by Robert Bloch
He moved to the cabinet over the washstand, seeking what he’d hidden behind the containers on the top shelf. Take it with him, back to the living room, watch the sunset.
Now he caught sight of his face in the mirror as the door of the cabinet swung out. There was no evidence of emotion in the reflected image, none at all. He stared, wondering why one’s own face can be the most familiar thing in the world, and yet so strange. Perhaps it was the lack of any recognizable expression; without that the features lose meaning and we see the face for what it really is—merely a collection of receptacles, receiving sight and sound and breath and nourishment. Fleshly protuberances masking the one fixed and immutable expression of risus sardonicus—the smile of the skull beneath.
For a moment fear came, rising grinning from the grave. Then he pushed it away as he pushed the mirror back. There was an antidote for fear here too.
Reaching into the cabinet, Warren groped for a solution and found it.
SEVENTEEN
Ruth Nesbitt walked into the bedroom. She carried the glass of water in one hand, the two tranquilizers in the other.
Emily didn’t even look at her. She was sitting by the window in her rocking chair.
Whistler’s Mother. That’s what she looked like, staring serenely into the twilight. He might have painted her just this way, but the room was another story.
Ruth grimaced as she surveyed it. The unmade bed with its tangle of soiled sheets; the bureau drawers ajar, their contents spilling across the floor; the clothing from the closet strewn helter skelter.
She stepped over a pile of discarded undergarments and moved up beside the rocking chair.
“Here,” she said. “I’ve brought you something.”
Emily ignored her.
Ruth held out the glass. “It’s only water for your pills. See, here they are.”
Emily turned her head slightly but made no response.
“Please,” Ruth said. “You know you’re supposed to take them.”
Emily’s eyes flickered, then glanced away toward the window.
Ruth set the glass down on the table beside the rocking chair. She put the pills in the little silver tray resting next to the glass on the table top. “I’m leaving them here for you,” she said. “Just in case you change your mind.”
Emily didn’t answer.
Portraits don’t answer. Portraits don’t move, or change their minds.
Ruth turned away. Where was Emily’s mind? What had happened to it? She remembered the awareness, the incisive intellect Emily had displayed as a teacher. And now it was all gone. Nothing left but Whistler’s Mother, sitting here in her rocker.
Off her rocker.
Ruth shook her head. Mustn’t think like that, even though it was true, tragically true.
But why?
Automatically, Ruth stooped and picked up the underthings from the floor. She moved around the room, gathering clothing as she went, folding and replacing it in the bureau drawers.
Emily made no sign that she was aware of the activity.
Ruth turned her attention to the closet. Might as well finish the job while she was at it. Quickly she placed the dresses back on their hangers and arranged them in some semblance of order on the rack. She sorted out the shoes, set hats on the shelf.
There was a smaller bureau inside the closet and here, as Ruth had anticipated, she found the linen in the drawers.
Gathering what she needed, she carried it over to the bureau and placed it on top for convenience as she stripped the bed.
Emily didn’t stir.
Ruth changed the sheets and pillowcase, then turned the spread. If she had the time and the strength she’d have tried to turn the mattress too, with Bill’s help. Of course it wasn’t really necessary, because Emily wouldn’t be staying here now. But at least the place would look halfway decent when the doctor came.
The doctor—
Ruth straightened, then moved away from the bed. Crossing to the door she glanced over at the seated figure by the window.
Emily didn’t move. And the tranquilizers still rested on the little tray next to the water glass.
“Don’t forget your pills now,” Ruth said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
There was no reply.
Ruth went into the hall, closing the door behind her.
She heard Bill talking on the phone in the living room; he was hanging up just as she entered.
“Well?”
He glanced up at her, shaking his head. “Bad news. I guess the answering service was telling the truth. He really is out of town.”
“Who were you talking to?”
“Miss Renk—you remember, his nurse. I kept insisting it was an emergency and they finally put me through to her home number. She expects him back some time around noon tomorrow.”
“What are we supposed to do until then? Did you explain to her—”
“Of course.” Bill shook his head. “It’s just one of those things. The AMA ought to put out a new ruling—never get sick over the weekend. And if you’re going to have a heart attack on Wednesday, make sure you’re on a golf course, where you can get medical attention.”
“That’s not funny.” Ruth frowned, then checked herself, recognizing Bill’s familiar ploy: whenever he got upset over something he tried to cover it up with a joke. And he was upset now, she could see that. Tired, too—poor guy, he’d been working nights at the plant all this week, looking forward to a little rest and relaxation, and now this. She managed a smile. “Didn’t Miss Renk have any suggestions?”
“Two.” Bill indicated the note pad lying beside the phone. “We can get in touch with Doctor Summerfield—she gave me his number. He’s on call for emergencies until tomorrow noon.”
“The young one?” Ruth shook her head quickly. “You know Emily hates him. Remember the time he tried to examine her, how upset she got?”
“Okay, so that’s out.” Bill stood up slowly; he was tired, no doubt about it. “Wouldn’t help much anyway. If Emily does need to be committed—” He faltered, glancing across the living room.
Ruth had no need to follow his gaze; she knew what he was looking at. She’d seen it all when they came in—the overturned lamp, the shattered fragments of the vase littering the carpet, the drapes ripped from their rods and shredded with manic energy. The evidence spoke for itself and she had only to echo it with a murmur. “I’m afraid we have no choice.”
Bill nodded, his gaze averted. “That’s up to the doctor,” he said. “But she’ll need a thorough examination, and if he recommends sending her away again you know all the paperwork that’s involved. We really couldn’t get her out of here before Monday anyway.”
Ruth kept her voice down. “What was the other suggestion?”
Bill shrugged. “Keep her under sedation, but double the dosage if she needs it. Every four hours instead of eight.”
“Does that mean we’re going to have to stay here with her the whole weekend?”
“We don’t have much choice, under the circumstances.” Bill still didn’t look at her.
“But you’re forgetting, we told the kids we’d drive out and see them tomorrow. You know Fran always goes to so much trouble when we come, she’s probably planning a big dinner—”
“Then why don’t you eat it?” Bill turned, gesturing. “Look, there’s no problem. You go and I’ll stick around and keep an eye on Emily. I’m sure she’s got plenty of stuff here in the refrigerator. Just tell the kids what happened. They’ll understand.”
“That’s out.”
“But why?” Bill spoke quickly, as though trying to convince herself. “It really isn’t necessary.”
If only you could believe that, Ruth wanted to tell him. She felt the familiar wave of indignation rising, cresting. But there was no use arguing, she knew exactly what he’d say, what he’d always said from almost the very first day they’d met. Emily wasn’t just his older sister; she was more like a mother. When their parents died she’d taken
on all the responsibilities for raising him. She might have married and gone off to lead a life of her own, but she stuck to her teaching job so that he could get through school. By the time he finished college, Emily was just another middle-aged school marm, too set in her ways to change, even if she had the opportunity. And opportunity never came. She’d stayed in teaching until the end. No husband, no children, no real friends.
Of course he owed her something for what she’d done—but all that happened thirty years ago, and he’d repaid his debt a thousandfold. Talking to her daily on the phone, seeing her every week, inviting her for dinner or taking her along when they went out together. If she’d wanted to, Emily could even have moved in with them after Fran got married. Thank God she refused, though Ruth wouldn’t have objected. She’d never objected, all these years, because she understood how Bill felt. And when Emily had her breakdown, Ruth was really the one who took over. Bill had been no good at all; it hit him so hard he nearly cracked up himself. So Ruth handled the situation on her own and never complained.
If Ruth had had her way, Emily would have stayed in the sanatarium, but Bill had felt so guilty about Emily not being home. Doctor or no doctor, Ruth knew it wouldn’t work out, and she was right.
But now Bill was blaming himself again. How could you win? Damn it, I’ve never won, Ruth told herself. And maybe it was time, at last, to tell Bill.
She faced him, hesitating. And, hesitating, saw his face. His haggard, drawn features that seemed suddenly and shockingly similar to another face, equally familiar.
My God—he looks like Emily! Not just the family resemblance, but something more—the expression around the eyes, the mouth. Twelve years younger, but they could almost pass for twins. Did it mean that in another twelve years Bill might be—
When she spoke, it was as much to herself as it was to Bill. “I’m staying with you, and that’s that.”
He smiled then, and the haunting likeness faded. “Suit yourself. We’ll have to use the daybed here—”
“Don’t worry, we’ll manage.”
Bill glanced toward the hallway, his smile ebbing.
“How is she now?”
“Quiet. She wouldn’t talk to me.”
“You gave her the pills?”
“I left them for her. She’s just sitting there looking out of the window.” Ruth shook her head. “There’s nothing to worry about as long as she stays this way. I cleaned up the room a little. No wonder she’s taking it easy; she must be exhausted.”
Bill nodded, surveying the disorder surrounding them. “I’ll never understand it. All that energy, like an explosion. And then, when it’s over, so calm. Only she isn’t really calm. I get the feeling everything’s still bottled up underneath, all that hysteria. Fear, really. If we only knew what she’s afraid of—” He scowled. “I feel so bloody helpless—”
“Well, don’t be.” Ruth spoke briskly. “I want you to go down to the store and pick up half a dozen TV dinners. I’ve got enough to do straightening up the mess here without having to cook too.”
“You’re sure you’ll be all right?”
“Of course.” She added the reassurance of a smile. “Now run along before they close.”
“Anything else?”
“If you see one of those cream pies. And a loaf of bread. If we need something for breakfast we can get it in the morning.”
When Bill left she started to work on the living room. Vacuuming the carpet was out of the question, but she picked up the larger pieces of the smashed vase and dropped them into a cardboard carton she’d found in the kitchen. The broom and dustpan got the rest.
Fortunately, the lamp wasn’t broken; when she placed it back on the table and reconnected the cord the light went on.
No sense even thinking about trying to hang the drapes again—the rods from which they had been yanked were bent and twisted, and the drapes themselves were torn. The best she could do was pull the shades. But when she picked up the pile of drapery and carried it out to the trashbin, the living room was at least presentable again.
Ruth sighed. Hard to imagine that Emily was capable of such a tantrum. They’d heard what the doctor had to say, of course, and she remembered some of the terms. Arteriosclerosis. Senile psychosis. Disorientation. But these were medical labels, not explanations.
Emily had her own explanations, of course. The very first time it happened she had been only too articulate—shrieking at the top of her lungs about the man who broke in and tried to attack her. He was black, his name was Basil, and what he held in his hand was eight inches long. Sometimes it was a gun, sometimes a phallus. But whatever it was, he never got a chance to use it because she screamed and he ran away.
The security officers had been puzzled because all the doors and windows were locked. The police found no fingerprints except Emily’s, and there wasn’t a scrap of evidence to indicate the presence of an intruder.
That’s when the doctor took over, with his diagnosis. A cycloid pattern, manic-depressive—first the outburst, then the apathy. For a while, at the sanatarium, she seemed to be making good progress; that’s why they’d permitted her to come home, relying on chemotherapy to keep her stable. But chemotherapy merely meant tranquilizers and that wasn’t enough.
At least it hadn’t been enough today.
Ruth put a tea kettle on the burner, then went back into the living room. Everything in order there. If you didn’t know about the drapery and the vase, you’d never notice that anything was missing or out of place. Any more than you’d notice anything wrong about Emily now.
Or was there?
She hurried down the hall to the bedroom, opened the door.
Emily was still seated before the window. Cool as a cucumber. A cucumber is a vegetable—
Ruth put the thought away. She didn’t want to think of the old woman, any old person, as a vegetable. Nobody should be condemned to end their existence this way, a victim of degenerative processes that rob the brain of its blood supply. Better the raging, the destructiveness, the expression of energy however hysterical or hallucinated. It was pitiful that a woman in her sixties should fear imaginary black rapists, but even this was preferable to inertia. Theoretically, that is. In practice, Ruth hoped that there’d be no more problems now, at least until the doctor could take over.
She glanced at the table beside Emily’s rocking chair. The glass was empty and the pills had disappeared from the little silver tray. That was good.
“Emily.” She spoke softly. “Are you all right, dear?”
No answer. But none was necessary in the face of the obvious. The calm, relaxed face—Whistler’s Mother, under sedation.
As Ruth turned to move out of the room she glimpsed a gleam of silver studding forth below the doorknob, reached for it quickly and quietly, then made her exit.
Closing the door, she inserted the key in the lock and turned it. No sense taking any chances.
Walking down the hall, she was suddenly conscious of how swiftly darkness had descended. In a way she could almost understand how Emily must feel, living here all alone like this. Alone all night, every night, in the dark, thinking about the stories in the paper—robberies, muggings, assaults, brutal and senseless murders. You didn’t have to be crazy to be afraid.
Then she heard the fumbling at the front door and she almost jumped out of her skin.
But it was only Bill, with the TV dinners.
EIGHTEEN
Warren sat in the shadows watching the red, receding sun. Its surface was flat, its shape circular, like a coin. A coin dropped into an invisible slot below the horizon, to turn on the night.
Perhaps so. And perhaps he was just kidding himself. Trying to inject some symbolic significance into something which had none at all, attempting to dramatize the ordinary.
Because that’s all it was—just another sunset, like the millions that had gone before, the millions that were yet to come.
The fact that he wouldn’t be here to see them wasn’t of a
ny importance, either. People were of no more consequence than sunsets; millions had gone before, millions were yet to come, and what did it matter?
But it has to matter. It matters to me.
Or did it? What was he waiting for, what had he expected—some kind of revelation, some kind of mystical experience, his whole life passing in review or a glimpse of what lay beyond?
No, it was only a sunset. And if it was to be his last, that meant nothing in the scheme of things. Granted that there was a scheme. He didn’t know any more about that than he ever had.
Did Seneca hit upon any divine truth while talking to his friends, or might he just as well have spent his last moments in the tub playing with a toy duck? Was there any flash of insight when you squeezed the trigger and burst your brain apart? Not likely. Not bloody likely.
So what was he waiting for then, a reprieve? A pardon from the governor? The books were balanced, the ledger ready to be closed.
Strange, he’d expected something—he had no idea what it might be, but something more than this. More than just sitting here in a chair in his own living room, feeling a little uncomfortable because it was almost time for dinner and his stomach was empty. If he wanted to he could get up and walk out to the kitchen, see what there was available for a quick snack.
But he didn’t want to. That was what he was determined to end. Not himself, but the feelings—the daily demands, the petty compulsions, the omnipresent tug of habit without meaning, the tyranny of instinct and learned reaction.
To put an end to the meaningless is the sole act of reason.
Not a hell of a profound thought, but it was all he had to cling to now.
That, and what was in his pocket. What his hand was clinging to, clinging to so very tightly as he watched the sun slip away into its shroud of shadows.
Warren brought his hand out, holding the object against the lessening light. His fingers weren’t trembling; he felt no apprehension at all, and that was good. To feel nothing, not now or ever again. No pain, fear, guilt, shame, anger, sorrow.
All that remained now was the vestige of physical sensation, and even this was numbed, as though he were going under anesthesia.
