When the opportunity came, it happened so fast he almost muffed it.
Millie wanted to take a run into Cleveland with a couple of "the girls" to see some damned ballet troupe or other. They'd stay over a day and do some shopping; would he like to come along?
Well, there was no trouble getting out of that one. Besides, he had a golf date the following afternoon. So he gave her a pat on the fanny and told her to run along and enjoy herself. No trouble at all.
The thing was, he didn't check with Peggy Allen right away, and when he did get hold of her she said she was dated. Fed him the old hard-to-get line, and it wasn't until he spelled it out for her and told her it was either-or that she stopped teasing.
So he picked her up the first night in his Jag and took her back to the house.
Even when it was over, Jimmie was surprised to find out that he was still coming on strong for the kid, and he wished they had a few more days before Millie was due back.
Then he got another break. Lucille Sims, one of Millie's snooty friends, called him up the next afternoon. Millie had come down with a cold and she'd decided to stay over in Cleveland at the hotel for another day, then come back on the train.
Jimmie phoned the hotel right away and talked to Millie. She didn't sound too bad, and he asked if she wanted him to drive up and get her. But she said no, she'd prefer the train, and he promised to pick her up at the station the following afternoon.
After that he was set. He called Peggy, and this time there was no stalling. He brought her over to the house at seven, and it must have been after midnight when he took her home again.
Driving back after dropping her off, Jimmie felt a lot better. He had everything under control now. Peggy was a softie underneath, like all the rest—she really went for him in a big way, and he'd be seeing her again. No promises, no strings, no problems. Handling Millie would be a cinch.
He put the car in the garage, the automatic doors closing softly and silently behind him. He turned on the light and grinned as he inspected the shining fleet, the immaculate workshop in the corner, the big breezeway enclosure leading to the house.
Yep, he really had it made. What more could a guy ask for? Plenty of moola, a dumb wife, and a hep chick on the side. Plus everything it takes to get anything he wanted. The character who made that crack about your face being your fortune sure knew what he was handing out.
Jimmie stared at his face in the shiny reflection of the Jag's hood. You're not bad, kid, he told himself. Not bad at all. He was still staring when the lights went out.
And then the lights came on again, hurting his eyes and clear through the top of his head, and he said to himself you must have passed out. He tried to move, and he realized his hands were tied behind his back. So you didn't pass out, he thought. You were sapped. What goes on here?
That's when he looked up and saw Millie standing there.
"Hey!" he said.
"Is that all?" Millie asked. "No questions? Don't you want to know about the first time I got suspicious, when I happened to pick up the extension phone and heard you talking to that little tramp of yours? It was over a month ago, and I've been wondering ever since. Wondering so much that I finally decided to go to Cleveland and arrange to get sick. I kept hoping I was wrong, of course, even when I slipped out and rented a car tonight to drive back and surprise you."
"When—when did you get here?"
"Soon enough." Millie stared down at him, and he could see she was still holding the small wrench she'd used as a sap in her gloved hands. "Soon enough to know that I could stop wondering, and stop hoping, and stop worrying about surprises. You and the girl took care of that."
"That girl," Jimmie said. "She's just a—"
"I know what she is," Millie told him. "She doesn't really mean a thing to you, does she?"
"Of course not, darling. You understand, don't you?"
"I understand."
"Then why the melodrama? Come on, untie me. A gag's a gag."
"I won't need a gag. There's nobody around and this place is practically soundproof."
"Millie, for God's sake, you aren't going to do anything foolish—"
"No. What I'm going to do is very sensible. I've been sitting here in the dark, ever since I saw you leave to take that girl home, and I've been thinking things over. There's no need for me to use this."
She put down the wrench and opened her purse, pulling out the gun.
"Millie!"
"Don't worry. I told you I wouldn't use it." She slipped the gun back into her bag. "I said I'd be sensible."
Jimmie squirmed and tried to sit up. He couldn't quite make it, but he did manage a wry grin.
"I suppose that means a divorce," he said.
She shook her head. "That wouldn't work. I thought about it for a while, but you can see what would happen. No matter what kind of charges we trumped up, the story's bound to come out. I don't think I'd care to know about all the gossip going on."
"Then—" Jimmie hesitated, pitching his voice to just the right note of penitence. "I know I haven't even got the right to ask, but does this mean that you're going to—forgive me?"
Millie didn't answer, so he went on.
"I don't have to tell you I'm sorry. I know I made a mistake. All I can do is try to make it up to you."
"Yes." It was Millie's turn to pause. "You are sorry, aren't you? Sorry because you weren't smart enough, because you got caught."
"No, that's not it. I told you I'd make it up to you, I'd try."
"Of course you'd try, darling. And you'd fail. Because that's the kind of a person you are, Jimmie dear, the kind of a person you always have been and always will be. It's my fault for not realizing it from the very beginning. You're a pretty boy, and you can't stand anything around you that might mar your own perfection. You've always got to have new clothes, new cars, new women. You're one of the beautiful people, Jimmie, and you hate ugliness. The way you hated me when you were a kid. The way you hate me now."
"But I don't hate you; you're not ugly—"
"Oh yes I am, Jimmie." She smiled at him. "Only an ugly woman could do the sensible thing I'm going to do."
She walked over to the workbench and picked something up in her gloved right hand. Then she came back and stood over him again. He saw what she was holding and his throat went dry, so that the words were only a whisper.
"You'd better put that down. You can't get away with it!"
"I'm not going to get away with anything, darling. It's the thieves."
"What thieves?"
"The ones the police will think broke in here tonight while you were sleeping, and while I was still away in Cleveland. I'll be back there in my hotel room before anyone notices my absence, and tomorrow I'll check out and come home. I'll be very surprised when you aren't on hand to meet me at the station, and I'll be very shocked when I come home and find out what the thieves have done. Don't worry, you'll be mourned. And I'm going to be proud of you for doing such a foolish, proud thing—trying to keep the combination of the house safe from the thieves, even under torture—"
"Millie, you're crazy!"
"Not crazy. Just ugly, remember?" She walked away to the bench again, picked up a rag from its surface, returned and knelt beside him. "On second thought, it will look more natural if I do gag you, after all. Besides, I won't have to listen to your silly interruptions any longer. And maybe you'll scream more loudly than I thought. I'm almost certain you will."
"M—"
"There. That's better." She stood up. Jimmie kept watching her hands. She was holding the thing, pointing it.
"You don't understand what I mean by ugliness yet, do you?" she murmured. "Beautiful people never do. I suppose that's why you hate it so, because you don't understand. And you don't care. Life is so very easy for you, because we live in an age that worships beauty above all else; worships it the way I worshipped you. Even when you wrecked my life.
"No, I'm not talking about tonight. You wrecked my life ye
ars ago, Jimmie. When we were children together, when you gave me my new name. Millie the Mule. I told you once you'd never know what that did to me, and I was right. I didn't realize the whole truth until tonight.
"I thought having an ugly face and an ugly nickname was the worst thing that could ever happen to me. When my friends made fun of me, and even my parents were ashamed, that seemed the most terrible fate. And it went on for years, Jimmie. Even after you went away, the name stuck by me. The name, and the face. I thought nothing more dreadful could possibly happen, but I was wrong.
"The dreadful thing was to try and change. To forget the old saying that beauty is only skin-deep. Well, I found out that it's true, Jimmie. You taught me that, tonight. Because you're one of the beautiful people I've always envied, one of the favored few who walk through life getting everything they want without effort, without worries or problems or unpleasantness. And yet you're not beautiful, inside. You're ugly as sin. And it is a sin to get everything you want without doing anything to deserve it.
"That's the thought which used to console me, Jimmie. I guess it helps console all of us ugly ones. I kept believing that I was better than I looked, underneath. That my heart was full of understanding, that my love was pure, all sorts of maudlin nonsense. And I had faith that if I kept striving, I'd get what I wanted.
"So I had my face altered, and I got what I wanted. You. I didn't look like Millie the Mule any more, and I thought it was enough to make us both happy. That was my mistake, darling. Because it didn't make you happy, did it? You could still see Millie the Mule underneath the mask, and that's why you strayed.
"The only person I fooled was myself. And it wasn't until tonight that I realized the truth.
"I am Millie the Mule. Inside, I'm as ugly as you are. Only an ugly person could dream of doing what I'm going to do to you."
Jimmie stared at her hands, knowing that in a moment she'd move. Then he stared at her face, and in the half-light it seemed oddly altered. For a moment he could almost see her as she had once been, years ago—Millie the Mule, ugly as sin.
"But I'm not crazy," she whispered. "Please understand that, because it's important. You did your best to drive me mad, torturing me for years with your name-calling, your nastiness, your sniggering, your loathing. Still, it wasn't enough to drive me mad; just enough to make a monster out of me. That's right, Jimmie. I'm a monster now. That's why I've got to do this thing. Because you deserve it for making me ugly inside. So ugly that when I saw you and that girl together tonight, I gave up any thought of just shooting you. That's when I knew just how much of a monster you'd made of me—when I realized what I was planning, and how much I'm going to enjoy it.
"It's going to take a long time, Jimmie. I want it to take quite a long time. It will help me to get rid of your ugliness and mine, together."
Jimmie was thinking that she had never looked more like Millie the Mule than she did at this moment, as she knelt beside him and went to work …
It was quite the most horrible tragedy Highland Springs had ever known. When poor Millie came back from Cleveland and found her husband in the garage that way, everybody thought she'd collapse. But she managed to hold up quite bravely, even through the investigation and inquest, and when the ordeal of the funeral was over, she seemed like a different person.
In fact everyone remarked on it. While plastic surgery had done wonders for her, it wasn't until after her husband's death that Millie became a truly beautiful woman. She seemed to glow with an inner serenity, as if all the ugliness had been burned out of her.
All the more surprising, considering the shock she must have had when she discovered her husband's corpse. It was bad enough that the unknown thieves had tortured him, burning the soles of his feet to get the combination of the safe. But then, probably by accident, they'd set the gasoline torch down right next to his head. Even with a low flame, his face had been burned completely off …
The End
© 1960 by Robert Bloch. Reprinted with permission of the agent for the author's estate, Ralph Vicinanza, Ltd. Originally published as "Skin-Deep" in Best-Seller Mystery Magazine, July 1960.
The Man Who Never Forgot
Robert Silverberg
He saw the girl waiting in line outside a big Los Angeles movie house, on a mildly foggy Tuesday morning. She was slim and pale, barely five-three, with stringy flaxen hair, and she was alone. He remembered her, of course.
He knew it would be a mistake, but he crossed the street anyway and walked up along the theater line to where she stood.
"Hello," he said.
She turned, stared at him blankly, flicked the tip of her tongue out for an instant over her lips. "I don't believe I—"
"Tom Niles," he said. "Pasadena, New Year's Day, 1955. You sat next to me. Ohio State-20, Southern Cal-7. You don't remember?"
"A football game? But I hardly ever—I mean-I'm sorry, but—"
Someone else in the line moved forward toward him with a tight hard scowl on his face. Niles knew when he was beaten. He smiled apologetically and said, "I'm sorry, miss. I guess I made a mistake. I took you for someone I knew—a Miss Bette Torrance. Excuse me."
And he strode rapidly away. He had not gone more than ten feet when he heard the little surprised gasp and the "But I am Bette Torrance!"—but he kept going.
I should know better after twenty-eight years, he thought bitterly. But I forget the most basic fact—that even though I remember people, they don't necessarily remember me …
He walked wearily to the corner, turned right, and started down a new street, one whose shops were totally unfamiliar to him and which, therefore, he had never seen before. His mind, stimulated to its normal pitch of activity by the incident outside the theater, spewed up a host of tangential memories like the good machine it was:
Jan. 1, 1955, Rose Bowl, Pasadena, California, Seat G126; warm day, high humidity, arrived in stadium 12:03 P.M., PST. Came alone. Girl in next seat wearing blue cotton dress, white oxfords, carrying Southern Cal pennant. Talked to her. Name Bette Torrance, senior at Southern Cal, government major. Had a date for the game but he came down with flu symptoms night before, insisted she see game anyway. Seat on other side of her empty. Bought her a hot dog, 20¢ (no mustard)—
There was more, much more. Niles forced it back down. There was the virtually stenographic report of their conversation all that day:
("… I hope we win. I saw the last Bowl game we won, two years ago …"
"… Yes, that was 1953. Southern Cal-7, Wisconsin-0 … and two straight wins in 1944-45 over Washington and Tennessee …"
"… Gosh, you know a lot about football! What did you do, memorize the record book?")
And the old memories. The jeering yell of freckled Joe Merritt that warm April day in 1937: Who are you, Einstein? And Buddy Call saying acidly on November 8, 1939: Here comes Tommy Niles, the human adding machine. Get him! And then the bright stinging pain of a snowball landing just below his left clavicle, the pain that he could summon up as easily as any of the other pain-memories he carried with him. He winced and closed his eyes suddenly, as if struck by the icy pellet here on a Los Angeles street on a foggy Tuesday morning.
They didn't call him the human adding machine any more. Now it was the human tape recorder; the derisive terms had to keep pace with the passing decades. Only Niles himself remained unchanging, The Boy With The Brain Like a Sponge grown up into The Man With The Brain Like a Sponge, still cursed with the same terrible gift.
His data-cluttered mind ached. He saw a diminutive yellow sports car parked on the far side of the street, recognized it by its make and model and color and license number as the car belonging to Leslie F. Marshall, twenty-six, blond hair, blue eyes, television actor with the following credits—
Wincing, Niles applied the cutoff circuit and blotted out the upwelling data. He had met Marshall once, six months ago, at a party given by a mutual friend—an erstwhile mutual friend; Niles found it difficult to keep friends for long. He
had spoken with the actor for perhaps ten minutes, and had added that much more baggage to his mind.
It was time to move on, Niles decided. He had been in Los Angeles ten months. The burden of accumulated memories was getting too heavy; he was greeting too many people who had long since forgotten him (curse my John Q. Average build, 5'9", 163 pounds, brownish hair, brownish eyes, no unduly prominent physical features, no distinguishing scars except those inside). He contemplated returning to San Francisco, and decided against it. He had been there only a year ago; Pasadena, two years ago. The time had come, he realized, for another eastward jaunt.
Back and forth across the face of America goes Thomas Richard Niles, der fliegende Holländer, the Wandering Jew, the Ghost of Christmas Past, the Human Tape Recorder. He smiled at a newsboy who had sold him a copy of the Examiner on May 13 past, got the usual blank stare in return, and headed for the nearest bus terminal.
For Niles the long journey had begun on October 11, 1929, in the small Ohio town of Lowry Bridge. He was third of three children, born of seemingly normal parents: Henry Niles (b. 1896), Mary Niles (b. 1899). His older brother and sister had shown no extraordinary manifestations. Tom had.
It began as soon as he was old enough to form words; a neighbor woman on the front porch peered into the house where he was playing and remarked to his mother, "Look how big he's getting, Mary!"
Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4 Page 51
