The Three Sirens

by Irving Wallace

  For another minute, he allowed his mother to go on, and then he interrupted. “Mom—listen, Mom—look—there’s a long-distance call from Pennsylvania—I’ve got to—yes, Mom, you should go to this new doctor, if that’s what everyone says—yes, absolutely, I’ll take you there, I’ll pick you up at a quarter to three tomorrow—no, I won’t forget—yes, I promise. Okay, Mom, okay. ‘By.”

  He hung up, and sat unmoving, surprised, as ever, by his exhaustion at the end of these calls. After a minute, having gained his second wind, he rolled his swivel chair closer to the desk, and began to unwrap the magazines. As part of his study on comparative sexual behavior, Orville subscribed to every pornographic or racy magazine known in the world. Some years before, he had visited the late Dr. Alfred Kinsey’s Institute for Sex Research at Bloomington, Indiana, and had been impressed by its valuable collection of erotica. In the interests of research, he had begun his own collection, and every week since had annotated and filed various articles, stories, and, most important, drawings and photographs.

  Orville unfailingly found this portion of his day the most rewarding and enjoyable. Gale had instructions that he was to be undisturbed by phone calls or visitors in the half-hour after he had finished conversation with his mother. In this half-hour, he leafed through his magazines, not yet annotating them, but mainly to get the feeling of what was useful and what was not. On the weekend, he would take them to his apartment and go through them with greater deliberation, and then he would make his notes.

  Gently, he took the first glossy magazine from the stack of seven. This was one of his favorites, Female Classics, a handsome seventy-five-cent quarterly published in New York, and a priceless contribution to any study of American sexual mores. Slowly, he turned the pages—here a redhead wearing white slacks, her arms crossed beneath her naked breasts—here a platinum blonde leaning against a doorway, entirely disrobed except for a black patch covering her vaginal area—here a brunette wading in the water to her knees, with her nude back and backside to the camera—here a magnificent gatefold, opening to a full-length beauty posing before a canopy bed, the girl wearing a hip-length purple sweater, unbuttoned to reveal her enormous nipples but secured at the very bottom button to shield her private parts.

  Orville’s eyes held on the provocative girl in the gatefold, and incredulity surfaced as always it did. This one’s face was soft and chaste as a Madonna. Her complexion, skin, breast, belly, and thighs were young and flawless. She could be no more than eighteen. Yet, here she was, all but the final secret exposed to thousands and thousands of hot eyes. How could she do it, and why? Did she not have a mother, a father, a brother? Did she not have church instruction? Didn’t she wish to save a vestige of decency for binding love? Such deliberate nudity and posture forever shocked Orville. This pretty young thing had come into a studio or home, and shed every item of her apparel, and slipped on a ridiculous sweater, no more, and received instruction from some strange man, or men, on how much of her bosom was to be revealed and how the last button must conceal her—her—Lord in heaven, how could she do it? Surely when she stretched her arms or walked or assumed varied poses, all was revealed to strangers? What was her pleasure in this? Compliment and adulation? The perverted pleasure of exhibitionism? The small photographer’s fee? The hope that some film producer would see her picture and send for her? What was it?

  Still studying the gatefold, Orville wondered where you found all these beautiful young girls who stripped off their garments so quickly. What if he should want to examine some of them—oh, the one in the gatefold, for example—for clinical purposes? Would she pose for one of America’s leading sex authorities? And after she posed, and answered his inquiries, would she—well, would she?

  Suddenly, staring down at the shameful crimson nipples, Orville glowered. Sinful young bitch, he thought. Flamboyant hussy, he thought, standing so wantonly to incite a multitude of helpless men, posing so indecently to mock all that was sacred and holy of procreation and love. No punishment would be too great for these scarlet women. A stray sentence, and still another, slipped into Orville’s mind: “A great mercy has been vouchsafed me. Last night, I was privileged to bring a lost soul to the loving arms of Jesus.” Now what was that? Where had he heard it, read it? Then he remembered. The Reverend Davidson speaking of Miss Thompson.

  With a sigh, Orville closed the gatefold and resumed turning the pages. When the first magazine was finished, Orville took up the others, one by one, permitting no further wonder or philosophizing. Almost a half-hour later, the scientific task was accomplished. He placed the magazines, neatly, with others, atop his bookcase, to await the weekend, and returned to his chair and desk to skim the Denver Post, before plunging into dictation.

  After the magazines, Orville’s favorite newspaper seemed dull. His eyes went fleetingly over the columns of type, from sounds of war to sounds of politics, from the mourning of accidents to the mourning of divorces. Not until he arrived at page seven did a headline over a minor news story arrest him and make him sit up. The headline read: VISITING ENGLISH PROF WEDS BOULDER GIRL.

  A faint warning bell sounded in some recess of Orville’s brain. He bent to the two-inch story and read it hastily, and then reread it slowly. The phrases came at him like clubs … “Dr. Harvey Smythe, Professor of Archeology from Oxford, on a year’s exchange at … Miss Beverly Moore, attached to the Administration Office of the University of Colorado … surprised friends … elopement to Las Vegas yesterday … returned last night … second marriage for the groom … will next year make their home in England where Dr. Smythe…be feted this evening by the University faculty.”

  Orville allowed the newspaper to fall from his hands to the desk. He sat in silent grief, staring dry-eyed at the news story, his casket.

  Beverly Pence was now Beverly Smythe, for now and for all eternity, forever, irrevocably, and let no man tear asunder.

  Even in his sorrow, Orville was not unreasonable. He did not blame Beverly Moore. He was not her victim. He blamed his mother and his sister. He was their victim, the prey of two blood tyrants, the martyr of them and of his pale chromosomes and genes.

  After many dumb minutes, he folded the newspaper before him and dropped it in the wooden wastebasket. What was left on the desk was the debris from his opened mail and, off to one side, the letter from Dr. Maud Hayden.

  Orville reached for his telephone and brought it directly before him. His first thought was that he would call his mother and tell her that she would have to take a goddam taxi to the goddam new doctor tomorrow. But he decided that the call to his mother could wait. Instead, he ordered Gale to get him the number in Colorado Springs.

  He waited, in complete control and relishing the wait.

  When her voice came in, he was pleased to note that it was as shrill as their mother’s voice.

  “Dora? Orville here.”

  “What is it, calling in the middle of the day? What’s the big occasion? Is Mom all right?”

  He ignored the last. “The big occasion is this, Dora—I’m taking the summer off—I’m going to the South Pacific to work on a study with Dr. Maud Hayden. I wanted you to be the first to know—so that you wouldn’t complain that you didn’t have enough time to prepare—when you have to take Mom in.”

  “Orville! Are you out—”

  “Way out, Dora, I’m way out, and you and Vernon are in. Bon voyage, Dora, and a happy Mother’s Day.”

  He lowered the receiver to the cradle, and her tinny scream died in the telephone’s throat.

  His heart ached, but at last he could smile.

  * * *

  After Claire Hayden had filed the carbon copies of the letters to Dr. Orville Pence, Dr. Walter Zegner, Dr. Sam Karpowicz, and Dr. Rachel DeJong, and made copies of the new research that had come in, she and Maud had gone downstairs to have a light lunch with Marc in the kitchen. Afterwards, Marc had returned to his classes, and Claire and Maud had gone up to the study once more.

  Now, at five m
inutes before two o’clock in the afternoon, Claire sat at the typewriter table beside her small desk. She pecked away steadily, transcribing from her shorthand notes a letter to Professor Easterday on practical problems that Maud had dictated earlier. At a paragraph break, she halted, unbuttoned her cashmere sweater, kicked off her flat shoes, and swung to the desk for a cigarette. As she lighted one, she could see Maud on the sofa, absorbed in reading and jotting notes from Radiguet’s Les Derniers Sauvages.

  Marveling at Maud’s ability to concentrate, Claire turned back to her typing. She had just touched the space bar, when the telephone behind the typewriter rang out. She pulled the receiver to her ear, and answered. It was the long-distance operator.

  She listened, and then said, “One moment, please, I’ll get her… . Maud, it’s Los Angeles calling, person to person. Cyrus Hackfeld.”

  Maud bolted from the sofa. “Oh, dear, I hope nothing’s gone wrong about tonight.”

  Claire relinquished the receiver and her chair to Maud, and walked across the room, smoking, listening.

  “Mr. Hackfeld? How are you?” There was the slightest edge of anxiety in Maud’s tone. “I hope nothing’s—”

  Her voice drifted off and she listened at length.

  “Well, I’m so glad you’re coming. Eight will be just fine.”

  Again, she listened.

  “Did you say Rex Garrity? No, I’ve never had the pleasure, but of course, I know about him, everyone knows about him—all those books—”

  With the mention of Garrity’s name, Claire, near the sofa, was more attentive. Now both she and Maud were listening hard.

  Maud was speaking. “Is that all that’s bothering you? Why, you needn’t have called about that. Of course, he can come. We’d be honored to have him. It only means finding another plate. Tell him it’s all absolutely informal—Polynesian style.” She laughed, and waited, and then she inquired, “Of course, Mrs. Hackfeld will be with you? I so look forward to seeing her again. Be sure to tell her the Loomises will be here. I think she enjoys him… . Until this evening, Mr. Hackfeld. We all look forward to it. Good-by.”

  After she had hung up, Maud sat rocking in the swivel chair for a meditative interval. Then she became aware of Claire’s curiosity, and she stood up.

  “He wanted to know if he can bring a guest. Rex Garrity is in his office, and Hackfeld happened to mention The Three Sirens, and Garrity begged to come along.” She paused. “Do you know who Rex Garrity—?”

  “To read him is to hate him,” said Claire cheerfully. “I spent one summer vacation, when I was in high school, reading all of him. I thought he was the most romantic figure alive. When I got to college, I had to reread some of him for a paper I was doing and halfway through I sent out for Dramamine.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nausea induced by motion sickness. Those dreadful, phony, patently staged heroics. Watered-down Richard Halliburton, if one can imagine such a thing. My Adventure Trail—swimming the Suez Canal, climbing Ixtacchihuatl—the Sleeping Woman—to tell her he loved her, a night in King Tut’s Tomb—and what were the others? I remember—On the Heels of Hannibal, hi the Footsteps of Marco Polo, Following the Shadow of Ponce de Leon, In Flight with Lord Byron—what fakery—and with that fan-magazine style surrounded by a forest of exclamation marks.”

  Maud shrugged. “I suppose he has his place—”

  “In the garbage pail.”

  “—after all, they sold by the thousands.”

  “You’re too objective about people,” said Claire. “He and all the rest of those play-acting romantics corrupted a generation with lies. He hid truth about the realities of the world we live in. And I speak as a romantic, you know that.”

  Maud hesitated. “I haven’t read much of him, I admit, but what I did read—I’m inclined to agree with you. Still, he may be a perfectly agreeable dinner companion.”

  “All right, Maud, I’ll give him a chance, too.”

  Maud came thoughtfully to the sofa. “What’s really bothering me is that I might have a hard time speaking to Cyrus Hackfeld alone with this Garrity here—and Lisa Hackfeld, too. I can’t depend on the Loomises to divert them.”

  “You can depend on Marc and me,” said Claire. “You keep Hackfeld behind after dinner, and I’ll do my best with our travel author and Mrs. Hackfeld. In fact, I’m not too worried about Garrity. I’m sure he loves nothing more than to talk about old triumphs. All that worries me—” She looked at Maud. “Lisa Hackfeld is the one I’m concerned about. I don’t know if I’ll be able to connect with her. The only reference I ever heard you make to her was that you considered her frivolous.”

  “Frivolous? Did I say that?”

  “I thought—”

  “Perhaps I did. Well, that was the impression I had. It was unfair of me. Actually, I don’t know her at all.” She shook her head, troubled. “I wish I did now.”

  Until this moment, Claire had not realized the importance Maud was giving to the evening. Claire had somehow believed that if the higher budget Maud wanted was so crucial to the trip, Maud would have gone down to see Hackfeld in his business office. Now Claire perceived that her mother-in-law did not wish to argue the budget in a business arena, where Hackfeld was master and was used to saying no. Maud had wanted the matter served up after dinner, pleasantly as a smooth cognac, in an atmosphere that was mellow and easy, and where the harsh word “no” might be out of place. Understanding this now, and the significance of the larger budget, Claire determined to allay her mother-in-law’s fretfulness.

  “I’m simply not going to worry about tonight any further,” Claire said firmly. “Rich people don’t have to do what they don’t want to do. If Mrs. Hackfeld wasn’t interested in you, and in the project, she wouldn’t be coming all the way up here tonight. That’s a plus, as far as I’m concerned. Maud, I’m confident you can leave her—and Garrity, too—to Marc, with a feeble assist from me.

  Maybe, by the time dinner’s done, we’ll have a line on Lisa Hackfeld—and then we’ll divert like mad.”

  * * *

  At five minutes after five o’clock in the afternoon, Lisa Hackfeld turned her white Continental into the driveway of the vast two-story mansion on Bellagio Road in Bel-Air, and parked inside the carport.

  She hit the horn twice, for Bretta, her personal maid, to come and get several packages from I. Magnin’s that were lying on the leather seat beside her, and then left the car and wearily entered the house. In the vestibule, she removed the silk scarf that had protected her blond hair, dropped it on the French Directoire bench, squirmed out of her full-length leopard coat, and half carried it, half dragged it into the spacious, expensive living room, where she threw it across the arm of the closest chair. Listlessly, she peeled through the mail on the mantelpiece, then wandered to the magazines on the coffee table, and poked at the new Harper’s Bazaar with disinterest. And finally, she moved to the sofa, collapsing on the downy cushions, impatiently waiting for Averil, the butler, to appear.

  In half a minute, Averil appeared with the customary double Martini dry on the small lacquered tray.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am. No calls.”

  “Thanks, Averil.” She accepted the drink. “Just what the doctor ordered.” He began to leave, as she sipped the cool tart drink, and she called after him, “Make it one more in about fifteen minutes. And tell Bretta to draw my bath.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  After he had gone, she drank half of the Martini, recoiling at the first sting of it—so like smelling salts—and then welcoming the liquid invasion through her limbs. It was too soon to make her feel better. She must give the potion time. She revolved the glass between her fingers, hypnotized by the shimmer of the olive, and then she put the glass on the table before her.

  Leaning forward, elbows propped on her knees, she silently rebuked the Martini for lacking the magic to cure her.

  There was no such magic on earth, she knew, and between her temples where it could not b
e seen, she wept. Oh Lord, she wept, Oh Deceiver, you did not tell me it would be like this, you did not tell me it would happen. Yet here it is, she wept. Today, is the last day of Life, and tomorrow begins the long slow torturous descent into Oblivion. Tomorrow, at three minutes after nine o’clock in the morning, the Old One would revise and enter her latest holdings in the Doomsday Book and tomorrow the entry would read: owner of Forty Years.

  Where was the magic to stay tomorrow’s entry? Once you owned forty years of life, the holdings accrued more swiftly, to fifty, to sixty, to too much, so that in the end He took it all away, and you had nothing because you were nothing, and the eraser moved across your name in the Doomsday Book.

  Today had been wasted, Lisa knew, because no matter where she tried to hide, to protect the last, last day of thirty-nine years, she found that the Old One was there, jostling her, toothlessly smiling and waiting at each Samarra.

  She had known, from the moment the filtered sun had touched her eyelids at ten this morning, that the day was doomed and that she was doomed and that she would never be young again. She had known because, after her full awakening, and going into the shower, she had begun to think not of the present day but of all days past, from the earliest memory of her beginnings.

  She had thought of growing up in Omaha, where she had been Lisa Johnson and where her father had owned the hardware store near the Union Stock Yards. She had enjoyed being the prettiest little girl in grammar school, and the most popular young lady in high school, and the youngest actress ever to play a lead in the Omaha Community Playhouse. She had, with little instruction, been the best female singer and dancer, and the most attractive, in the city. Quite naturally, she had gravitated to Hollywood—going with a friend who was also in her early twenties—ready to accept immediate stardom.