The Broken Bubble

by Philip Kindred Dick

  He said nothing.

  “That was when the Russians were our friends,” she said. “When they stopped the Germans at Stalingrad.” Rolling down the car window, she rested her arm on the sill. Cold evening wind rushed in, mixing with the warm air from the heater. “When I was growing up,” she said, “we sang all the different pop tunes. What was the first one? ‘Bei Mir Bist Du Schön.’ I was in grammar school. And ‘The Lambeth Walk.’ We actually believed the different lyrics. Do the kids believe them now?”

  “No,” he said.

  “About ‘June on the Moon’?”

  “No.”

  “I remember one. It always thought was beautiful. Do they ever play it anymore? ‘I’ll Build a Stairway to the Stars.’ I liked that about the best. The stuff Jim plays on ‘Club 17’ . . . I can’t get used to Mitch Miller’s echo chamber. It’s so—bloated. And the styles, you can’t tell if it’s a woman or a man. Like Johnny Ray. And it’s everything mixed together, Western and Negro jump and sweet sentimental . . . a mishmash.”

  “Some aren’t so bad,” he said.

  “You listen to ‘Club 17’? Yes, I think you said so. Until this last week.”

  “Rachael likes it,” he said.

  “Don’t you think—it’s about the best kids’ disc-jockey program in the afternoon?” He nodded.

  “How about these ballrooms? Do you have to be twenty-one to get into them?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Thinking about the old tunes makes me feel like dancing. But it’s too late. Maybe some other time. I never could get Jim to go dancing. He’s always so self-conscious. Did you used to have high school dances?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Every week?”

  “Yes.”

  “On Fridays?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do the boys all line up on one side?”

  Ahead of them was the apartment building. He slowed the car, looking for a parking place.

  “Are we there?” Pat said. “Too bad.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “It’s still early. I’d like to go somewhere and sit. And maybe listen to a small combo, nothing noisy. Just a rhythm-and-blues group. Or maybe some folksinger. Bob Posin and I were going to hear June Christy . . . she’s in town. She used to be with Stan Kenton. Jim and I go to hear Kenton when he’s in town.” She added, “We used to, anyhow.”

  He parked and turned off the motor.

  “Well,” she said archly, “I guess that’s that.”

  “You sure change your mind,” he said.

  “Do I?” Her nails tapped on the metal side of the car, a rhythmical drumming. “You know I can’t take you to those places.”

  “I wish you could.” Opening the door, she stepped out onto the curb. When he came around he found her strolling toward the door of the apartment house; she seemed animated and he could not understand why.

  A passing car honked. She turned.

  The car stopped beside the Dodge. The window was rolled down, and a man slid across the seat and stuck his head out. “Where you been?” he called. “I came by a couple of times tonight.”

  Advancing a step, she said, “Oh, I’ve been out.”

  “Who’s that with you? Just a second.” The man tugged on the parking brake and climbed from the car. “You kinda had me worried; the last time I saw you, you said something about being sick. I thought maybe you’d come down with ptomaine poisoning.”

  “Bob,” she said, “this is Art Emmanual.”

  The man stuck out his hand. Still addressing Pat, he said, “You know where I was all day? Talking to the Burgermeister beer people. They may take a full hour every night, the eleven to twelve spot. Wouldn’t that be something?”

  Pat said, “Would it be pops or classical?”

  “Sort of semi. Boston Pops and Morton Gould. Nothing too heavy.” He raised an eyebrow. “You all beat out?”

  “No, not particularly.”

  “Want to . . . ” He gestured. She glanced at Art.

  Grimacing, Bob said, “How about Scoby’s Place? Ralph Sutton’s there. We could drop by for an hour or so.”

  “Good enough,” she said. “Then it’s a deal,” Bob Posin said.

  To Art, Pat said, “You can’t come along, can you? They’d want to see your identification.” Scrutinizing Art, Bob Posin said, “Haven’t I seen you around the station in the afternoons? Around four?”

  “Art listens to ‘Club 17,’ ” Pat said. “Or did. Before the blowup.”

  “Oh, I see.” Bob nodded. “Well, shall we go?” To Art he said, “Can I drop you anywhere?”

  From his coat pocket Art lifted out a switchblade knife which he had picked up from among the weapons at the loft. Pat saw the knife, the glow of light from the blade. “Bob . . .,” she said in a weak, constricted voice. She put up her arm, a gesture of defense. “You run along. I don’t want to go anywhere.”

  “What?” he said. Bewildered, he opened and shut his mouth m exasperation. “What the hell’s happened between us?”

  “Just go,” she said. “Please.” She started away from him toward the entrance of the apartment building.

  “I don’t get it,” he said. Shaking his head, he stepped from the pavement to the side of his car. “You sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I can handle this. I’ll see you tomorrow at the station. Please?”

  Still holding the knife, Art stepped after Bob Posin. He had never before carried a knife this big, and in the actions of the Organization a knife had not been a factor. Not knowing how close he had to be—he could not conceive of throwing it—he moved up to Posin and stood by him as the man opened his car door. The knife was hidden by the folds of his sport coat. In the doorway of the apartment building, Pat watched, her hand up to her face, her fingers spread apart.

  “Glad to have met you, boy,” Bob Posin said sourly. “I’ll probably see you again.”

  Art said nothing; he did not know if he would be able to speak. His throat was choked and he could hardly breathe.

  “Well,” Posin said, “good night.” He slammed the car door, moved over behind the wheel, and waved to Pat.

  “Good night,” she said. Bob Posin drove off.

  Returning to her, Art said, “What do you want to do?” He closed up the knife and put it away in his pocket. The knife weighed down his coat on one side; the pocket bulged.

  “Nothing,” Pat said weakly.

  “Let’s go inside,” he said.

  They went up the stairs to her apartment. When she had unlocked the door, she said, “What would you have done?”

  “I just wanted to get rid of him,” he said.

  “Would you have done anything?”

  He closed the door after them.

  “I’m engaged to him,” she said. “I’m going to marry him.”

  “So what?” he said. “What do I care?” He walked away, from her, feeling upset and angry.

  “What have I got myself into,” Pat said. Going into the kitchen, she stood by herself at the sink, her hands pressed together. She was pale, and her voice was thin and unsteady.

  “How about letting me stay here tonight?” he said.

  “I don’t see how you can.”

  “Why not?”

  She turned. “You’re nuts. You’re as bad as that queer pal of yours. How did I get mixed up with you? Christ.” She put her hands over her face. “You nutty kid. I’d give anything If I hadn’t gone there with Jim. But there’s no use blaming him.”

  “I just want to stay,” he said. “What’s the matter with that? How’s that d-d-different from what we did?”

  “Look . . .” She walked toward him and then over to a chair. Seating herself, she said, “I’m tired and I don’t feel good and I couldn’t go through last night again for anything. What is it, you’re all ready to start over again?” She took a deep shuddering breath. “And all I did was want to go down and buy a bottle. I didn’t even want to go down; I wan
ted you to go down.”

  Suddenly she was on her feet.

  “Stay here if you want,” she said, “I’m going.” She walked to the door without looking back.

  He went after her, caught her by the shoulder, and socked her in the eye. Not making a sound, she tumbled away with her arms out; she fell against the wall and then to the floor. Her head struck and she lay with her eyes shut, one arm bent under her, both her legs drawn up. Beside her waist her purse had spilled open; lipstick and pencils and a mirror had come out of it onto the rug. He was a little amazed that she had gone down so readily; he picked her up and carried her to the couch.

  Her body was limp and she did not stir. She was completely out. When he let go of her, she slumped forward; her chin came to rest against her collarbone. Curls of dark hair fell across her forehead. The flesh near her eye was beginning to swell; she was going to have a shiner. Several times in his childhood, his dad had beaten up his mother; once she had worn a shiner for a week. Once, he remembered as he stood by the couch looking down at Patricia, the police had been called in by neighbors. His parents had scrapped, month in, month out; it had been a part of his life.

  Stirring, Patricia moaned. Her hand came up; the fingers groped at her forehead, her eye. “Don’t touch it,” he said.

  Gradually her eyes opened. They were glazed and empty. For a long time she did not seem to see him. “What do you want?” he said.

  Still her eyes were unfocused. Her nose was beginning to run; he bent down and wiped it with his forefinger. Then he went to the kitchen and fixed a cold pack of ice cubes wrapped in a towel. Returning, he found her conscious. She was propped up, her hands to her face.

  “Oh my god,” she whispered, a quavery, almost inaudible voice. He sat down next to her and put the cold pack against her eye. Finally, she took hold of it.

  “Did you hit me?” she managed.

  “Yeah,” he said. “You were t-t-taking off.”

  Leaning back, she rested. Neither of them spoke.

  “Art,” she said finally.

  “What?” he said.

  She put the ice pack down on the arm of the couch. “Art, you never should hit a woman.” He said nothing.

  “Bring me a mirror,” she said, “will you? From the bathroom.”

  When he had brought the mirror, she examined her face; she touched herself, pressing at her, eye.

  “It’s going to be b-b-black,” he said.

  She put down the mirror. “How could you hit a woman?”

  “You were leaving.”

  “That’s the first time anybody ever hit me,” she said. “I can’t believe it.” She sat up, drawing away from him. “I just can’t believe it. My god, Art, you hit me.” Now she was staring at him; she continued to stare.

  Feeling uncomfortable, he got up and paced around the room.

  “I don’t see how you could do it,” she said. “I’ve never even seen anybody hit a woman. Can a thing like that happen?”

  Again she picked up the ice pack and held it to her eye. The incredulous waver remained in her voice as she said, “Could you really do that? Did you ever—hit your wife? Do you beat her up?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Oh my god,” she said. “My good god.”

  15

  The alarm clock woke her. The bedroom, with its indistinct shapes, was gray with early-morning light; she struggled up and found the alarm clock and shut it off. Her body ached, and all her muscles, all her joints were sore. Her ribs—she remained motionless, wincing—felt as if they were cracked and broken. Reaching down, she massaged her waist. Her skin was tender to the touch. The night, the whole night long—they had gone on and on. And then, as she pushed the covers away, she put her hand to her face and felt the hardened, swollen ring around her eye.

  Beside her, still asleep, Art Emmanual lay with his head buried in the covers. His blond hair, in the first sunlight, looked clean, bleached white, completely pure.

  She did not know how she could get up. For a long time she simply, sat; she left her eye alone and tried not to think about it. At eight o’clock she at last slid from the bed, put a robe around her, and went stiffly along the hall to the bathroom. Even the soles of her feet hurt; her flesh was dry, brittle, unyielding. She was, she thought to herself; a kind of dried coin husk.

  In the bathroom mirror she inspected her eye. The flesh around it was bluish black, swollen so that the eye was almost shut. When she lifted cold water to it, the eye closed; for a time she could not get it open. The eye burned furiously and she thought: So that’s how it feels. That’s what it’s like.

  Going to the station was out of the question. She wondered how long the discoloration and swelling would remain. Two days? Three? And in addition the urgent, ceaseless sex had worn her out. Once, in her high school days, she and two other girls had hiked to the top of Mount Tamalpais. At the end of that hike, she had been tired, but she was more tired now. This was complete; this was absolute exhaustion.

  She fixed coffee. While the coffee heated, she lit a cigarette. By the time the coffee was ready, she felt better. She ate a little cottage cheese and dry toast, drank the coffee, and then washed the dishes. Her head ached and she swallowed two aspirin tablets, standing at the sink in her robe, her feet bare. After that she walked back into the bedroom.

  In the bed Art Emmanual slept on. One arm was thrown out, the hand open, fingers trailing from the bed. His clothes, with her clothes, were piled upon the chair by the bed. He did not look tired at all, and she thought to herself: This was what she had talked about. This vitality.

  Now, she thought, she had it. Here, sleeping away in the bed, here it was.

  From the chair she took some of her clothes and started to dress. But she did not have the strength. The time was eight-thirty. She went into the living room and telephoned the station.

  “Hello?” she said. “This is Patricia.”

  Ted Haynes said, “What is it, Patricia?”

  “I wonder if it would be all right if I didn’t come in today?” Her voice was a rasp; she did not have to force it. “I’ve got the flu or something. What do you think? I haven’t missed any time so far this year.”

  Ted Haynes outlined a long list of medicines to buy, told her to stay in bed until she was well, wished her good luck, and then hung up.

  Stay in bed, she thought. It was funny. It was really funny.

  Returning to the bedroom, she tossed her robe over the chair with the rest of the clothes and then, lifting the covers back, got into bed beside the sleeping boy.

  In the half-light of the bedroom, she leaned above him, her elbows resting on the pillow, her face close to his. Her mouth brushed across him, and she brought her hands to the sides of his face. She lifted his head with her hands, gazing down at him. Presently she pushed aside the covers and lowered herself onto him; she rested her body against his chest, his face, his legs and hips and feet. How warm he was. She felt his heart beating; it moved at her breasts, his heart deep inside him, stirring and awake. She heard him breathing; she put her ear to his chest and crouched there, listening, holding on to him. In that position she dozed.

  Some time later, when the room was full of light, she was awakened by the pressure of his arms. His eyes were open and he was grinning up at her, he had taken hold of her and was holding her in his grip, clutching her where she was sore, where she hurt the most.

  “Oh no,” she said. “we can’t . . . we’ve had enough.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  She slid away from him, but he held on to her. “You ought to be exhausted,” she said, marveling. “You ought to be dead.”

  “Did you get up?” he said. “A little w-w-while ago, you were gone.”

  “I ate breakfast.”

  “Your eye looks awful.”

  She said, “I can’t go to work. I can’t go outside like this.” Sitting up, unfastening his fingers from her, she put her hand to her face, exploring the flesh by her nose, by her brow. “Is it g
oing down?”

  “Some.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Just wait,” he said. “You n-n-never had a black eye?”

  “No.” She lay back, her knees drawn up to keep him away. “Leave me alone,” she said. The covers scratched her cheek; he was lifting them around her, covering her. That made her feel better. “Thanks,” she said.

  “You still look okay,” he said. “Even with it.”

  She said, “You remember when we were up on Twin Peaks? You said you loved me.”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “sure I do.”

  “Then how could you hit me?” She shifted to face him. “How can you do that to somebody you love? Don’t ever do it again, Art. Promise me?”

  “You were leaving.”

  “I was going out. I wasn’t leaving.”

  He said, “What was I s-s-supposed to do, just stand there?”

  “And that knife—where did you get it? From that creepy pal of yours? You shouldn’t be mixed up in things like that, Art. Don’t you know that?”

  “That was the first time,” he murmured.

  “Throw the damn thing away somewhere.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Will you do that? If you’re going to go around with me, you can’t do things like that. You know that, Art.”

  He said nothing.

  Beside him she waited, she listened. When he did not answer, she reached out her hand and placed it on his body. This was not so bad, surely. This was nothing to complain about. She lay in bed, and time passed; hours went by. The sun climbed in the sky, and the room became warmer, brighter. The air became stuffy.

  Art said, “Hey, I’m hungry. How long are we going to stay here? Let’s get up.”

  “You won’t always be able to do this, Art,” she said. Restlessly, he shifted about in the bed. “It must be almost noon.”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s eleven-thirty.”

  She rolled over until she lay against him. She put her arm under him, bearing his weight on her wrist, her elbow. Then she drew herself up onto him, but only her head and shoulders; with her hand she held him away from her.