“Yes.”
“Are you coming or not?”
“I’m…coming.”
His shoes were on now, and he went to the lowest bureau drawer, fumbled under the clothes there, and pulled out a sharp, thick frenching knife.
He had been a good cook once, lasagna, arroz con pollo, exotic things women seldom made, things men cooked. But he didn’t remember this frenching knife. Had it been there all this time? Did it come by itself to his drawer under his shirts and socks?
The hands took the frenching knife out. The hands found a hiding place for it in his sock and under his garter.
No!
She’s only a parsnip.
No!
She’ll say…things. They’ll hurt.
Yes, but a knife! It’s crazy.
“Hurry, Jay. We ought to leave now.”
Hurry, hurry. Pull the pant leg down, turn the key, open the door. There’s no Rammsey anymore. It’ll be different now.
They came out of the movie and he turned to go home the way that would pass the park. It was she, though, not he, who said, “Let’s stop a minute in the park.”
“All right.” Parks were dangerous. All sorts of people came there at night. But he could protect her. That’s why he had brought the frenching knife. “All right. We’ll go in a ways. There’s a bench I know of.”
They came to the place and sat down. “It was a good movie,” she said.
“Yes.” (What was it about?) He had been thinking about other things, dreaming a dream of his own that he had forgotten already. “Yes, it was a good movie.”
She took a deep breath and leaned back.
“Is it through, with Rammsey?” he asked.
“What do you think?”
“I think it should be through.”
She smiled an odd smile. “Well, since you want it to be.”
Surely she would not mock him now. “I want it.”
He moved closer and put his hand upon the back of her bare neck. She moved away, shrugging him off.
“Are you afraid?”
“Afraid of you? For what?”
She did mock him.
“Afraid of Rammsey perhaps, but not you.”
So Rammsey was the man to be afraid of. Anyway, what did it matter. She was just a parsnip. His hands reached up and took off his glasses and laid them down (where?). He rubbed his eyes and then looked at her. It was true, she was a parsnip with a thick, lined skin, and a tan, musty look.
“You look much better without your glasses. You shouldn’t wear them.”
He could almost see her words, but her mouth was so big that she swallowed them before he had a chance to get their meaning.
Eat up the parsnip. Chew it till it’s tender. Spit it out when there’s nothing left.
No, this is a woman. Find the glasses. Where are they?
“What’s the matter? Are you looking for something?”
“Only my glasses, that’s all.”
“Here they are.”
He saw a thin, snake hand reach out, holding nothing (another torment?) Eve and the apple, but this Eve was a snake offering not even juicy refreshment, offering…nothing.
Then his own lumpy paws came out to the snake hand and he could feel the glasses. The big paws closed tight and tighter.
Stop! He needed the glasses. He had to have them, but the hands kept pressing. He felt the sharp edges, the glass splinters and he saw the stripes of red drip down across the treacherous hands.
“What are you doing, for heaven’s sake?”
What ugly eyes this parsnip had. What a large, unparsnip-like mouth, a cavern lined with sharp white pillars. Better to throttle this parsnip now. Now!
No!
The hands have taken over. There’s nothing for you to do. Stay out of it.
And the knife?
Naked hands on a naked throat are much better.
No!
It’s only a parsnip. It ought to be chewed up.
Did a parsnip make gurgling noise like that?
I feel the melon breasts against my chest.
It’s a parsnip.
No, it’s only a woman, an ignorant, selfish woman whom you (hate?) love.
Stop! The knife.
The knife was for nothing. (The knife was for something.)
He saw the hands were not on her any more. She was breathing now with a strange noise. The hands touched her lightly (Goodbye.)
The knife was for something. Take more than a finger tip this time.
He turned away from her. She couldn’t hear the gasp or see him fall. She would know about it later.
Double-Action Detective, #7, Summer, 1957
You’ll Feel Better…
THE GRINDY perched on the window sill and looked out at the rain pouring down. It cocked its head, bird-like, grinned, and then looked back at the figure stretched out like a corpse on the bed.
“Nice day,” it said. “Beautiful day. It’s raining, but that makes the little flowers grow. Besides, I like rain.”
The shape on the bed rolled over and groaned.
“Seven o’clock,” the Grindy said. “Nice time of day, seven.” It half-flew, half-jumped down to the bedside table. “You’ll feel better, you know, once you get up.”
“Shut up.” Linno’ pulled at his twisted tunic, and half-opened red-rimmed eyes. Something bad, something very bad had happened. He felt it in his stomach, a hard, hot, indigestible knot, the size of an apple.
He squinted at the clock. It was only seven, early for him. Yesterday he had got up at seven too. Yesterday, he thought, yesterday and something bad. Then he remembered, closed his eyes and groaned again. “You were supposed to help,” he told the Grindy.
“I am helping. Everything’s going to be just fine. You’ll see. It takes a little time, that’s all. You mustn’t be impatient:.”
“It’s too late.” Linno slid his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. “Damn fool Grindy, nobody needs you any more. Why don’t you take off? It’s over. It’s been done.”
“I’m what the Doctor ordered,” the Grindy said. “I’m here to help you. You can tell me all about it, you know. I won’t tell a soul. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Why don’t you just relax and tell me all about it? You’ll feel better.”
Linno rose in an unsteady arc; his head hanging forward, his shoulders humped up, feet wide to steady him. He grunted a short syllable of a laugh. “You saw the whole thing, the whole bloody thing,” he said.
He limped across the ‘ room and opened a cupboard door to reveal the kitchen unit, an ancient stove with food burned black on its surface, a small freezer unit under it, a deep sink to one side with dirty dishes in it.
He turned to the coffeepot, opened the lid and stared inside at the inch of coffee left in the bottom.
Then he turned the stove on under it, went back and sat on the bed.
“Lousy weather,” he muttered.
“Damn lousy weather.”
“Oh, it’s not as bad as all that,” the Grindy said cheerfully and grinned.
“That’s what you always say, no matter what it is. Even about that other you say, ‘It’s not as bad as all that.’’’
“Of course it isn’t so bad,” the Grindy said. “Look on the brighter side as I do.”
“What brighter side is that?”
“I’m sure you can find it for yourself if you try. Just try, really try, and you’ll see. I don’t have to tell you.”
Linno got up again and went to get the boiling coffee. He poured it into a cup, sipped at it noisily, burning his lips and tongue.
Burning, burning was what he deserved, he thought. Only the Grindy deserved it too. It was the Grindy that woke him up at seven yesterday and gave him a chance to prepare and get there on time.
Of course he had told it to do it the night before. “Wake me up at seven, Grindy,” he had said. “Wake me up in time to get to her when she’s alone. I’ll show her she can’t play games with me,” and the fo
ol Grindy had done it. It had made possible just what it was supposed to help prevent.
He sipped again and then he put the half empty cup down in the sink on top of the other dirty dishes.
“How long are you going to stay around?” He went back to the bed and lay down again on his back. “Your job’s over. You did just fine. Now I wish to god you’d leave me alone.”
“You didn’t go to see Dr. Morris yesterday. You went to see that girl instead.” The Grindy flew up to the ceiling and perched there, upside down. “Dr. Morris said I would do you good for awhile, make you feel better, and that’s what I’m doing. Anyway, I can’t leave till Dr. Morris tells me to. You know that. Besides, am I so bad, really?”
“God.” Linno shut his eyes. “You were supposed to help and all you did was flutter around and say, ‘That’s fine.’”
“You must remember,” the Grindy said, “that most things turn out all right in the end. All you have to do is wait a bit. The rain goes away; the sun comes; that’s the way life is. Things are never as bad as they seem in the dark moments. We all have our periods of self-doubt and despair. It’s perfectly natural. But you must realize that you’ll feel better soon.” .
“I did that thing yesterday. I did it but of course I’ll feel better about it soon. Things are not’ so bad. They’re just fine, in fact. Just fine.”
“That’s better.” The Grindy walked down the side of the wall to the dresser and perched on the edge of it. “I’m glad to hear you say it that way. We know, you and I, that you’re not a bad sort, really, and whatever you do, it’s never as bad as it seems to you in these low times.”
“You’re talking about murder,” Linno said, “and blood, blood and meat, like in a butcher shop.” His eyes were slits. “I can’t get it out of my mind.” ,
The Grindy hopped down to the bedside table. “Tell me about it,” it said. “It’ll do you good. Why don’t you just tell me all about it.” Its voice was soothing, hypnotic.
“I didn’t really want to do it.” Linno’s face looked blueish against the white sheets. “Or perhaps I did then, only now I don’t. It’s funny, that first part… how I killed her… I don’t even remember. It’s afterwards I can’t forget, but there was no other way to get rid of the body. No other way but to cut it up into hams and hocks and shoulder roasts, wrap it up, and take it out in the basket.”
“You did all right.”
“What?” Linno raised himself on his elbow and stared at the Grindy.
“What did you say?”
“You did fine. Of course, as you say, it was the only way. There was nothing else to do, so you did the right thing. You see that too. It was fine and everything is turning out for the best, like I said it would.”
Linno sat up and leaned his face close to the Grindy. “I killed her,” he said, and banged his fist down inches from the bird-like creature. The Grindy jumped to the wall above the table.
“Now don’t disparage yourself,” it said. “You did the right thing. You admit that. You mustn’t tear yourself apart like this. Of course we all do it sometimes, it’s natural, but you must remember that basically you’re a nice person. Wouldn’t you say that? Think about it now, sincerely, and don’t be influenced by your mood.”
“Nice! Damn nice!” Linno stood up and stretched a hand toward the “Grindy, but it trotted higher, to the edge of the ceiling.
“I think you really ought to see Dr. Morris,” it said. “I’m sure he missed you yesterday. Don’t you think now would’ be a good time to go? He’ll make you feel better about everything.”
“Yes, he’ll make me feel just fine… about everything.” Linno stood on a chair and leaped for the Grindy and then fell to the floor on his knees. He got up, looking in each corner of the ceiling for the Grindy. “You were supposed to make me feel better before it happened. Why didn’t you? Why? Why?”
“Shout if you want to,” the Grindy said from the top of the closet door. “Get it off your,chest, that’s the thing to do.”
Linno sat down on the floor and leaned his back against the bed. “Get if off your chest and forget it,” he muttered. “Forget the whole affair.” His feet stretched limply in front of him, his hands lay palm up.
The Grindy jumped to the floor. Linno kept his eyes on a spot just in front of him.
“I’ve told you,” the Grindy said. “All we have to do is wait a bit. The Rain will stop, the mood will go, and you’ll feel better. Everything’s going to come out all right.” The Grindy hopped closer and Linno turned his legs sideways under him.
“The little blow-off did you good, I think.” The Grindy cocked its head and grinned. It stepped forward five small steps into the spot where Linno was staring. Linno pounced then. There was a flurry of hands and wings and the boing of a broken spring.
“Awk,” screamed the Grindy, just once.
Linno opened his hands and dropped the crushed thing on the floor, a mixture of cogs and bone, wires and blood. He picked up the tag from the leg, fallen to one side. Ego Builder, B 12-25, Psy. Dept., it said.
He kicked at the bird thing. Its mouth still seemed to grin.
“Everything’s not going to be all right,” he said. “Everything’s not fine.” He got his jacket and went to the door. “You made me see that, you crazy bird, but you shouldn’t grin like that about it.”
And he went out to the nearest police station to tell them about the girl in the basket.
The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, July 1957
Two-Step For Six Legs
ON THE BEST of all possible worlds (meaning Chim, of course), in the best of all possible cities (Itchwhittle, naturally), lived Ighfree, purple, and twenty-one rotations old, rotations round the red sun, that is.
Igh was broad in the beam, tall in tentacle, and wide between the eyes, all three of them. Female Itchwhittlians blushed green when they saw him and fluttered their moustaches. Even yellow, female Itchwhittlians did this, though there wasn’t much hope for them as far as Igh was concerned. He was a good boy (in the Itchwhittlian way), and he never went out with anyone that wasn’t a hundred per cent purple, as he himself was. He also loved his mother; and he worshipped whatever it was right to worship, at the right times and on the right days and in the right way; so you can see, he really was a good boy.
Now he was in love with lovely Lish (since yesterday) and he was on his way to see her. He was going to ask her (in the prescribed Itchwhittlian way, naturally. Igh was a good boy) about a “big night.” He even had rings and bangles already and the license, too.
When he got to her door, he squared his hips, took a big breath and stiffened his tentacles. He was only just a tiny bit frightened because Optch would be there and would open the door; and Igh was a good boy, in the Itchwhittlian way.
Of course, Optch opened the door; and all her despicable yellowness came out upon him like shining gold, and made him tremble for fear of being bad. She was broad in the beam, too, and tall in tentacle, and thin in the middle like a female ought to be and that made everything much worse. And the way she behaved was, in the Itchwhittlian way, outrageous, to say the least. She wobbled her six shapely hips; she shimmied and shook and shivered like any Itchwhittlian hussy.
“Glottle,” said Igh to himself, which was “damn” in Itchwhittlian. “One of these days she’s going to get herself in real trouble. I could throttle her myself for that matter. It isn’t as if she were purple, or anything. The law is on my side in such things. I’m a good boy and I can prove it, so she’d better watch out; and besides, her skin doesn’t look one bit like shining gold at all.” He thought all this; but all he did was to give her a haughty look, and all he said was, “Lish, please.”
Optch grinned at the sides and lead him in to Lish at a slow, undulating walk. Then she served them each a glass of H2O and left them alone together. Only as she left, she winked and blinked and brushed a tentacle across Igh’s hip and it made him squirm.
“Glottle,” Igh whispered, and Lish s
aid, “Did you say something, Darling?”
“No, my dear,” Igh said, “it was just that your presence takes my breath away and makes me squirm.”
Then, since they were at last alone, they twined tentacles and gazed into each others’ eyes—all three of his into all three of hers.
And as the H2O began to warm him, Igh grew bolder and twined a tentacle about one of Lish’s hips. “The license,” he murmured, “The rings and bangles, I have them all here for a…a…”
“I know, Darling,” Lish said, “big night. I’ve been suspecting ever since I met you, day before yesterday.”
“This was no great guesswork since any Itchwhittlian male who went out with any Itchwhittlian female twice in succession always went with the idea of a “big night.”
Lish wobbled her six shapely hips, and she shimmied and shook and shivered. And Igh knew then she was the most desirable female in the whole world (meaning Chim, naturally). He loved the way she shimmied and shivered and shimmied; it wasn’t a bit like the way Optch shivered and shimmied, so lewd and all.
“How did you ever guess ‘bit night’” Igh said, and “Do you?”
“I do,” Lish said, as was the custom. “Where are the papers to sign? Will tomorrow night be all right?”
“I do too,” Igh said, “and tomorrow will be fine, just fine.”
As he left her that evening he walked with as sprightly a step as six short legs allowed, and he knew that the world (meaning Chim, of course), was his oyster.
But at that very moment, in a dark cellar in the middle of the dingiest and dankest part of Itchwhittle (if any part of such a beautiful city can be called dingy and dank), there was the sound of laughter. An Itchwhittlian scientist with tangled and twisted tentacles held a vial to the light and watched the gray liquid in it swirl with a purple glint.
“A great joke,” he cried, “a great joke on the whole world (meaning Chim, of course). I’ll show those fools. They wouldn’t believe me; they kicked me out of their schools. Corrupt, they said, a bad influence. Well, now they’ll pay and pay and pay; and their children and children’s children will pay for treating me that way.”
The Collected Stories of Carol Emshwiller, Vol. 1 Page 10
