by Isaac Asimov
He found himself enjoying domestic life. If his first marriage had been half as satisfying, he might never have hastened its end. Betty had absolutely no faults. She cooked to rival a cordon bleu chef. She kept a spotless house, but never nagged him for his sloppy ways, and she baked well enough and often enough to keep a constant stream of neighborhood children at the rear door.
The only household duties she reserved for him were the ones that traditionally fell to the male: he fixed leaky faucets, replaced blown fuses, and carried out the garbage at night.
One evening three months after they moved into their new home, he picked up the bag of kitchen scraps and took it outside. He carefully descended the concrete rear steps, but placed his foot on a child’s roller skate that had been left on the walk. His leg flew out from under him, the bag of trash soared high, his arms went wide and he toppled backward. His startled cry ended abruptly when his head struck the edge of a concrete step with a sickening thump.
Betty stood at Wilson’s grave and felt very unhappy. She hated cemeteries. During her forty-one years she had buried over fifteen husbands, so she was an expert on cemeteries — but she didn’t like them.
The Big Trip
by Elsin Ann Graffam
This was the part of the day that Nancy liked best. Dishes done, place straightened, time to rest in bed, sip a cup of tea, watch TV and have a cigarette.
Being alone wasn’t such a bad thing, she’d come to think. No man to order her around, no children to cause her grief. Just two aloof cats, a small apartment, and her TV. The last of life for which the first was made. She was alone the first part, she’d be alone the last part. And that was fine with her. One thing she had come to treasure was her independence. Other women her age had ties. Not Nancy. Her life was her own, every minute of it, and that was exactly the way she wanted it.
Carefully, frugally, all these years she had saved her money for the Big Trip to Europe. It had become a joke at the office, the extent to which Nancy would go to hang on to her money. Once she had heard June say, “If old Nancy can’t take it with her, then she’s not going!”
Let them laugh, she thought. When they were old, living on a pension, they would remember her — Nancy and her Big Trip Around the World. Yes, let them laugh, they who had no thought for the future, who lived from day to day, spending their money as fast as they got it.
Now she was having the joy of planning the trip, going to travel bureaus on her lunch hour, deciding on the clothes she’d buy. Oh, the countries she’d see! Switzerland, for sure. And Spain, the Netherlands, England, Italy — the world would be hers!
Retirement in two short months — and then the fun would begin! The money was ready, safely tucked away in her mattress, hundreds and hundreds of dollar bills. Just two months to wait!
She shut her eyes, smiling, thinking of the moment she’d get on the airplane, when the Big Trip would finally begin...
“What’s she blabbering about now?”
The other woman shrugged. “Same old thing. How she’s going to go to Europe and see everything. I kinda feel sorry for her, you know?”
“Uh, uh. Don’t go feeling sorry for them, Joan. You gotta harden your heart or you’ll go crazy working here, you should excuse the expression.”
The woman laughed. “Yeah. Anyhow, I guess she’s happy enough. I mean, look at her, off in that dream world of her own.”
“Funny thing about her,” the woman mused. “I was here when they admitted her, ten years ago. Seems she was just as normal as you and me until one night she fell asleep smoking in bed. Neighbors got her and her cats out in time. She wasn’t burned much at all, but by the time the firemen got there, her apartment was ruined, every bit of furniture burned to a cinder. You wouldn’t think that would make someone go insane, would you?”
Dutch
by William F. Nolan
Dutch got the idea when we were in Beverly Hills. It was late, almost midnight, and the whole town was quiet as a grave. All the fancy stores were dark and we could hear our own footsteps like clapped hands on the pavement. Me and Dutch and Rosa. She was one of his chicks. Dutch had plenty others.
Rosa was seventeen, a real little doll, like you find on the shelf of a toy store, all in blue and pink. She always dressed real nice when Dutch asked her out.
Dutch was eighteen and he looked like a movie star. I mean, handsome in a dark, curly-haired kind of way. The chicks flipped over him. Rosa, for instance.
Me, I’m Eddie Conners, and in the looks department I don’t score. Year younger than Dutch; short, with thick glasses. Dutch always used to tell me that my eyes looked like two crazy fish swimming around behind the lenses. The chicks pass me by, and I guess I don’t blame them any. Sometimes Dutch would fix me up with a cute chick, but she’d spend more time looking at him than she would me when we double-dated.
Anyway, on this particular night Dutch got the idea we should cop a couple of new irons and have ourselves a little dice over Mulholland Drive.
“Me against you, Eddie,” he grinned. “You game, boy?”
“Sure,” I said. “Why the hell not! Only let’s be sure we get two alike. You could walk away from me in some souped-up short.”
“Then let’s start lookin’ around.”
Rosa put up no objections. What was okay by Dutch was okay by her.
We found a couple of new Fords near Martindale’s bookstore. Dutch was a real cool operator when it came to a deal like this. He told us to wait over in the building shadows and keep our eyes open while he got the cars started. Dutch didn’t need keys, not the way he worked. In about two shakes he had both engines purring like a pair of big cats. We were all set to go.
“Now, listen,” he said to me. “You follow my iron over Coldwater to Mulholland. Then, we’ll line up even for a run. I claim by the third turn you’ll be outa sight behind me!”
“We’ll see, Dutch,” I said.
Rosa got in front with him and they glided away from the curb with me in the other Ford right behind. I sure like the way a new car feels — powerful and ready to do anything you want it to.
I felt pretty great tooling along smooth and easy, like some big high-class banker maybe, or some big office president out for a spin in his new car. My folks are tramp-poor and everything I make at the warehouse goes to the family. I couldn’t afford a car of my own.
Then I pretended that Rosa was sitting next to me instead of next to Dutch. Real close, with her head on my shoulder. That was damn nice. I could almost smell that sexy perfume she wore and see her smile just for me. Yeah, Rosa was a real gone chick, and no mistake.
We were taking it easy around town because we didn’t want any cops on our tail. Beverly Hills is lousy with cops at night. I saw the turn-indicator blink on in Dutch’s Ford; he was swinging into an all-night gas station. What the hell was wrong with the guy, anyhow? Why risk being pegged in these hot buggies? I was plenty sore when I got out.
“You nuts?” I demanded, keeping my voice down. “What’s the lousy idea?”
“Tires,” he said. “What if the tires are low when we hit that cliff road? Hell, boy, we’d go on our heads for sure. You check ’em while I hit the can. Thirty-two all the way round should be okay.”
I waved the station guy away and began to check pressures.
Rosa stayed in Dutch’s car, fixing her face, touching lightly at her hair. She was always primping around Dutch, trying to look prettier than she did already. She didn’t need to. Rosa looked plenty good to me all the time. She had natural blonde hair and a hell of a figure and she really knew how to walk.
“How were they?” Dutch asked me.
“My left rear was low,” I said. “Good thing we checked.”
“Damn right. I just don’t like taking chances is all.”
We climbed back in the Fords and got going. As long as we kept it at twenty-five we were okay. We’d done this before, taken a couple of hot irons out for a joyride. No dice then. Just a ride. Afterwards we too
k ’em right back where we found ’em and nobody knew the difference.
I snapped on some dance music. Rosa was sure a wonderful dancer. Once, in Gardena, when Dutch was pooped, Rosa asked me to hoof it with her. I remembered how light and airy she felt in my arms that night, how soft and warm she’d been. Damn!
We’d crossed Sunset, taken the long climb up Coldwater and I got ready for the sharp right-hand turn onto Mulholland. Easy to miss if you’re not on the ball. I followed Dutch around, taking it slow. He waved me up, and I pulled my Ford alongside his.
“This is it, Eddie.” He was smiling in that handsome crooked way of his. “We dig on three. Rosa will do the counting.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Rosa’s weight adds better than a hundred pounds to your iron.”
“So?”
“So I don’t want any advantage. Either we start equal or it’s all off.”
The road stretched away ahead of us, narrow and treacherous and misted with fog.
“Okay, okay.” Dutch reached across and opened Rosa’s door. “Wait here for us, baby. We’ll make the run down to Laurel Canyon and back.”
“Right, Dutch,” she said, sliding out. “But, be careful, hon.”
Her voice was soft and husky and I figured she must practice talking that way, knowing how sexy she sounded.
“Nervous, Eddie?” Dutch asked, grinning at me from the open car window. He jazzed the Ford’s mill and it was mean. Real mean.
“Hell, no,” I snapped, lighting a cig. I was lying. Sure I was nervous. Who wouldn’t be with a set-up like this?
Rosa was standing to one side, her arm raised, ready to flag us off. She looked like a little pink doll in the bright glare of our headlights.
Dutch was grinning, the way he always does when he’s real sure of something. He was sure he’d cream me on this stretch. Mulholland is a bitch at night, with the fog hanging low over those hairpin turns, and a long drop waiting for you if you goof. He’d driven it a lot more than I had, and he knew the road pretty well. He was used to irons, too; he could stomp through the turn and broadslide like a pro. Sure I was nervous.
“Get ready, fellas,” Rosa shouted,
I stubbed out my cig on the Ford’s dash and tried to relax. I juiced the engine to make sure she was firing right and got all set behind the wheel.
“One... Two...”
I could feel the sudden sweat on the palms of my hands. God, but I wished it was all over! The whole thing was crazy and unreal.
“Three!”
We were off like twin jets, engines screaming, our tires sliding on the damp asphalt. I gave the Ford all the pedal she’d take in first and held Dutch, but when I snap-shifted into second he was by me and moving for the first turn. It was a fairly rough one and I eased off a little, watching Dutch throw his car in. He fishtailed like mad and his Ford was all over the road. He was really pushing.
I got through without much trouble and we headed for the next turn. He pulled away from me on the short straight and I let him go. Hell with it! No use risking my own neck on this kind of road.
The second turn wasn’t bad at all — just a bend really — but the one coming up was a lulu. I remembered I’d almost gone off there once myself in my cousin’s Chevy — and I hadn’t even been dicing then.
Dutch was going like a crazy man, booming through the bend, ragged and swaying with speed. I knew he’d never make it through the hairpin.
And he didn’t.
The whole rear end of his car broke loose and slid sideways. I could see him fighting the wheel, but it didn’t help. He was in the kind of a slide that ends only one way.
Dutch went over.
I saw his Ford jump the little raised hump at the edge of the road, hover for maybe a split second in the air, like it couldn’t make up its mind which way to go, and then drop out of sight.
I’ll never forget the long roar it made going down, bumping over rocks and brush and trees, clear to the bottom.
Pulling over, I cut the engine and got out.
I was trembling. I snapped loose a cigarette and lit it; the smoke felt good. I began to relax.
Dutch was dead. That was for sure. Nobody, but nobody, could live through one like this. Besides, I could hear a dry crackling sound, like cellophane being crumpled up, and I knew the car was burning down there. Yeah, Dutch was finished all right.
What really got me was how dumb he’d played things. When he made that first rough turn and felt the whole car going he should have known something was haywire. But, he wouldn’t stop in the middle of a dice, not Dutch. The fever was in him, and that’s what I’d counted on. Anything to beat me. In racing or in pool or with chicks. Beat ole Eddie. Make him look like a damn fool.
Well, Dutch, this time you lost. Because not even you could corner at speed with only fifteen pounds of air in your back tires!
I killed the cig and fired up the Ford. I’d better hurry.
Rosa would be wondering what had happened.
Loaded Quest
by Thomasina Weber
Tony Graybill stepped out of the bus, his joints stiff from the long ride. It was eight-thirty on a warm July evening, but the Florida air was pleasingly fragrant after the air-conditioned atmosphere of the bus. The cigar smoker who had been his seatmate for the last two hundred miles had not helped matters.
Reclaiming his duffel bag from the luggage compartment, Tony headed for the motel he had noticed a few blocks from the depot. The night was young and, after cleaning up, he would still have an hour or two to look for Millie.
The room he was given was clean, but far from luxurious. Compared to where he had been, though, it was paradise. He never wanted to see another jungle. He relished the hot shower, letting gallons of water revitalize his weary body. He wondered if he would ever feel rested again.
He still had not grown accustomed to the fact that he was his own man, with no more orders and living with filth and death, grateful every time a bullet whizzed past his ear to a less fortunate target. Now he could do exactly as he pleased. At the moment, he had one goal in mind, the goal that had kept him alive, day after hellish day.
Maybe that explained ghosts, he reflected, as he locked his motel room door behind him. They were probably dedicated persons who had died before achieving their goals. It seemed logical. Death would not be strong enough to quench his fire. He could readily picture himself as a dedicated ghost. A smile touched his lips and it felt strange, like something he had forgotten how to do.
The main street did not look familiar to him, but he had been away a long time, and towns change. People change too, he mused grimly. You can’t blame a town; but a person, that’s different. A faithful, worthwhile person does not change, not the way Millie did. So what did that make Millie?
Other wives waited, even though it wasn’t easy. It wasn’t easy for the men, either, but knowing they had someone to go home to made it bearable. Millie hadn’t even given him that. He should have known something was wrong when her letters stopped coming. When he finally did get a letter, it was not from Millie but from her lawyer.
Before the ink was dry on the divorce papers, Millie had married again. That was all he knew. He did not know whom she had married, but he was willing to bet it was someone with money. When Tony and Millie had married, they had less than fifty dollars between them. At first Millie had thought it was a lark, sitting on a plank laid on concrete blocks and eating off lap trays. Rent and food, those were all his wages as a gas-pump jockey supplied.
The novelty soon wore off, for Millie was not the grin-and-bear-it type. Millie was strong, but in Millie’s life, Millie came first. Her parents were well-to-do, and she was used to an easy life. When Tony was drafted before their first anniversary, he had the feeling Millie was happier than she let on at the prospect of moving back into her parents’ home. His only consolation was that even if he had not gone off to war, chances are their marriage still would not have survived.
So her new husband must have
money. It followed, then, that they would live on the wealthy side of town. Every town had its Snob Hill, so he headed in that direction.
It was a waste of time, he discovered half an hour later. The houses were set well back from the streets and many of them were unlighted. The Party Set, of course. Those families that were at home had discreetly drawn their drapes. He would have to come back tomorrow, when it was daylight. Just as well; he was tired.
Next morning he had breakfast at The Diner and no one recognized him, but that was not surprising. He did not recognize them, either. It was probably under new management. Businesses were always changing hands, and waitresses never stay in one place very long. Besides, these waitresses looked as though they had still been in school when he went away.
He set out once again for Snob Hill. Refreshed by a good night’s sleep and a satisfactory breakfast, Tony covered the neighborhood systematically. Another man might have been discouraged by the apparent futility of his quest, for very few people showed themselves, but Tony was determined to find Millie. He knew beyond a doubt that the intensity of his feeling would flush her out. It was his belief that by concentrating on what he sought, he emitted electromagnetic waves which attracted electromagnetic waves emitted by the object sought. This would bring them together.
Whether that was the case or not, Millie did emerge from a $200,000 house just as he was walking by. Thanks to the distance between the house and the sidewalk, she did not see him. Averting his face, he hurried on. He was not yet ready to confront her. He would know when the time was right.
He watched her for a week. He saw her in shorts, in slacks, in mini-skirts, in suits, in every sort of outfit money could buy; all expensive, nothing but the best. Millie had had a good figure, but it had never looked that good in the clothes she wore when she was married to Tony. He remembered with a pang how he used to run his fingers through the long red hair that was now bleached blonde and piled on top of her head so elegantly. His Millie — the same Millie — yet so different.
