A Touch of the Creature

by Charles Beaumont

  “You’re not coming through.”

  She ran a hand through her hair. “Okay,” she said, “get ready.” The napkin dropped, shredded. “During the war,” she said, “I was a field worker. I was sent to Italy early in 1944 and I stayed there till 1946. When I joined I was broke; a couple of years later I came out with thirty-five thousand dollars.”

  The man said nothing for a moment; then, “Go on.”

  “You really want me to?”

  “Yes.”

  “At Capri,” the girl said, “there were a few women and a lot of soldiers. A lot of sick, lonely, frightened guys. They’d been on a lot of missions and they knew that in a week or so they’d have to go out on more missions and fly some more and maybe get killed. They were scared, and hungry. They needed—” She sighed and shook her head again. “No; if I’m going to tell it, I might as well tell it straight, the way it was. The truth is, I wasn’t thinking of the poor boys at all. It might have started out that way—I guess it did; I can’t remember—but it turned into something else. I think I was just like a hundred other girls: I saw a good thing and I grabbed at it. Nothing else. I was young and bored. And tired of living like a churchmouse. So I started saying yes to the fellows, and I started accepting their gifts. Fifty dollar gifts, never less, sometimes more.” She stared at the man with the short gray hair.

  He said nothing.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying, Pete? I was a whore. A prostitute. It was a perfect opportunity—away from home, in a strange place where no one knew me. And the servicemen all had pockets full of money—money they couldn’t spend because there was no place to spend it. Capri wasn’t quite the paradise then that it’s supposed to be now. They could work the black market, and they could swing deals—but what good did it do, when they knew they might not live till next week? So they—well, they never resented the fact that I was getting rich. It didn’t matter. Besides—” her voice became hard and steady “—I always gave them their money’s worth.”

  Still the gray-haired man did not speak.

  “I was pretty,” the girl said, harshly, “and young, and American. But I still had to work, because the boys wanted more than just a roll in the hay for their fifty bucks. They wanted love and passion and warmth and sincerity and everything. They wanted an affair. So I obliged. After a while it got to be easy: I just closed my eyes, put on an act, and it went over. It went over with lieutenants and privates and corporals and captains—and even a general, once. They all thought I was mad about them; them alone. Which shows I must have been pretty good at the job, because I almost never even saw what they looked like. Besides, there were so many . . .”

  The man sat rigidly, never moving his eyes from the girl’s face.

  “Not much point in going on with it,” she said.

  “I’d like you to.”

  She looked at the tabletop. “That’s about it. But if you’re waiting for a chance to be noble—I know all about the Allison family’s sense of pride—the Allisons of Boston!—well, forget it. I don’t have any excuses. I regret it, now, of course, Lord yes—but they all regret it some time. Then, I didn’t care much one way or the other, and I went on not caring for a long time. Up until recently, as a matter of fact. When I met you. But—I didn’t hate it or enjoy it or look on it as anything but an easy way to make a quick killing. The risk was small, the hours were short, and I ended up with enough to last six or seven years.”

  She tapped another cigarette loose. “And that’s the whole story. I can almost see your parents falling over with heart attacks! They—what’d you say?—they think I’m such a nice level-headed girl. ‘A credit to our son in his social position!’ I could ease the blow by slipping in a starving old mother or a sister I wanted to put through college, or something—most of them had lines like that—but it just doesn’t happen to be true. Mom and I were poor, all right, but not that poor. Not by a long shot.” She nervously stubbed the cigarette out and continued to stare at the table. “The ending is short. After the war and six months of traveling, I went back home. I cooked up a fancy lie for my mother—something about combat pay, extra duty, that kind of thing—and moved here. We’ve managed to get along ever since.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Just about. When I met you, I realized, I think I saw that never knowing anyone before like Peter Allison was maybe one of the reasons I did it in the first place. I’d never been in love, or close to it. But so what?” Her voice lowered. “I’ve never let a man touch me since then, either; but again, so what? What does it mean? Look, Pete, I’m no good. Right up to tonight I was actually planning to marry you and never say a word about it. Become one of the social set: Mrs. Allison!”

  “And what stopped you?” the man asked.

  “Fear, mostly. Maybe we could have been a happily married couple, just like in the movies. But maybe—well, I see a real beautiful picture. I see us wheeling the babies to church one fine morning a couple of years from now. It’s a nice day and you’ve just been made vice-president or something, because you’re such a nice fellow and you have such a fine respectable family. We pass a man going in the opposite direction, a stranger. We don’t even notice him. But he notices us. He turns around and runs back. And he says, ‘Hey, I’ll be doggoned if it isn’t little Jeannie, the sweetheart of the troops! Remember me, Jeannie, Lieutenant Joe Smith? Remember?’ ” She shuddered visibly. “Anyway, you’d find out eventually. I had an awful lot of customers. One of them would be bound to show up. Any questions?”

  “No,” the man said.

  “Then let’s get out of here.” The girl touched the man’s hand. “I’m sorry, Pete. It was great while it lasted. I’m—sorry.”

  “About telling me?”

  “No, about everything.”

  Suddenly the man smiled. “You love me, Jeannie,” he said.

  “Sure, yes; but so what? What difference could that make? I know you come from a family of ‘gentlemen’ but the noble act won’t work. You’d spend the rest of your life kicking yourself.”

  The man threw back his head and laughed, loudly. Then, abruptly, he stopped. “Jeannie, you’re so very sure of yourself, of the world,” he said. “And so sure you’re going to have to pay for those years . . .”

  “Stop it, Pete.”

  He took her hands and held them tightly. “Not ‘Pete,’ ” he said. “The name’s Smith. Lieutenant Joe Smith. Remember?”

  The girl’s eyes widened.

  He laughed again. “I’m sorry, honey, but it’s true. We’re both a long way from Capri, but I never forgot. You see, you were so busy worrying about your past that you never tried to find out anything about mine. In 1944 I was flying a B-24 in the 15th Air Force. They gave me a week on the island. I was—how’d you say?—sick, lonely and frightened. Somebody told me about a girl who was very nice. I had a bucket of flight pay and nowhere to spend it . . .”

  The girl tried to speak.

  “When you came into the office that time,” the man went on, “I recognized you—right away. I remembered. And that’s one of the reasons I asked Fred to introduce us.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “Nope. I have proof. Incidentally, you’re right: you did do a good job.”

  “Pete—”

  “Now, I figure we ought to have a real simple ceremony. Just a few friends. Then a week in Mexico, and—”

  The woman in the transparent gown appeared out of the darkness. “Is everything all right?” she asked, sweetly.

  The man smiled. “I think so,” he said. “I think you could say that everything’s all right.”

  With the Family

  He waited until all the ice cubes had melted, then he said, “Solly, an exact replica.”

  The bartender, who was Irish but did not resemble a Toby mug, turned from his television set reluctantly. He blinked.

  “On-the-rocks, Mr. Gallagher?”

  “Exactly, if you mean my order. But if you mean my life, well, you’re not far
off there either. On-the-rocks, Solly.”

  Gallagher glanced about the bar, which was deserted with the exception of an unattractive red-head who had fallen asleep. He picked up his wet cigarette and stared at it for a while but, for some reason, that made him feel ill, so instead he watched the bartender’s expert movements with a glass, three round ice cubes and some scotch, unspecified—Gallagher couldn’t tell the difference.

  “Solly,” he said, “do I look like a first class rat to you? If you’ll promise to tell the truth I’ll pay for the next five drinks in advance.”

  The bartender looked at Gallagher, shrugged, decided not to smile and switched off the TV, which featured at the time a wrestling match.

  “No sir, you sure don’t.”

  “Now look, I’ll do the patronizing in this place. Out with it: Do I, or do I not, look to you like a first class rat?”

  The bartender sighed and pulled over a stool and sat down.

  “Okay; on second thought you do, at that.”

  “Ah ha! Well, I’m not. That’s what she’s thinking right now at this very minute, but I’m not. The conclusion is crude and obvious. I’ll tell you a little story, Solly, if your heart is sound and your stomach isn’t weak. Would you like to hear a story, Solly, true-to-life and full of pathos?”

  “Nothing I’d like more,” the bartender said, sighing so hard it created a rumble in his throat. “Just a minute.” He slid open the glass door behind the bar and took from the second shelf a bottle, unmarked: some of the contents of this he poured into a glass, adding water but no ice.

  “All set? A plaintive lament from your infinitely sad strings, Bela. The lights: Turn them down. Now then. Solly, they say if you scratch a bartender you’ll find a cynic. You a cynic?”

  “No.”

  “Excellent. A cynical person might not appreciate the irony of my little fable. But you want facts, not frippery. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Right. Okay. What I’m driving at is this—it would have been different if it was any other Christmas. Any other, you think I’d give a hoot? Not on your life. But this was our first goddamn Christmas, very first! Isn’t there anything sacred in a first Christmas together anymore? Is there to you, Solly?”

  “Every time, Mr. Gallagher.”

  “Bet your boots, Dad. I’m a fair person, I can see three or four sides to any damn question. On the other hand, I’m firm, know what I mean? Firm—not obstinate. Know what the first thing she said was? Told me about that promise I made. Who wouldn’t have? Here we’re only married six lousy months: she asks me would I mind spending Christmas with her folks. Said she’d never spent one away from them and they’d be hurt to tears and would I itsy-bitsy mind. For God’s sakes, what was I going to do—start a big brawl on that little point? Not that I liked the idea, but I figured I’d talk her out of it when the time came, you know? Sure I said yes. All right, I promised, if you want to put it that way. What the hell else could I do?”

  “You done what any man would, Mr. Gallagher. You’re positively right.”

  “Don’t be condescending—at least until you’ve heard the whole story. But first, a restoration job on your masterpiece, this time con amore.”

  The red-head looked up in astonishment, opened her eyes very wide, and went back to sleep. She wore a good leather jacket inscribed FLYIN’ LIONS—Oaklawn, Illinois, and a cotton cap which was fastened to her hair with a hairpin.

  Gallagher took out a cigarette and patted his pockets for his lighter, which wasn’t in any of them, and tried to get the cigarette back into the pack. It wouldn’t go in easily so he said “Damn” and took a light from the bartender.

  “A toast, Solly,” he said, “to all the stupid women in the world who are just plain stupid, and to all the intelligent ones . . . ditto. And a flagon of llama dung on the in-betweens.”

  The bartender folded his towel over the rack and sipped his drink.

  A man and a woman, both dressed formally, came into the bar, looked around and went out again, without speaking.

  “So I said yes. I would have signed a writ if she’d asked me to then, but like she says, so sweetly: ‘I trusted your word, Jack.’ Our first Christmas; first in the world: tonight. This very merry Yuletide night, Solly! Even you haven’t wished me so much as a joyous Noel yet, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes I did, Mr. Gallagher. First thing I said when you came in. I said ‘Merry Christmas.’ But you didn’t answer.”

  Gallagher gasped, affectedly. “What? Unforgiveable! Now you’ll never believe I’m not a first class rat.”

  “Go on with your story. What happened then?”

  “Well, she didn’t mention it until tonight is why I got so sore, I guess. What a thing to spring on me! Hell, man, I’d forgotten all about six months ago and whatever I said then. Know what? I’d planned a surprise: Here’s what it was. I was going to take her out to Ciro’s first for just a few quick ones, then a crinkly Christmas drive out toward the beach. Malibu, Paradise Cove . . . That has a special meaning you’ll be gentleman enough not to ask me about, I hope. But after the drive, we’d go home to our apartment, see, and I had Sam plant the big present, the Saks gown and that beautiful rust-colored overcoat from Bullocks. She didn’t know about these. We’d come back—there’d be the tree, all lit up, and all the presents and a bottle of champagne—Krug, too, damn it, ’27, like in Bemelmans—and we’d open up the presents, hers last, and then—Oh nuts, Solly, it would have been a ball. Perfect. Anne’s not stupid, for God’s sakes—I’d never marry a stupid woman again, not after Nell. Remember Nell, Solly?”

  “Never had the pleasure, Mr. Gallagher.”

  “Neither did I. My first wife. A real dog, believe me, in spades. Anne’s different, though: Class, beauty, all that—but a human being, know that I mean, Solly? A real honest-to-God human being? Why, she’s so human she admitted once she didn’t hate Hollywood. That takes guts.”

  “A lot to be said for a girl’d say that.”

  “Yeah; especially her coming from New York. Know what she said about New York? Listen to this: ‘A dresser drawer full of big white worms couldn’t be more stifling, unhealthy or repugnant.’ How’s that?”

  “Mr. Gallagher,” the bartender said solemnly, “I’d say you’ve got a pretty fine girl for a wife.” He smiled at Gallagher, who smiled back, and they drank considerably, both of them. Then Gallagher frowned.

  “One hell of a way to spend Christmas, ain’t it though? I mean, truthfully speaking for a minute.”

  “From your point of view I’d say it sure is. ’Course, I have mine tomorrow when we’re closed, and you get used to that. What was it, kid—get in a fight with your wife? Because if you did you ought to go and make up. You’ll be sorry. C’mon, little lady’s probably crying her eyes out right this second.”

  “My ass,” Gallagher said, and asked for another drink. “Huh-uh,” he said when he got the drink, “the little lady is at this precise second whooping it up with the most hideous assortment of relatives you could dig up if you tried. Cool bunch of people: How they ever had Anne beats the hell out of me. Take the old man, for instance. Pompous old poop, worth a steady twenty-two five every damn year of the world; high mucky-muck with some traffic agency here. They transferred him to head their L.A. branch: that’s why Anne came. Big man! Wears a moustache that he dyes black and looks like a con man who happened to inherit some loot. And the mother—oh my God. God save us, Solly. I thought her species went out with the duck-billed platypus. Doesn’t like me. Know why? She doesn’t exactly think she exactly­ approves of the advertising business. ‘They’re so unstable, I hear.’ Old bat has a good fifty of her own—but think either one of ’em would help me out a nickel’s worth? When I could have parlayed a stinking ten grand stake into a small fortune? Don’t worry; I’ve met some of the aunts and uncles, too. Brrr.”

  Gallagher shuddered so that the ice cubes rattled in his glass. The bartender looked confused and sympathetic.

&
nbsp; “A motley crew, Solly. Motliest in the world. Gang of starched shirts and bleached girdles and square cats, believe me. And they’re all there, Solly, every last one of ’em. What’s this? Do I detect disbelief in your saturnine features? Marvelous. I knew I came to the right place. Yes, my dearest friend, that is what my wife, Anne, proposed. That is what my wife, Anne, asked—nay, demanded—at five-thirty this afternoon. Today. After my surprise was planned and everything . . .”

  “Don’t seem right. What’d you do, finally?”

  “I hit her in the mouth with a steam iron and then kicked at her prostrate form, of course. Or should have. No; what I did was make an utter ass out of myself. I said no, she said yes, I said absolutely no, she said positively—now, we’d never even quarrelled before this, you understand. Not a peep: the picture of impeccably perfect domesticity. And every other weekend we’d trot over to Westwood and ‘look in’ on Mr. and Mrs. Henderson, too. Never, as I say, Solly, a peep from me about this. It was hell, but I never complained.”

  “That must have gave her ideas. Women for you.”

  “Yeah. You suppose? No. That’s not Anne: she’s too shrewd. That’s why she didn’t mention Christmas until today, either—oh, I’m telling you, the woman’s smart. Thought she’d catch me with my pants down, I’d remember my promise even without her reminding me, and we’d spend a glorious beautiful first Christmas with the family. With the family—oi weh!”

  “So what’d you do after the fight?”

  “Said a few words into the microphone, grinned at the screaming throng and modestly made my way back to the dressing room. That is, here, Solly.”

  The bartender shook his head. “I get it now, Mr. Gallagher. You just skipped out and made the little woman feel terrible and now you’re sorry and want to get with it but you don’t feel you ought to as a man. Isn’t it?” he said.

  Gallagher looked up from his drink. His face contained a number of expressions, none of them cheerful.

  “Solly! They told me barkeeps were all philosophers; but I didn’t know your breed was psychic too! With what simplicity you reduce my problem: like a combination Spinoza, Dunninger, and Eleanor Roosevelt. One correction, however: I’m not so sure I’m sorry. If I am, I’ve got a hunch it’s for myself. Aren’t you at all sorry for me?”