In Milton Lumky Territory

by Philip Kindred Dick

  What he meant by that, only God knew. It made Bruce uneasy; he had an intuition that the man would crash around until he accidently or deliberately did some damage … he wondered if Susan knew any more. She continued to eye Milt with suspicion, but at the same time she seemed amused. Perhaps because he had been drinking. He exasperated and amused her at the same time, and Bruce thought of all the times he had felt like that about friends of his when they had had something to drink. The need to be alert … and in this situation, an additional need. But Milt did not have anything against them; that was obvious. He wanted to be around them, as he said. He needed their company, as friends.

  But it was not a good time. They had no use for visitors; they were not in the mood to be good company. He had made a mistake. His purposeful manner showed that he recognized that, although possibly he did not understand why it was such a mistake. Now he would begin to ponder that. Why did they seem so displeased to see him? Bruce saw that kind of thought begin to circulate through the man’s mind. They had to be friendly to him or he would grasp the nature of the relationship between them. In a second or so he would discover that Bruce was not going to leave. And then they would have to be careful with him.

  The sight of Milt Lumky in his yellow nylon sports shirt, all tanked up with beer, started in Susan a mischievous, heedless quality that Bruce had never seen before. He had known people who got perpetual amusement from the sight of drunks. Milt, of course, was not drunk. But he had lost the capacity to hold his tongue. And that released Susan from the obligation to be polite. It buoyed her up. She, too, could say what she wanted; she could shed at least some of her concern. She could rattle back at him with impunity, and Bruce thought to himself, If that’s something she enjoys men there must be a lot inside her bottled up that she’s either afraid to express or doesn’t know how to express. It’s a bad sign, he thought, watching the two of them. Suppose she takes advantage of him. He hated that. He could never understand anyone tormenting a person whose reflexes had slowed down after a few drinks. Cripples, drunks, and animals had never inspired him. In fact they generally depressed him. He always felt that he should do something for them, but he never knew what.

  “What about your coat?” Susan said. “Did you leave it somewhere?”

  Milt muttered, “It’s in the car.”

  “You must have got cold wandering around outside without it.”

  “No,” he said. “I didn’t get cold.”

  Susan said, “You mean you didn’t feel cold.”

  “Have it your way,” Milt said. “Hello little girl,” he said, looking past them toward the hall. “Come on in.”

  Turning, Bruce saw that Taffy, in her red-striped pajamas, had come out of her room and was standing at the door of the living room, staring at them all.

  “Doesn’t she talk?” Milt said.

  Susan said, “She woke up and heard your voice. She probably thought it was Walt.” To the child, Susan said, “You run along back to bed. I’ll go tuck you in. It’s not Walt. You can see it isn’t.”

  Milt said, “My name is Milton Lumky and I’m a pipefitter from Philadelphia, P.A.” He held out his hand. “Come over here and sit, instead of standing there.”

  Walking cautiously toward him, Taffy said, “Why is your face so red?”

  “I don’t know,” Milt said, as if it was a riddle. “Why is my face so red?”

  Taffy giggled. “I asked you first.”

  He reached down and lifted her up on the couch. “What was the idea of saying you had chicken pox that night in November 1956 when I wanted to have a big dinner and go dancing?”

  Giggling, Taffy said, “I don’t know.”

  To Bruce, Milt said, “Did you ever know a child who wasn’t a liar? How old are you?” he asked Taffy.

  “Seven and a half,” she said.

  “You see?” Milt said to Bruce.

  “She is,” Susan said. “Seven and a half.”

  “Here,” Milt said to Taffy. “I have something for you.” He reached into his pocket and hauled out a cylindrical metal object. “Combination bottle opener and ball point pen,” he said. The thing, made out of tin and plastic, had stamped on it COMPLIMENTS OF WHALEN INC. SPOKANE WASH. “For writing on the inside of bottles,” Milt said, showing her how to scratch blue lines on the back of her hand. “Can’t be erased. Good for the rest of your life. I’ll tattoo you.” He drew a sailing boat on her wrist, with gulls flapping over it. Taffy giggled incessantly, embarrassed.

  “What would she do with a bottle opener?” Susan said.

  “She could pull off the heads of dolls,” Milt said.

  Seeing him and the child, Bruce realized that he had never considered her in his relationship with Susan. He and Taffy had no contact, and neither of them expected any to develop. But Taffy had gone directly to Milt Lumky, full of curiosity and friendliness.

  It occurred to him, then, that he had never had any contact with children. And certainly he had no experience; he did not know what to do or say, so he did and said nothing.

  Susan would want someone who likes children, he thought. Or would she? She had made no attempt to stir up his interest in Taffy. Maybe she did not care. Maybe she intended to be everything herself, fill all roles. If Taffy became dependent on him, then it would be difficult for her if he left as Walt and Pete—and perhaps others—had left.

  That isn’t what I’m wanted for, he realized. To jiggle Taffy on my lap and tell stories and play games. And, for the first time, he had a deep sinking sensation. Susan had absolutely no idea of an equal relationship. The complete inequality of it confronted him in a sort of revelation, full and undeniable.

  But how could he complain? He had made no move to approach the child. No use blaming Susan; he had shown her that he did not notice or care about Taffy. Too late now. But perhaps if he had—as Lumky was busy doing—he would have put an end to his relationship with Susan. He saw her expression as she watched Milt Lumky. There was no sweetness there. No pleasure at his interest in the child. Only a frigidity, a wariness. Almost an outright hostility, as if, at the first pretext, she would snap her fingers and demand Taffy back.

  Now, on Taffy’s other wrist, Milt had begun to draw a woman’s torso. “This is the story of Gina Lollobrigida and the whale,” Milt said, sketching in enormous breasts. Taffy giggled witlessly. “Once upon a time Gina Lollobrigida was walking along the seacoast of sunny Italy when a gigantic whale appeared, tipped his hat, and said. ‘Lady, have you ever thought of going into show business? Let’s face it, with a figure like that you’re wasting your time.’ ”

  “That’s enough,” Susan said.

  Milt paused in his sketching. “I’m now drawing the magical sweater on her,” he said. “So it’s okay; don’t worry.”

  “That’s enough,” she repeated.

  “The magical sweater is important,” he said, but he stopped. “The rest of the story,” he said to Taffy, “has to do with the wholesale underwear industry and you wouldn’t be interested.” He released her arm, to her disappointment.

  “She can keep the combination bottle opener and pen,” Susan said, in a tone that implied she had worked it out as a rational compromise.

  “Fine,” Milt said, handing the thing over to Taffy.

  “What do you say?” Susan said.

  Milt said, “I say it’s a hell of a cold mean world when you can’t do nice things for children.”

  “I don’t mean you,” Susan said. “I mean, Taffy, what do you say when somebody gives you something?”

  Spluttering and simpering, she managed to say, “Thank you.”

  “ ‘Thank you, Uncle Lumky,’ ” Milt said.

  “Thank you, Uncle Lumky,” she echoed, and then she leaped away and rushed from the room, back up the hall. Susan went with her, into her room, to tuck her into bed.

  Milt and Bruce remained.

  “That’s a pretty nice little girl,” Milt said in a subdued voice.

  “Yes,” he said.


  “Do you think she looks like Susan?”

  Up to now he hadn’t thought about it. “Some,” he said.

  “I never know what to tell kids and what not to tell them,” Milt said. “I made a vow once not to moralize with them, but maybe I’m leaning over backward in the other direction.”

  “There’s no use asking me,” he said. “That’s one topic I know nothing about.”

  “I like kids,” Milt said. “I always feel sorry for a kid. When you’re that small you can’t take on anybody. Except smaller kids. And that isn’t worth much.” He rubbed his chin and studied the living room, the furniture and books. “She has a decent place here. Come to think of it, I’ve never been here before. It’s comfortable.”

  Bruce nodded.

  Returning to the room, Susan said, “She asked me why your breath smelled so funny. I told her you had been eating exceptionally strange foods that we don’t serve.”

  “Why did you tell her that?” Milt said.

  “I didn’t want to tell her that it was beer.”

  “It wasn’t beer. I haven’t been drinking beer. I haven’t been drinking anything.”

  “I know you have,” Susan said. “I can tell by the way you acted when you first came in. And your face is so flushed.”

  His face became more flushed. “I’m serious; I haven’t had anything to drink.” He arose to his feet. “It’s my high blood pressure. I have to take reserpine for it.” Reaching into his pocket he brought out a pill wrapped in tissue paper. “To keep my blood pressure down.”

  They both were silent, wondering about him.

  “Everybody’s so suspicious of everyone else in the world,” Milt said. “There’s no mutual trust anymore. And they call this a Christian civilization. Kids lie about their age, women accuse you of things you haven’t done.” He seemed genuinely angry.

  “Take it easy,” Bruce said.

  “I hope when your little girl grows up,” Milt said, “she lives in a better society.” He moved in the direction of the door. “Well,” he said in a morose voice, “I’ll see you both when I’m through here again.”

  As she opened the door for him, Susan said. “Don’t leave mad. I was just teasing you.”

  Facing her calmly he said, “I don’t hold it against you.” He shook hands with her, and then with Bruce. “It just depresses me; that’s all.” To Bruce he said, “Where are you staying? I’ll look you up when I get back.”

  Susan said, “He hasn’t gotten settled yet.”

  “That’s too bad,” Milt said. “It’s hard as hell to get settled in a new town. I hope you find a place okay. Anyhow I can always get hold of you at R & J Mimeographing Service.”

  He said good night, and then the door shut after him. Presently they heard a car start up and leave.

  “I thought I should tell him that,” Susan said.

  “You did right,” he said. But it disturbed him.

  She said, “I didn’t want you to have to take the responsibility of answering. There’s no reason why it should fall on your shoulders. Do you think he came over to check and see? Maybe he had a suspicion about us. I don’t see that it matters. He’s only around here a few times a year. I think he’s still interested in me, and it makes him jealous.”

  “That might be,” he said. But in his own mind he believed that Milt had merely been lonely and had wanted company.

  “If we went through the legal arrangements,” Susan said, “we would be immune to this kind of situation. Otherwise it’ll crop up again and again. You’ll have your mail to think about … and don’t you have to give the draft board your permanent address? And your driver’s license. A million details like that. Even your withholding statements that I have to fill out, as your employer.”

  My employer, he thought. That’s right.

  “That’s not enough of a reason to get married,” he said.

  She gave him a sharp look. “Nobody said it was. But I don’t like not telling people the truth. It makes me uncomfortable. I know we’re not doing wrong, but if we have to lie then it almost seems like an admission that we’re guilty, trying to hide it.”

  “I’m not adverse to it,” he said.

  “To marrying me?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  They both considered that.

  After they had locked up the house and shut off the lights they closed themselves off in her bedroom, as they had been before Milt Lumky arrived. For a good long time they were free to enjoy each other. But all at once, without sound or warning of any kind, the bedroom door flew open. Susan sprang naked from the bed. There in the doorway stood Taffy.

  “I lost it,” Taffy sniffled. “It fell down and I can’t find it.”

  Susan, pale and smooth in the darkness, swooped down on her and carried her out of the room. “You can find it tomorrow,” her voice carried back to him as he lay in the bed, under the disordered covers, his heart pounding. More murmurs, both Susan’s and her daughter’s, then a door shutting. Susan padded back and returned to the bed. Against him her body was cold; she shivered and pushed against him.

  “God damn that Milt Lumky and his combination bottle opener and ball point pen,” she said. “Taffy dropped it down behind the bed; she went to sleep with it. She’s got ink or whatever it is—dye, I suppose—all over the pillow.”

  He said, “She certainly startled me.”

  The thin, cold body pressed closer and closer. She wrapped her arms around him. “What a night,” she said. “Don’t worry. She was so sleepy she hardly knew what she was doing. I don’t think she realized you were here.”

  But after that he remained in a state of discomfort.

  “I know,” Susan said, lying beside him. “It’s upsetting. And you’re not used to a child around. I am. I taught children. It’s second nature to me, to think in terms of them. Don’t for God’s sake project on an eight-year-old child your own adult feelings. All she could see was me; it’s my room and she knows I’m in here. A child is a child.”

  He tried to imagine himself at that age. Entering his parents’ bedroom. The scene remained hazy. “Maybe so,” he said.

  “I’ve been married all the time she’s been on this earth,” Susan said. “Even if she had some notion of you here, it would seem natural. A man is a man. To a child that young.”

  But he knew that it would have to go one way or the other. Either he would have to move out and find a place of his own, or he would go through with it and marry her. She recognized that, too.

  Did he want to marry her?

  What can I lose, he thought. I can always get unmarried.

  Beside him, Susan had gone to sleep with his hand resting on her breast. She held it there with her own hand. Beneath his fingers he could feel her breathing, the regular, slow breathing of sleep. To go to sleep, he thought, here like this. For myself, my hand resting on her. Doesn’t that constitute the important thing in all this? Not the office or figuring out some method of making a lot of money, but times like this, late at night. And having dinner together, and the rest.

  This is why I stopped in Montario, he thought. In fact, this is why I stopped at Hagopian’s drugstore. Of course he did not have to use his package of Trojans. Susan had something that she owned permanently, refills for which she had picked up on the drive home.

  “Are you awake?” he said, waking her up.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He said, “I think I can see going ahead with it.”

  In the dark she rolled over to him and put her head on his arm. “Bruce,” she said, “you know I’m a lot older than you.”

  “You’re ten years older than I am,” he said. “But that’s okay. But I want to tell you one thing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I was one of your pupils. In the fifth grade, in 1945.”

  She said, “I don’t care whose pupil you were.” Her arms closed around him. “Isn’t that strange,” she said. That’s why I looked familiar to you. I never would have had any reason to be
conscious of it.” She yawned, settled down until she was comfortable, and then, by degrees, her hands relaxed and released themselves from him. She had again fallen asleep. Her face, against his shoulder, joggled limply.

  That’s that, he said to himself, a little dazed.

  But what a weight it was off his mind.

  * * * * *

  On the fourth of the month, he and Susan flew down to Reno and were married. They spent three days there and then flew back. That night they told Taffy at dinner. She did not seem surprised. In Reno he had bought her an electric bowling game, and the sight of that did surprise her.

  7

  He found Susan, during one of the first evenings of their marriage, off by herself in the living room with the big scrapbook on her lap.

  “Show me,” she said. “Are you sure? Or did you mean you went to Garret A. Hobart.” She surrendered the scrapbook to him, and, seated beside her, he turned the pages. Over his shoulder she watched raptly.

  “Here,” he said. He pointed to himself in the class picture. The round boy-face with its oblique eyes, the shapeless hair. Fat stomach bulging out over his belt. He experienced very little sense of relationship to the picture, but nevertheless it was of him.

  “Is that you?” she asked, hanging against him with her hand dangling past his throat, her fingers touching him in a series of nervous digs. Her breath sounded loud and rapid in his ear. “Now don’t play coy,” she said. She traced the legend under the picture. “Yes,” she said. “It does say ‘Bruce Stevens.’ But I don’t remember anybody in that class named Bruce; I’m sure of it.” She scrutinized the photograph and then she said in a triumphant, shrill voice, “Your name was Skip!”

  “Yes,” he said.