The Broken Bubble

by Philip Kindred Dick

  The freeway joined with other freeways leading into San Francisco. In due time they were driving above houses. Most of the houses were dark their lights were off.

  His apartment was cold and dark. Patricia remained by the door while he lit lamps and pulled down the window shades.

  “Haven’t you been here?” she asked.

  “Not for a while.” In the light he saw how really tired she was, how lined and unhappy her face had become. A careworn face, he thought. “Better sit down,” he said.

  Pat said, “You know, at first he drove me wild; he was always after me.”

  “You said that first night was terrific,” he said.

  “Yes.” She nodded, sitting with her hands folded, her feet close together. “But the next night, after he hit me . . . it went on and on—my god, I thought I’d die. He kept coming back. I’d think he was asleep—maybe he was, for a little—and then there he’d be, wanting to start again.” She glanced up timidly. “So we kept at it. And in the morning when I woke up, I was sore all over. I could hardly get out of bed.”

  “Get a good long rest,” he said.

  “It’s awful to say,” she said. “To tell you.”

  He gestured. “Why not?”

  “Can I have a cup of coffee? I drank a bottle of wine. I feel sick.” She did look sick. But he had seen her a lot sicker. All in all she was lucky.

  “Sweet wine?” he said.

  “Port.”

  “You kind of dropped your guard. Did you want it to break up?”

  “Yes,” she said, “it had run its course.”

  He knelt down so that he was facing her; taking hold of her hands, he said, “Is that the slogan?”

  Her lips moved. “I don’t know. What do you mean, Jim?”

  “What now?” he said.

  “Now,” she echoed, “I realize my mistake.”

  He left her and went into the kitchen to fix the coffee.

  When he came back, she was still sitting with her feet tucked under her and her hands folded in her lap. How forlorn, he thought. How glad he was to get her back. The difference it made . . . the importance.

  Giving her the coffee cup, he said, “You think I don’t love you as much as that kid loves you or said he loves you?”

  “I know you do.”

  “All right,” she said, holding her coffee cup. “I’ll marry you. Remarry you. Whatever they call it.”

  The cup tilted; he took it away and set it on the floor. The giving-in, he thought. The surrendering on the part of the woman, the woman he completely loved. There was nothing like it on earth, nothing until the sky rolled up like a scroll and the graves opened and the dead walked. Until, he thought, the corruptible man put on incorruption.

  “You won’t change your mind, will you?” he said.

  “Do you want me to?”

  “I don’t want you to change your mind.”

  “All right,” she said, “I won’t.” Looking at him steadily, she said, “You don’t consider me used up, then?”

  “Are you?”

  The tears rose up in her eyes and spilled out. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s unlikely.”

  “You don’t want me,” she said, tears pouring down her cheeks onto her collar.

  “You mean I shouldn’t? Is that what you’re trying to say?” He lifted her up out of the chair. “Or you mean I should plead and beg? Which is it?”

  She tried to speak. Helplessly clutching at him, she said, “I don’t feel well. Take me into the bathroom. Please.”

  Half carrying her, he got her there. She refused to let go of him; holding on to her, he let her be sick. For a minute or so she passed out. But almost at once she recovered.

  “Thanks,” she whispered. “God.” He lowered her until she was sitting on the rim of the tub. Wan and shivering, she rubbed his hand with her palm; she seemed feverish, and he wondered if she were really sick. “No,” she said, “I’m feeling better. It’s psychological.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  She smiled brokenly. “My conscience. I told him we would have to pay. This is it, maybe.”

  When she was stronger, he washed her face and led her back to the living room. Removing her shoes, he wrapped her in a blanket and propped her up on the couch.

  “It was the coffee,” she said.

  “You didn’t drink any.”

  She wanted a cigarette.

  As he lit it for her, he said, “You want me to go see if he brought your stuff up?”

  “I’m not staying here,” she said. “I want to be in my own place. I don’t want to be anywhere but there.”

  “Suppose he shows up?”

  “He won’t,” she said.

  “No,” he agreed, “I guess not.”

  “I’ll stay with you,” she decided. “I can’t go back to that, the evasion, the way we were. I’ll stay here, and then when we’re married we can stay here or there, whichever you want. Or we can get a new place. That might be better.”

  “I think so,” he said.

  As he put his coat on, she said, “I’ll go with you. So l can see it and get what I need. We could go get the Dodge and bring it here . . . we could unload the stuff here.”

  They sat around until she felt well enough, and then they drove to her apartment.

  The Dodge was parked at the entrance. Inside the back her stuff was piled helter-skelter; Art had dumped it in and the hell with it. Bottles, clothes, shoes, even the carton of milk and the oranges and the loaf of Langendorf bread. And, on the floor, the empty wine bottle.

  “Anyhow,” Pat said, “It’s probably all here.”

  He parked his car, and then he drove the Dodge, with Pat beside him, back to his own place. To bed she wore a pair of red-and-white polka dot pajamas. “I feel new,” she said, “in these.”

  In his shorts he brushed his teeth at the washbowl in the bathroom The time was three-thirty. Except for the bedroom and bathroom, the apartment was dark. The door was locked and the lights were off. In the bed Patricia lay smoking, an ashtray on the covers.

  “You finished in there?” Jim said, coming out of the bathroom. “Yes,” she said, feeling content.

  How lean he was, she thought, in his shorts. To her the sparse torso and arms and legs were a relief; for three days she had been held fast by a thick-limbed boy whose body dwindled from the loins down, a rubbery, boneless body, made up of muscles and fat, supported on legs too short. A boy’s body, she thought, not at all like this.

  Switching off the light, Jim removed his shorts and got into the bed. In the darkness he put his arms around her.

  “Isn’t it strange,” she said. “Now were back again. After two years. Nothing separating us, nothing holding us apart.” She was very happy. It was all for some purpose, she thought. It had ended in this. So it made sense. Not merely wasted motion . . . fatigue and injury for nothing.

  Beside her Jim said, “You want to hear about Rachael?”

  “Is there something?” She was almost asleep. But now, in her peace, she felt a coldness. Seeping into her, the coldness grew. “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” he said, “you knew I was there. You called me there.”

  She said, “I called you everywhere. I called you at the station and at your place here and at my place. And then I called you there.”

  “I was there.”

  “Does it mean anything?” She was wide awake, staring up into the darkness. “She asked me to stay with her. Until Art showed up. So I did.”

  She waited, but that was all; he was silent. “Did you live there?” she asked finally. “Is that what you mean?”

  “Not exactly. She’s peculiar.”

  “It was mostly meals. She wanted me to be there when she came home, so she could cook for me.”

  “Peasant,” Pat said. “Dinner table. The farm.”

  “I hung around in the evening until she went to bed, and then I left.”

  “What about in the morning?” Two mornings,
she thought.

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you telling me the truth?” she said.

  “Of course I am.”

  She said, “I’m scared of Rachael.”

  “I know you are.”

  “Will she do anything?”

  “She has Art back.”

  “Yes,” she said, encouraged. “That’s right.” She rose to put out her cigarette. “What do you think of her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Lying back, Pat said, “Maybe she’ll stab him.” Jim laughed. “Maybe. Maybe he’ll beat her up.”

  “What would you do if he beat her up?”

  “It’s not my business.”

  “How would you feel?”

  He did not answer. She waited; she listened. Had he gone to sleep? To herself she said: I paid for what I did; I was sick in the bathtub. Isn’t that enough? Doesn’t that do it?

  On the bedroom floor was her package of cigarettes, and she reached to pick them up. She lit another cigarette and lay, on her back smoking. The man beside her did not stir. He was asleep, she thought; he was.

  This is perfect, she thought. I see that. I understand that. Don’t I deserve it?

  Her cigarette glowed and she studied it; she tapped it against the ashtray which she held, and she thought: This is where I make my stand. This is where I put up my fight. For this. For what I have here.

  In the morning she got up early, at seven o’clock, to telephone the station. Jim slept on. Without awakening him, she put on her robe, closed the door to the bedroom, and seated herself in the living room by the phone. “Hello,” she said. “Mr. Haynes?”

  “How have you been, Patricia?” Haynes said in his formal voice. “We’ve been concerned about you. Not a word from you in what is it, two days?”

  “I’m better,” she said. “Could I come in late?”

  “You don’t have to come in at all today,” he said. “Don’t come in until it’s completely gone.”

  At first she could not imagine what he meant, and then she realized that he was talking about the flu. “Thanks,” she said. “Maybe I’ll wait until tomorrow. I don’t want to give it to anybody.”

  “Is it that intestinal kind?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I was sick . . . at my stomach.”

  “Cramps? That’s the kind that’s going around. Don’t drink any fruit juices, just toast and eggs and custard. Mild foods. No acids, tomatoes or pears or orange juice.”

  She thanked him and hung up.

  Returning to the bedroom, she tiptoed to the bed and saw that Jim was awake. “Hi,” she said, kissing him.

  “Hi.” He blinked owlishly. “You up?”

  “Stay in bed,” she said. “I want to take some of my things back to my apartment and get some things that are still there.”

  “How do you feel?” he said.

  “Much better.”

  “Your eye looks better.”

  While she was in the bathroom, she examined her eye. The swelling was gone, but it was black; the color, the deep smudge, remained. Maybe, she thought, forever.

  “I won’t be gone long,” she said to him. “You look so luxurious in bed . . . stay there until I get back. Okay?” Again she kissed him.

  As she drove along the early-morning streets, she thought to herself that in some respects this was the best time of day. The air was cold, but it was bright; it smelled good and it seemed to her to be healthier. The night fog was gone and the haze had not yet arrived.

  Parking the Dodge before her old apartment building, she carried a suitcase upstairs. As rapidly as possible she hung the clothes up in the closet, took what she needed, and with the first armload returned to the car.

  By the car waited a girl in a brown coat. Her legs were bare and she had on flat slippers. In the morning sunlight she frowned as she started toward Pat, her hands in the pockets of her coat. She squinted and, raising her hand, shielded her eyes.

  I know her, Pat thought. Who is she? I’ve seen her before.

  The girl said, “Where’s Jim?”

  “He’s at his place,” she said. Her head buzzed and she felt giddy. She did not feel frightened, only a little shocked to recognize her. “I’ve only seen you once in my life,” she said.

  Rachael opened the car door for her. “Are you taking your things over to his place?”

  “Some,” she said. “One more armload. I just saw you that time we came by, that one night.”

  Behind her Rachael remained by the car. Patricia ascended the stairs, gathered up the rest of her things, and started back down. On the stairs she halted to get her breath. Light streamed through the front door of the building, into the lobby; she saw Rachael still at the car, still waiting for her.

  When she emerged, Rachael said to her, “Are you going over there now?”

  “Yes,” she said, putting her armload into the back seat.

  “I’d like to come along.”

  Protest was impossible. “Why not?” she said. “Get in.” She switched on the ignition, and as she put the car in gear Rachael got in beside her.

  At eight-thirty she was back at Jim Briskin’s apartment building. She and Rachael stepped out onto the sidewalk; she carried one armload and Rachael carried the other. Together they went upstairs to the apartment. She let herself and Rachael in with the key he had given her.

  He was out of bed, sitting at the kitchen table. In his blue bathrobe, his hair uncombed, he regarded her and Rachael with a mixture of expressions.

  “Hi,” Rachael said.

  His head inclined. And then he said to Pat, “Did you get your things?”

  “What I needed,” she said. “Most of it’s here. Have you had breakfast?”

  “No,” he said. “Are you just sitting?”

  Rachael had gone to the living room window. Her coat over her arm, she stood, specter-like, off to one side. Jim said to her, “What’d you do about Art?”

  “When he showed up I told him, and he went off,” Rachael said.

  “You told him what?”

  “That he couldn’t come back.”

  Jim said, “Where’d he go?”

  “Over to the loft, I guess. I haven’t seen him today. That was last night, real late.”

  “Did you get any sleep?”

  “A couple of hours.” Her words were pinched off.

  “Did you talk to him at all? Did he tell you anything about it?”

  Rachael said, “He had a lot he wanted to say.”

  “But you didn’t listen.”

  “I listened to some of it.”

  Pat said, “He beat me up.”

  “No,” Rachael said to her, “he didn’t beat you up; he hit you once and that was all. Is that what you call getting beat up? His father used, to beat tip his mother, and sometimes he beat up Nat, his older brother. They were always fighting. Italians fight like that. Where we live people all fight like that.”

  Getting up from the kitchen table, Jim walked into the living room . . .. He lit a cigarette and offered Rachael the pack. She shook her head . . .. “Did you expect me to come back last night?” he said.

  “No,” Rachael said, “I knew you would stay with her.”

  “You never forgive people,” Pat said.

  “You, you mean? What do I care about your—” Her tough little face glowed. “You know what the first thing you said to me was, the first thing when you came in the door and saw me?”

  “I know,” Pat said.

  “If I had been in the kitchen instead of Art, you would have taken me down to the store, not him.”

  “Not exactly,” she said. She began to unpack the things she had brought. Jim returned to the kitchen; he put bread into the toaster and laid out dishes and silverware.

  “I’m going to eat,” he said.

  Patricia said, “I brought over my oils. How do you feel about that?” She unfolded the small easel and unwrapped the tubes of paint and the turpentine and linseed oil and the palette. “I thought maybe
I’d do some painting. Will the smell drive you out of the apartment?”

  “No,” he said from the kitchen.

  “What about the mess?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Excuse me,” she said to Rachael. In the bedroom, with the shades down, she changed to a pair of blue cotton trousers, Chinese trousers, and then she picked out a plaid sport shirt and buttoned it up, thinking how loose it was, how comfortable to work in. And then she identified the shirt as one of Art’s; she had bought it for him to wear. A little hysterically she shed the sport shirt and pushed it away in a suitcase; instead she put on a T-shirt, paint-smeared, from her college days.

  In the living room Rachael ignored the paints. She had not even taken off her coat.

  “Can I play some records?” Patricia asked.

  “Go ahead,” Jim said. At the stove he was frying himself ham and eggs.

  Sinking down before the record cabinet, she examined the albums. At last she pulled out an album of Bach Brandenburg Concertos—the album held four of them, one after another—and with the records playing on the phonograph she proceeded to mix the paints.

  “Bach at nine in the morning?” Jim said.

  “Shall I take it off?”

  “It’s eccentric,” he said.

  “I always liked it,” she said, “the Brandenburg Concertos. You played them for me . . . we played them all the time.”

  Rachael said, “What are you going to paint?”

  “I don’t know,” she said levelly. “I haven’t decided.”

  “You’re not going to paint me.”

  “I don’t want to paint you.” On the easel she arranged a square of fiber paper. Her brushes, gummy and stiff, had to be soaked; she placed them upright in a glass of turpentine. The smell of paint and turpentine filled the room, and she opened two of the windows. Jim disappeared into the bathroom. The whir-r-r of his electric razor startled her, and she thought how long it had been since she had heard an electric razor in the morning.

  “Did you stay here last night?” Rachael said to her.

  “Of course she did,” Jim said from the bathroom. “What do you think I did, leave her, for Art to knock around? I’m keeping her with me, where she belongs. When she feels better and this thing isn’t hanging over us, we’re going to remarry.”

  Rachael said, “And I can go to hell.”