Hard-Luck Diggings: The Early Jack Vance, Volume One

by Jack Vance

  I have written the letter. I run down the slope to the mailbox. It’s a glorious late autumn day. The wind is crisp, the hills are like an ocean of gold with scarlet and yellow trees for surf.

  I pull open the mailbox…Now, this is odd! My letter to Sunbury Dairy—gone. Perhaps the carrier came early? But it’s only nine o’clock. I put in the letter to Mrs. Lipscomb and look all around…Nothing. Who would want my letter? My cats stand with tails erect, looking keenly up the road, first in one direction, then the other, like surveyors planning a new highway. Well, come kittens, you’ll drink canned milk today.

  At ten o’clock the carrier passes, driving his dusty blue panel truck. He did not come early. That means—someone took my letter.

  It’s all clear; I understand everything. I’m really rather angry. This morning I found milk on my porch—a quart, bottled by the Maple Valley Dairy. They have no right to go through my mailbox; they thought I’d never notice…I won’t use the milk; it can sit and go sour; I’ll report them to the Sunbury Dairy and the post office besides…

  I’ve worked quite hard. I’m not really an athletic woman, much as I’d like to be. The pile of wood that I’ve chopped and sawed is quite disproportionate to the time I’ve spent. Homer and Moses help me not at all. They sit on the logs, wind in and out underfoot. It’s time for their noon meal. I’ll give them canned milk, which they detest.

  On investigation I see that there’s not even canned milk; the only milk in the house is that of the Maple Valley Dairy…Well, I’ll use it, if only for a month.

  I pour milk into a bowl; the cats strop their ribs on my shins.

  I guess they’re not hungry. Homer takes five or six laps, then draws back, making a waggish face. Moses glances up to see if I’m joking. I know my cats very well; to some extent I can understand their language. It’s not all in the ‘meows’ and ‘maroos’; there’s the slope of the whiskers and set of the ear. Naturally they understand each other better than I do, but I generally get the gist.

  Neither one likes his milk.

  “Very well,” I say severely, “you’re not going to waste good milk; you won’t get any more.”

  They saunter across the room and sit down. Perhaps the milk is sour; if so, that’s the last straw. I smell the milk, and very nice milk it smells: like hay and pasturage. Surely this isn’t pasteurized milk! And I look at the cap. It says: “Maple Valley Dairy. Fresh milk. Sweet and clean, from careless cows.”

  I presume that ‘careless’ is understood in the sense of ‘free from care’, rather than ‘slovenly’.

  Well, careless cows or not, Homer and Moses have turned up their noses. What a wonderful poem I could write, in the Edwardian manner.

  Homer and Moses have turned up their noses;

  They’re quite disappointed with tea.

  Their scones are like stones, the fish is all bones;

  The milk that they’ve tasted, it’s certainly wasted,

  But they’re getting no other from me.

  They’ll just learn to like fresh milk or do without, ungrateful little scamps.

  I have been scrubbing floors and white-washing the kitchen. No more chopping and sawing. I’ve ordered wood from the farmer down the road. The cabin is looking very cheerful. I have curtains at the windows, books on the mantel, sprays of autumn leaves in a big blue bottle I found in the shed.

  Speaking of bottles: tomorrow morning the milk is delivered. I must put out the bottle.

  Homer and Moses still won’t drink Maple Valley Dairy milk…They look at me so wistfully when I pour it out, I suppose I’ll have to give in and get something else. It’s lovely milk; I’d drink it myself if I liked milk.

  Today I drove into Sunbury, and just for a test I brought home a bottle of Sunbury Dairy Milk. Now we’ll see…I fill a bowl. Homer and Moses are wondering almost audibly if this is the same distasteful stuff I’ve been serving the last week. I put down the bowl; they fall to with such gusto that milk splashes on to their whiskers and drips all over the floor. That settles it. Tonight I’ll put a note in the bottle, stopping delivery from Maple Valley Dairy.

  I don’t understand it! I wrote very clearly. “Please deliver no more milk.” Lo and behold, the driver has the gall to leave me two bottles. I certainly won’t pay for it. The ineffable, unutterable nerve of the man!

  Sunbury Dairy doesn’t deliver up Maple Valley. I’ll just buy milk with my groceries. And tonight I’ll write a firm note to Maple Valley Dairy.

  November 21

  Dear Sirs:

  Leave no more milk! I don’t want it. My cats won’t drink it. Here is fifty cents for the two bottles I have used.

  Isabel Durbrow

  I am perplexed and angry. The insolence of the people is incredible. They took the two bottles back, then left me another. And a note. It’s on rough gray paper, and it reads:

  “You asked for it; you are going to get it.”

  The note has a rather unpleasant ring to it. It certainly couldn’t be a threat…I don’t think I like these people…They must deliver very early; I’ve never heard so much as a step.

  The farmer down the road is delivering my wood. I say to him, “Mr. Gable, this Maple Valley Dairy, they have a very odd way of doing business.”

  “Maple Valley Dairy?” Mr. Gable looks blank. “I don’t think I know them.”

  “Oh,” I ask him, “don’t you buy their milk?”

  “I’ve got four cows of my own to milk.”

  “Maple Valley Dairy must be further up the road.”

  “I hardly think so,” says Mr. Gable. “I’ve never heard of them.”

  I show him the bottle; he looks surprised, and shrugs.

  Many of these country people don’t travel more than a mile or two from home the whole of their lives.

  Tomorrow is milk day; I believe I’ll get up early and tell the driver just what I think of the situation.

  It is six o’clock; very gray and cold. The milk is already on the porch. What time do they deliver, in Heaven’s name?

  Tomorrow is milk day again. This time I’ll get up at four o’clock and wait till he arrives.

  The alarm goes off. It startles me. The room is still dark. I’m warm and drowsy. For a moment I can’t remember why I should get up…The milk, the insufferable Maple Valley Dairy. Perhaps I’ll let it go till next time…I hear a thump on the porch. There he is now! I jump up, struggle into a bathrobe, run across the room.

  I open the door. The milk is on the porch. I don’t see the milkman. I don’t see the truck. I don’t hear anything. How could he get away so fast? It’s incredible. I find this whole matter very disturbing.

  To make matters worse there’s another letter from Poole in the mail. This one I read, and am sorry that I bothered. He is planning to fight the divorce. He wants to come back and live with me. He explains at great length the effect I have on him; it’s conceited and parts are rather disgusting. Where have I disappeared to? He’s sick of this stalling around. The letter is typical of Poole, the miserable soul in the large flamboyant body. I was never a person to him; I was an ornamental vessel into which he could spend his passion—a lump of therapic clay he could knead and pound and twist. He is a very ugly man; I was his wife all of six weeks…I’d hate to have him find me out here. But Mrs. Lipscomb won’t tell…

  Farmer Gable brought me another load of wood. He says he smells winter in the air. I suppose it’ll snow before long. Then won’t the fire feel good!

  The alarm goes off. Three-thirty. I’m going to catch that milkman if it’s the last thing I do.

  I crawl out on the cold floor. Homer and Moses wonder what the hell’s going on. I find my slippers, my bathrobe. I go to the porch.

  No milk yet. Good. I’m in time. So I wait. The east is only tinged with gray; a pale moon shines on the porch. The hill across the road is tarnished silver, the trees black.

  I wait…It is four o’clock. The moon is setting.

  I wait…It is four-thirty.

 
Then five.

  No milkman.

  I am cold and stiff. My joints ache. I cross the room and light a fire in the wood stove. I see Homer looking at the door. I run to the window. The milk is in its usual place.

  There is something very wrong here. I look up the valley, down the valley. The sky is wide and dreary. The trees stand on top of the hills like people looking out to sea. I can’t believe that anyone is playing a joke on me…Today I’ll go looking for the Maple Valley Dairy.

  I haven’t found it. I’ve driven the valley one end to the other. No one’s heard of it.

  I stopped the Sunbury Dairy delivery truck. He never heard of it.

  The telephone book doesn’t list it.

  No one knows them at the post office…Or the police station…Or the feed store.

  It would almost seem that there is no Maple Valley Dairy. Except for the milk that they leave on my porch three times a week.

  I can’t think of anything to do—except ignore them…It’s interesting if it weren’t so frightening…I won’t move; I won’t return to the city…

  Tonight it’s snowing. The flakes drift past the window, the fire roars up the flue. I’ve made myself a wonderful hot buttered rum. Homer and Moses sit purring. It’s very cozy—except I keep looking at the window, wondering what’s watching me.

  Tomorrow there’ll be more milk. They can’t be doing this for nothing! Could it be that—no…For a moment I felt a throb. Poole. He’s cruel enough, and he’s subtle enough, but I don’t see how he could have done it.

  I’m lying awake. It’s early morning. I don’t think the milk has come; I’ve heard nothing.

  It’s stopped snowing; there’s a wonderful hush outside.

  A faint thud. The milk. I’m out of bed, but I’m terribly frightened. I force myself to the window. I’ve no idea what I’ll see.

  The milk is there; the bottle shining, white…Nothing else. I turn away. Back to bed. Homer and Moses look bored.

  I swing back in sudden excitement; my flashlight, where is it? There’ll be tracks.

  I open the door. The snow is an even blanket everywhere—shimmering, glimmering, pale and clear. No tracks…Not a mark!

  If I have any sense I’ll leave Maple Valley, I’ll never come back…

  Around the neck of the bottle hangs a printed form.

  I reach out into the cold.

  Dear Customer:

  Does our service satisfy you?

  Have you any complaints?

  Can we leave you any other commodities?

  Just let us know; we will deliver and you will be billed.

  I write on the card:

  My cats don’t like your milk and I don’t like you. The only thing I want you to leave is your footprints. No more milk! I won’t pay for it!

  Isabel Durbrow

  I can’t get my car started; the battery’s dead. It’s snowing again. I’ll wait till it stops, then hike up to Gable’s for a push.

  It’s still snowing. Tomorrow the milk. I’ve asked for his footprints. Tomorrow morning…

  I haven’t slept. I’m still awake, listening. There are noises off in the woods, and windmill creaks and groans, a dismal sound.

  Three o’clock. Homer and Moses jump down to the floor—two soft thuds. They pad back and forth, then jump back up on the bed. They’re restless tonight. Homer is telling Moses, “I don’t like this at all. We never saw stuff like this going on in the city.”

  Moses agrees without reservation.

  I lie quiet, huddled under the blankets, listening. The snow crunches a little. Homer and Moses turn to look.

  A thud. I am out of bed; I run to the door.

  The milk.

  I run out in my slippers.

  The footprints.

  There are two of them in the snow just under the milk bottle. Two footprints, the mark of two feet. Bare feet!

  I yell. “You cowards! You miserable sneaks! I’m not afraid of you!”

  I am though. It’s easy to yell when you know that no one will answer…But I’m not sure…Suppose they do?

  There is a note on the bottle. It reads:

  “You ordered milk; you’ll be billed. You ordered footprints; you’ll be billed. On the first of the month all accounts are due and payable.”

  I sit in the chair by the fire.

  I don’t know what to do. I’m terribly scared. I don’t dare to look at the window for fear of seeing a face. I don’t dare to wander up into the woods.

  I know I should leave. But I hate to let anyone or anything drive me away. Someone must be playing a joke on me…But they’re not…I wonder how they expect me to pay; in what coin?…What is the value of a footprint? Of six quarts of goblin milk the cats won’t drink? Today is the 30th of November.

  Tomorrow is the first.

  At ten o’clock the mailman drives past. I run down and beg him to help me start my car. It takes only a minute; the motor catches at once.

  I drive into Sunbury and put in a long distance call, to Howard Mansfield. He’s a young engineer I knew before I was married. I tell him everything in a rush. He is interested but he takes the practical viewpoint. He says he’ll come tomorrow and check the situation. I think he’s more interested in checking me. I don’t mind; he’ll behave himself if I tell him to. I do want someone here the next time the milk comes…Which should be the morning of the day after tomorrow.

  It’s clear and cool. I’ve recharged the battery; I’ve bought groceries; I drive home. The fire in the stove has gone down; I build it up and make a fire in the fireplace.

  I fry two lamb chops and make a salad. I feed Homer and Moses and eat my dinner.

  Now it’s very quiet. The cold makes small creaking noises outside; about ten o’clock the wind starts to come up. I’m tired, but I’m too nervous to go to sleep. These are the last hours of November 30th, they’re running out…

  I hear a soft sound outside, a tap at the door. The knob turns, but the door is bolted. For some reason I look at the clock. Eleven-thirty. Not yet the first. Howard has arrived?

  I slowly go to the door. I wish I had a gun.

  “Who’s there?” My voice sounds strange.

  “It’s me.” I recognize the voice.

  “Go away.”

  “Open up. Or I’ll bust in.”

  “Go away.” I’m suddenly very frightened. It’s so dark and far away; how could he have found me? Mrs. Lipscomb? Or through Howard?

  “I’m coming in, Isabel. Open up, or I’ll tear a hole in the wall!”

  “I’ll shoot you…”

  He laughs. “You wouldn’t shoot me…I’m your husband.”

  The door creaks as he puts his shoulder to it. The screws pull out of old wood; the bolt snaps loose, the door bursts open.

  He poses for a moment, half-smiling. He has very black hair, a sharp thin nose, pale skin. His cheeks are red with the cold. He has the look of a decadent young Roman senator, and I know he’s capable of anything queer and cruel.

  “Hello, honey. I’ve come to take you back.”

  I know I’m in for a long hard pull. Telling him to get out, to go away, is a waste of breath.

  “Shut the door.” I go back to the fire. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing that I’m frightened.

  He comes slowly across the room. Homer and Moses crouch on the bed hoping he won’t notice them.

  “You’re pretty well hid out.”

  “I’m not hiding.” And I wonder if after all he’s behind the Maple Valley Dairy. It must be.

  “Have you come to collect for the milk, Poole?” I try to speak softly, as if I’ve known all the time.

  He looks at me half-smiling. I see he’s puzzled. He pretends that he understands. “Yeah. I’ve been missing my cream.”

  I sit looking at him, trying to convey my contempt. He wants me to fear him. He knows I don’t love him. Fear or love—one suits him as well as the other. Indifference he won’t take.

  His mouth starts to droop. It looks a
s if he’s thinking wistful thoughts, but I know he is becoming angry.

  I don’t want him angry. I say, “It’s almost my bed-time, Poole.”

  He nods. “That’s a good idea.”

  I say nothing.

  He swings a chair around, straddles it with his arms along the back, his chin on his arms. The firelight glows on his face.

  “You’re pretty cool, Isabel.”

  “I’ve no reason to be otherwise.”

  “You’re my wife.”

  “No.”

  He jumps up, grabs my wrists, looks down into my eyes. He’s playing with me. We both know what he’s planning; he advances to it by easy stages.

  “Poole,” I say in a cool voice, “you make me sick.”

  He slaps my face. Not hard. Just enough to indicate that he’s the master. I stare at him; I don’t intend to lose control. He can kill me; I won’t show fear, nothing but contempt.

  He reads my mind, he takes it as a challenge; his lips droop softly. He drops my arms, sits down, grins at me. Whatever he felt when he came here, now it’s hate. Because I see through his poses, past his good looks, his black, white and rose beauty.

  “The way I see it,” says Poole, “you’re up here playing around with two or three other men.”

  I blush; I can’t help it. “Think what you like.”

  “Maybe it’s just one man.”

  “If he finds you here—he’ll give you a beating.”

  He looks at me interestedly; then laughs, stretches his magnificent arms, writhes his shoulder muscles. He is proud of his physique.

  “It’s a good bluff, Isabel. But knowing you, your virginal mind…”