The Broken Bubble

by Philip Kindred Dick

  In the darkness he watched her, feeling compassion for her; the car door was open, and she was crouched over the wheel, her arm resting on it, her coat spilled onto the floor by her feet. She was crying; he could hear her where he stood. At last the engine caught, and the headlights flared up. Pat slammed the car door, threw the gear into drive, and drove directly into a car parked across from hers. The bumpers tangled with a grating metallic shriek. The engine died, and Pat sat without moving, her hand over her face.

  Walking over, he saw that no harm had been done; both bumpers were scratched, but that was all. Nobody would care. He opened the car door and said, “Sweetheart.”

  “I won’t let you,” she said. She was clutching the wheel, and on her face was the set, fanatic look that she got once in a long while; she was terrified of him and of what she had done. Probably she thought she had demolished the other car.

  “Look,” he said. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. You can’t drive. You’ll kill yourself.” She nodded.

  “Let me drive you to your place. I won’t go in; I’ll park you in front of the building and I’ll leave you.”

  “How’ll you get back here? You have to come back for your car.”

  “I’ll walk. Or take a cab.”

  “That isn’t right.”

  He said, “Then I’ll send you home in a cab.”

  “Don’t.” She caught hold of him; her fingernails dug into him. “It’s dark there. I want to be out somewhere.” Tears shone on her cheeks. “It’s awful living alone; I have to marry Bob Posin—don’t you see? I can’t stand living alone. I can’t stand waking up in the morning alone and going to bed alone at night and eating alone.”

  Kneeling against the seat, he put his arms around her and pulled her to him. Kissing her, he said, “Then let’s go to my place.”

  For a moment, for the passing of one breath, she seemed to give in. Then, without pulling away from him, she said, “I can’t.”

  “What then?”

  “I—don’t know.” Her voice was bleak. Tears fell onto his face; tears rolled onto his nose, tickling him. “I wish I hadn’t let you stay with me the other night. I just can’t stand it without somebody any longer.”

  “Somebody!” he said, enraged.

  “You, then. Oh god. All right, take me to your place, and let’s go to bed and get it over with. Hurry.” Jerking away from him, she scrambled over to make room for him. “Let’s go. Drive me there. I’m tired and I give up.”

  He sighed. “I tell you what,” he said. “I have a couple of friends. Two kids.”

  Her head turned, and she was looking at him. In the darkness, her gaze was fixed on him; he was aware of it, the intensity.

  “They invited me for dinner last night,” he said. “Suppose we go over there and stay awhile. Until you’re sobered up. Okay? They’re nice kids; they’ve been in the station. You’ve probably seen them.”

  Pat said nothing. But the struggle reached him, the sense of torment.

  “The girl’s pregnant,” he said. “She’s seventeen; the boy’s eighteen. They live in a broken-down flat on Fillmore. They don’t have any friends and their families aren’t speaking to them. They don’t have any money, and they’d like to see somebody once in a while.”

  After a long time, Pat said, “What—are they like?” Rallying, she said, “Is she pretty?”

  “Very pretty,” he said. He was still kneeling against the seat, and now he stood up. He was stiff, cramped. “Very sweet, very bright.”

  “She doesn’t sound very bright. She could have taken precautions.” For a time she was silent. “How did you meet them?”

  “They came into the station. I took them with me when I went to dinner.”

  “What’s . . . their names?”

  “Rachael. Art.”

  Pat slid away until she rested against the far door. He gathered up her coat and purse and put them into her lap. “Just until I feel better,” she said.

  “Okay.” Relieved, he got in behind the wheel and started up the engine. “Did I damage that car? I never hit anybody’s car before.”

  “It’ll live,” he said. He backed her Dodge away and then drove from the parking lot.

  9

  On Fillmore Street the neon signs of bars and shops put on color haphazardly for Saturday night; their arrangement had been built up over the years by businessmen. Spots of gum on the pavement formed dark circles near the entrance of a movie theater, a bowling alley, the illuminated door of a coffee shop.

  As late as this a flow of persons, white and Negro and Mexican, passed the shops. In doorways, figures had left the flow and were by themselves. They were mostly boys. They wore black—leather jackets and jeans, and for the most part they were surprisingly lean. They stood with their thumbs hooked in their back pockets; they twisted to follow elements within the flow, as if they had some special interest. At the popping of an exhaust, they raised their heads. They listened; their mouths opened. They caught signals. Then they looked back at the individuals and made judgments about them. Spectators, they saw everyone and had an opinion.

  In the middle of the block Jim located the house set back from the pavement, the fence and iron gate. “That’s it,” he said.

  “Maybe they’re not up,” Pat said.

  He was able to park near the house. Together he and Pat walked up the sidewalk; he opened the gate, and they passed on in, to darkness and the sudden loss of street sounds. The cement path was ahead, but neither of them could see it. Reaching, he took Pat’s hands. Her fingers were cold, and he enclosed them.

  To the right of the porch, the basement window showed a rim of light. “They’re awake,” he said.

  “It’s so late,” Pat said. She stumbled, and a metal object rolled away, a tin can that glinted and then vanished into weeds.

  He went down the steps, leaving her behind him. Against the streetlights she was slim and small, buried within her coat; her head was up, and she walked in a circle, her heels making sharp, staccato clicks on the cement. He knocked on the door.

  The door opened and light flooded out. Rachael recognized him and said, “Oh. Hello.” Backing away from him and holding the door open, she said, “We were playing cards.”

  He said to her, “This is in the nature of a favor. I have somebody with me and she isn’t feeling well. We thought maybe we could drop by for a while. Were you just about to go to bed?”

  “No,” she said. She seemed to accept the situation. “Come on in.”

  Going back for Pat, he led her down the steps and into the apartment. “This was a sort of inspiration. You can throw us out any time.”

  Cards and poker chips were scattered across the top of the massive oak table. Something about the room had struck him as odd, and now he knew what it was; the walls were bare of pictures.

  “This is Patricia Gray,” he said. He did not try to describe their relationship. He was not certain what he had said to them.

  “I think I’ve seen you a-a-at the station,” Art said. He started to put out his hand and then hid it in his pocket.

  Rachael said, “Can I fix you some coffee or something to eat?” She was standing close to Pat, and she had ducked in what seemed a survival of a curtsey. She wore a print dress, a bright summery frock, strapless; her shoulders were bare. Her skin was fairer than Pat’s. Her hair was much lighter and cut much shorter. Possibly she was smaller, but her expanded middle made it hard for him to tell.

  As he helped Pat off with her coat, she said, “It’s warm in here. It’s nice. I—”

  “You bet,” he said.

  “What huge lovely eyes she has.” Turning to Rachael, she said, “You make me want to take up painting again.” During the first year of their marriage she had cleaned a but nothing had been completed. The set of paints, as far as he knew, was now stored or thrown away. Certainly she had given up all pretensions along that line.

  Art hugged Rachael close to him. “She’s going to have a baby.”
r />   “Why, you’re just a little doll,” Pat said. “I can’t get over her,” she said to Jim.

  “You’re not only drunk,” he said, “you’re also queer.”

  “I mean it. I’d like to paint her sometime. Those eyes . . .” And then she moved off.

  Following her, he said, “What would help? Coffee?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  He went with Rachael into the kitchen. “She’s under a lot of strain,” he said, as Rachael put the coffee pot on the burner and got down cups and saucers.

  “She’s high-strung, isn’t she?” Rachael said. “I kind of like her.”

  “You’re sweet to let us in,” he said. “I’m grateful. We were out roaming around . . . it was no good.”

  “How long were you married?”

  “Three years,” he said.

  “I wanted to meet her; I’m glad you came. I know she means a great deal to you.”

  “That’s true,” he said.

  “I can see why,” Rachael said. She seemed shy and conscientious, concerned with doing what was right. She carried the coffee cups into the living room and began clearing the table.

  “What were you playing?” he asked.

  “Blackjack.” She swept the deck of cards together and put it in its box. “One time we drove to Reno . . . we stayed there overnight. We played at the different tables.”

  Art said, “She’s a real cool poker player. She takes it real seriously; one time she knocked off F-f-ferde Heinke’s glasses because he was fooling around.” In his nervousness he avoided looking at Jim and Pat; he grabbed up the poker chips and concentrated on them. He pretended that he was talking to no one in particular.

  Several times in his visits to station KOIF, he had noticed Pat. He considered her beautiful; she reminded him of the women in fashion ads. The idea that such a woman would visit his house filled him with excitement. Only once had Rachael worn heels, and that was on the day they had gotten married. Glancing at Pat, he was aware of her dark hair and the intense color of her mouth. Makeup, he thought. He wondered how old she was. She was sitting by the table and he was attracted to her legs; they seemed to him long and curved, and he wondered if she was a model. She was so well dressed and beautiful that he went off into the other room and tried to think how he might improve himself. He examined one of his sport coats and a pair of slacks.

  When he reentered the living room, Rachael offered him a cup of coffee. Jim Briskin was standing by the table, holding a cup and saucer; his head brushed close to the ceiling of the room, and in such small quarters he seemed especially tall. He wore a loose coat, his regular coat, and no tie. Art wondered how he could go around with Pat and not dress up; his own mind was filled with notions and schemes about clothes.

  Taking the coffee cup, be paced about with it. He was this close to such a woman, and at the same time he was farther away than ever. He had no idea what he might say to her. He was afraid to open his mouth. His own muteness offended him; probably she would never come back and he would never have this chance again. In agitation he said to her.

  “Hh-hey, how long’ve you worked at the station?”

  Pat said, “I don’t know.” To Jim Briskin she said, “When did I start?” Bending, she unfastened her highheeled shoes and slid them off. She saw him looking at her and she smiled.

  “How is it, working at a station?” Art said, as calmly as he could.

  Pat said, “It’s noisy.”

  “You want a month off?” Jim Briskin said.

  “Sure,” she said. In her stocking feet she went across the room to the radio. “Can I turn it up?” Dance music was playing; she made it louder.

  “Not too loud,” Jim Briskin said.

  “Is this too loud?” Remaining by the radio, she closed her eyes. Art thought she looked tired. But he did not know what he could do for her; he walked in her direction without any plan.

  Jim Briskin said, “You better come sit down and drink your coffee.”

  “It’s excellent coffee,” she said. “Is there anything to drink? I don’t feel like coffee.”

  “You don’t feel like drinking,” Jim Briskin said.

  “I do.” She opened her eyes. “Not very much, just something.”

  Art said, “there’s some beer in the icebox.” She paid no attention to him and he went toward the kitchen. “I’ll get you some.”

  Still looking at Jim Briskin, Pat said, “You want to dance with me?”

  “You’re in no state to dance.”

  “Then you don’t want to dance with me.”

  “Come sit down.” Jim Briskin reached out his hand toward her. “What do you want to do, sit in my lap?”

  “No.” As Art went into the kitchen, she was beginning to idle back and forth, a restless motion; her hands were up and she had shut her eyes again. His heart ached at the sight of such a pretty and tired woman, in her stocking feet, swaying beside the radio, her hands empty. The feeling was familiar to him, the yearning without an object. She did not really want to dance; she wanted to not be still, to be in motion. She could not bring herself to sit down.

  Taking out the quart of beer, he poured a glassful and carried it into the living room. “Here,” he said.

  Pat shrank away. “What?” she said. “Oh. Thanks. No, I don’t want beer.” And his contact with her was broken; she no longer was aware of him. Gliding away, she hummed to herself, the tuneless, jangling release of pain.

  “That’s all we have around,” Art said.

  Now she returned; her motion carried her back toward him. Her eyes opened, and she focused on him as if she were awakening. “Will you dance with me?” she said. “Art? Is that your name?” Her hand came to rest on his shoulder, and her other hand was up, waiting to be grasped. Before he had time to make a decision, he had let her slip within his arm and he had set down the glass of beer and was dancing with her, her body was warm, and he could feel her backbone beneath his fingers. Her face, close to his, shone damply. Above her lips tiny drops of perspiration glinted from the line of fuzz. It was a lovely fox-like face, new to him, and yet it was almost touching his. Now she turned her head, sighing, and then looked down. Her black hair tumbled forward, and strands of it swept along his cheek. On his shoulder her hand rested heavily.

  “Yy-you dance good,” he said.

  Suddenly she broke away. “Don’t you really have anything but beer? Did he tell you to say that?”

  “You’re turning paranoid,” Jim Briskin said. “And sit down before you fall over.”

  She directed a hard, calculated glance at him, and then she walked to the kitchen. Art followed her.

  In the kitchen she had the icebox door open and was kneeling down, reaching in among the milk bottles. “It’s true,” he said. “We don’t usually—”

  “I believe you,” she said, straightening up beside him. “Do you know I’m drunk? I feel so—” She shook her head. “Not in a drainpipe anymore. That’s something, at least. Maybe I feel romantic. Do I look okay?” Lifting her hands, she smoothed her hair.

  “You look f-f-fine,” he said.

  “Did she get pregnant on purpose? You’re very lucky, you know . . . to have a little doll of a wife like that. Did you go around together in school?”

  “Yes,” he said. “We had c-c-classes together.”

  “God,” Pat said, “you’re only eighteen. And what’s she, sixteen? When I was sixteen, I still thought babies were supplied by the hospital doctors . . . the woman just got large to make a place for it. Like kangaroos. Kids get older faster, now. Why don’t you go somewhere and get us a bottle?” From the pocket of her skirt, she took out folded bills and handed them to him; she stuck them between his fingers. “I saw a liquor store up the street. Get a fifth of rye or bourbon. No Scotch; I’ve had enough Scotch.”

  Humiliated, he said, “I c-c-can’t buy liquor. This beer, some guys picked it up, you know? I mean I can go into a grocery store, I know some of these g-g-grocers around here. In a bar usual
ly they’ll serve me. But at the liquor stores they’re real tough; they w-w-won’t sell liquor to you if you’re under twenty-one.” It was living death. He slunk in shame; he cringed.

  But she thought it was funny. “You poor damn kid.” She reached up and her arms folded about his neck. The pressure of her mouth slid in a trail across his face; he felt the moist, clinging smear as she kissed him. Unbelievable. She had kissed him. Breathing into his eyes and nose, she said, “I’ll walk you down. Okay?”

  Corning out of the kitchen with her, he said to Rachael and Jim Briskin, “We’re going down to the corner. W-w-we’ll be right back.”

  “What for?” Jim Briskin said, not to him but to Pat.

  “None of your business,” Pat said. Stopping by him, she kissed him, too; she seemed gay, now.

  “Put on your shoes,” Jim Briskin said.

  Supporting herself with her hand pressed to the wall, she bent her leg, lifting her foot behind her, and slipped on her high-heeled shoe. As she did the same with the other, she said, “I want you to realize I’m paying for this.”

  “I hope so,” Jim Briskin said. “And you’ll pay for it a couple times again tomorrow morning. Who’s going to feed you tomato juice?”

  “Come on,” Pat said to Art. “Where’s my coat?”

  Finding it for her, he started to hand it to her. Both Rachael and Jim Briskin were watching. Should he hold it up and help her into it? While he was floundering, she took the coat from him and opened the door that led out.

  “Goodbye,” she said. “We’ll be right back.” To his wife, Art said, “See you in a minute.”

  Rachael said, “You might get some potato chips and maybe some of those cheese things.”

  “I will,” he said, and he closed the door after himself and Pat. “Be careful,” he said to her. All at once they were in complete darkness. He wanted to take her arm, but he was afraid; he did not understand what was happening—he could not believe it—and so he merely walked beside her up the steps to the cement path. “It’s sure d-d-dark,” he said. “It’s funny, I saw you at the station, but I never said nothing to you. A lot of times we used to come in a group. Around four in the afternoon. We always listened to ‘Club 17.’ We came to talk to Jim Briskin. I guess he isn’t on it now. What is he, off for a while?”