his children, his dog, his wife, seated in his easy chair, listening to the hi-fi. He saw him throughout the house, using it, enjoying it, being at home in it, living in it as her husband, as the children's father. “But you're not their father,” he said aloud. And all at once he didn't give a god damn about getting back at Fay; he wanted nothing else but to be home, sitting in his living room, holding on to his life; he did not even want to ride the horse or play with the dog or lie in bed screwing his wife—the hell with that; all he asked was to be home sitting down watching them through the windows. Watching them, for instance, flying their kites, like on that last day. Fay running across the field with those long legs of hers, running so lightly, skimming across the ground faster and faster…

  He realized that Nathan was talking. What was he saying? Something about realizing that he wasn't their father. He tried to listen, but he couldn't; he felt too woozy and tired to listen. So he sat staring down at the foot of the bed, while Nathan talked.

  If I could just get back, he thought. Nothing else. Just back. With my Elsie. Driving my pick-up truck. Doing the shopping, laying pipe for the ducks' water trough—anything. Scrubbing the bathtubs and sinks and toilets, carrying out the garbage … I don't give a good god damn what it is. Please.

  Fuck it all, he thought. It's all gone. I'll never get back; I know that. I'll never see that house again, never in a million years. And this other guy, this snot-nose, will walk in and take it all, and have it the rest of his life.

  I ought to kill them all, he thought. Her and him, and that warped creep of a brother, him and his lurid pulp story that he whipped together to get sadistic pleasure out of reading to me. That nut. A family of nuts. A world of them. Like the flying saucer nuts over in Inverness Park. The pack of them at work as a team, like the Eisenhower-Dulles team.

  God damn it, he thought. I will get back there, and when I do I'll get them. Even if I don't get back there—I'll still get them. I'll get them anyhow.

  “Listen,” he said. “You know who I am? I'm the one person in the world—the only one—who can save you from that fucking woman. Isn't that right? You know it. Right? Right?”

  Nathan said nothing.

  “Nobody else can do it,” Charley said. “You can't, your wife can't, Doctor Sebastian that old fuddy minister can't, her nutty brother can't, the Fineburgs can't—nobody in Marin County or Contra Costa County or Sonoma County can except me, because it would take killing her, and by god you know I'll do that. So you better pray for me; you better go home and sit in your parlor and watch tv and wait and pray for me to get home and live long enough, because you're the one who's going to benefit; you'll benefit and nobody else will. And ten years from now—hell, ten days!—you'll be so god damn glad. You really will be. And something in your mind tells you that. It's your subconscious. So go home. Don't mix in where it doesn't concern you. When she phones you up, don't
answer the phone. When she drives up in front of your house and toots her horn, stay indoors. Ignore her. For one week.” He shouted the words. “One week, and you'll be okay! And then you can go on and get your degree and become whatever it is you want to be—otherwise you know what'll become of you?”

  Nathan said nothing.

  “I don't have to tell you,” Charley said, and in him it was the greatest sense of triumph and joy that he had felt in all this, in everything that had happened. It was almost a mystical sense. He did not have to say, because the expression on Nathan's face showed that he already knew. “Do you know what that means?” Charley yelled at him. “That means I was right. If I wasn't right, you wouldn't know. It's not in my mind. It's the truth. We both know it. We know about her, both of us, you and me. So that proves it; it's true. Right?”

  Nathan said nothing.

  For the first time, Charley thought, I can see it clearly and know she really is that way; it isn't in my mind. She really is a grade A number one bitch, because I can read this boy's face, and he can read mine, and it's in both of us.

  Thank god, he thought. I can know for sure.

  “Right?” he repeated.

  Nathan said, “I went into this recognizing her defects. When I first met her I wasn't pleased by her. I saw all these qualities.”

  “In a pig's ass,” Charley said. “You fell for her the moment you laid eyes on her.”

  “No,” Nathan said, glancing up. And Charley saw that he had been mistaken. I lost him again, he thought. Damn it.

  “So you had an inkling,” he said. But he had said the wrong thing, and he could not get it back. “It just shows that underneath you realize I'm right.”

  Nathan said, “FU see you.” He opened the door, left the room, shut the door behind him.

  After a time Charley thought, Maybe he'll go through with it. Stick by her. The stupid son of a bitch.

  I am sick, he thought. It's true. What can I do if he decides to take me on? Before my heart attack I could have handled him with one hand; I could have split his skull. But now I'm too weak. In fact between the two of them, with her keen mind, her alertness, and his physical attributes, they'll have me. Between them they're a match for me, the way I am now. The jerks.

  The trouble with me, he thought, is I'm a stupid man. I can't talk good enough, not like they can. I fucked it up.

  15

  While in my bedroom sewing a rip in Elsie's blue skirt I heard the doorbell and then Bing barking. I went on sewing, expecting Jack to go to the door, but finally I realized that he had shut himself up in his room and wasn't hearing the doorbell, so I put down my sewing and hurried through the house to the door.

  On the porch stood Maud Mayberry, from Inverness Park, a large florid woman whose husband works down at the mill near Olema. I knew her from the PTA.

  “Come in,” I said. “I'm sorry I didn't hear you right away. ”

  We sat down at the dining room table and had coffee; I sewed on Elsie's skirt while Mrs. Mayberry chatted about various events around north west Marin.

  “Have you heard about the saucer group?” she said presently. “Claudia Hambro's bunch?”

  “Who cares about those nuts,” I said.

  “They're predicting the end of the world,” Mrs. Mayberry said.

  At that I put down my sewing. “Well, I have to hand it to Claudia Hambro,” I said. “I take off my hat to her. Just when I get to thinking that my own life is a mess and I'm an idiot and can't handle the simplest situation, then I hear about something like this. They're psychotic; they really are. They ought to have medical attention.”

  Mrs. Mayberry went on to tell me details. She had gotten them second hand, but she seemed to think they were accurate. In fact, they had come from the wife of the young minister living in Point Reyes Station. The saucer group evidently expected to be whisked away to outer space just before the calamity. It was the most far-out crap I have ever heard in my entire life; it really was.

  “They ought to cart that Claudia Hambro away,” I said. “She's spreading this contagion like the plague. Next thing, everybody in north west Marin County will be going up on Noren's Acres and waiting for the saucer. I mean, this is going to get written up in the newspapers. This is what you read about. This happens once in a decade. I never thought it would happen with people I actually know. My good god— Claudia Hambro's little girl was over here only the other day, with the Bluebirds. My good god.” I shook my head; it was really the end. And this was what my brother had gotten mixed up in.

  “Your brother's in the group, isn't he?” Mrs. Mayberry said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “But you're far from sympathetic.”

  I said, “My brother's as nutty as the rest of them, and I don't care who hears me say it. I just wish I hadn't brought him up here. Hadn't let Charley persuade me to bring him up here.”

  Mrs. Mayberry said, “Do you know about the story your brother wrote for the group?”

  “What story?” I said.

  “Well, according to what Mrs. Baron said—that's who I get it from—he did some automatic writing under hypnosis, or under the telepathic influence of their spiritual leader … who lives, as I understand it, down in San Anselmo. Anyhow, he brought this story to the group, and they've been reading it and passing it around, trying to get at the symbolistic meaning beneath it.”

  “Christ,” I said, fascinated.

  Mrs. Maybery said, “I'm surprised you hadn't heard about it. They had a couple of special meetings about it.”

  “How would I hear about it?” I said. “When do I get out? My good god, I have to go down to SF three days a week, and now that my husband's in the hospital—”

  “It's about you and that young man who just recently moved up here,” Mrs. Mayberry said. “Nathan Anteil, who rented the old Mondavi place.”

  At that, I felt cold all over. “What do you mean, about me and Mr. Anteil?” I said.

  “Well, they haven't showed it to anyone outside the group. That's all Mrs. Baron knew.”

  I said, “Have you heard anything about me and Mr. Anteil from other sources?”

  “No,” Mrs. Mayberry said. “Like what?”

  “That fucking Claudia Hambro,” I said, and then, seeing the expression on Mrs. Mayberry's face, I said, “Excuse me.” I threw down my sewing; I was so mad and upset I could hardly see. Going to my purse I got out my cigarettes, lit one, and then threw it into the fireplace. “Excuse me,” I said. “I have to go out.”

  Running into the bedroom I changed from my jeans to a skirt and blouse; I combed my hair, put on lipstick, got my purse and car keys, and started out of the house. There, at the dining table, sat that big horse's ass, Mrs. Mayberry, staring at me as if I were a freak.

  “I have to go out for a while,” I told her. “Good-bye.” I ran down the path and jumped into the Buick. A minute later I was driving up the road, as fast as possible, toward Inverness Park.

  I found Claudia out in her cactus garden, weeding. “Listen,” I said, “I think if you had any social responsibility you would have telephoned me as soon as you got your hands on that thing he wrote. Jack wrote.” I was out of breath from running up her flagstone path from the car. “Can I have it, please?”

  Claudia stood up, holding her trowel. “You mean that story?”

  “Right,” I said.

  “It's being read,” she said. “We passed it around the group. I don't know who has it.”

  “Have you read it?” she said. “What does it say about me and Nat Anteil?”

  Claudia said, “It's in the form usual with telepathical writing. You can read it. I'll put your name down and when it gets back to me I'll bring it over to you.” She had amazing calmness; I have to give her credit for that. She kept really poised.

  “I'll sue you,” I said. “I'll take you to court.”

  “That's right,” Claudia said. “You have that big attorney down in San Rafael. You know, Mrs. Hume, in a month from now none of us
will remember or even care about all this. It'll be all washed away.” She smiled her dazzling, beautiful smile. Probably there wasn't another woman as physically beautiful as Claudia in Northern California. And she certainly wasn't intimidated. She didn't bat an eye, and I know I've never been so angry and upset in my entire life. I really felt that in a couple of moments with me she had gotten the upper hand. It was that magnetic personality of hers, that assurance. She really is a powerful woman. No wonder she had control of that group. Anyhow, I have never been good at dealing with women. All I could do was keep my temper and speak as rationally as possible.

  “I'd appreciate having that thing back,” I said. “Possibly you could contact the different members of your group and find out who has it and then I'll drive over and get it back from them. I frankly don't see what's so difficult or impossible about that. If you'll give me the names of your group I'll call them now.”

  Claudia said, “It'll come back. In due time.”

  I went away feeling like a child that had been reprimanded by its teacher. Good god, I thought. That woman completely takes over; there's nothing I can do. I know she has no right to be circulating that god damn thing, and she knows it, too, but she made it sound as if I was asking for something completely outrageous. How did she do it? Now I felt more depressed than angry; I didn't even feel scared. I just felt how incompetent and idiotic I was, how unable to handle my affairs.

  Looking back on it I saw that I should have been able to march up to her and simply demand that thing, not threaten or yell but just hold out my hand, say nothing at all.

  As soon as I had gotten back in my car I made up my mind to get Nathan and get him to get the damn thing back for me.

  After all, it involved him, too.

  I drove over to his place and parked and honked the horn. No one appeared on the porch, so I shut off the motor and got out and went up the stairs. Nobody answered my knock, so I opened the door, looked in and called. Still no one. The motherfucker, I thought. I returned to the car and began driving around purposelessly, with no more idea of what to do than a year-old baby.