by Kit Reed
Until the day he made his biggest deal. His employer had sent him to lunch with Quincy, the company’s biggest customer, with instructions to sell him sixteen gross.
“Quincy,” Benedict said, “you need twenty gross.” They were sitting in a tiger-striped banquette in an expensive restaurant. Quincy, a huge, choleric man, would have terrified him a month before.
“You’ve got your nerve,” Quincy blustered. “What makes you think I want twenty gross?”
“ …”
For a second, Benedict retreated. Then the tiger-striping touched a chord in him and he snapped forward. “Of course you don’t want twenty gross,” he rumbled. “You need them.”
Quincy bought thirty gross. Benedict was promoted to general manager.
With his new title resting lightly on his shoulders, he gave himself the rest of the afternoon off. He was springing toward the door on cat feet when he was interrupted in mid-flight by an unexpected silky sound. “Well, Madeline,” he said.
The secretary, dark, silk-skinned, unapproachable until now, had come up beside him. She seemed to be trying to tell him something—something inviting.
On impulse, he said, “You’re coming to dinner with me tonight, Madeline.”
Her voice was like velvet. “I have a date, Eddy—my rich uncle is in town.”
He snorted. “The—uh—uncle who gave you that mink? I’ve seen him. He’s too fat,” and he added in a growl that dissolved her, “I’ll be at your place at eight.”
“Why, Eddy! … All right.” She looked up through furred lashes. “But I should warn you. I am not an inexpensive girl.”
“You’ll cook dinner of course—then we may do the town.” He patted his wallet pocket, and then nipped her ear. “Have steak.”
As he rummaged in his sock drawer that night his hand hit something hard, and he pulled it out with a crawly, sinking feeling. The microphone—somehow he’d forgotten it this morning. It must have fallen in among his socks while he was dressing, and he’d been without it all day. All day. He picked it up, shaky with relief, and started to slip it into his tuxedo. Then he paused, thinking. Carefully he set it back in the drawer and shut it away. He didn’t need it any more. He was the tiger now.
That night, still rosy with drink and the heady sounds of music and Madeline’s breath coming and going in his ear, he went to bed without undressing and slept until it got light. When he woke and padded into the living room in his socks he saw Ben in the corner, diminished somehow, watching him. He had forgotten their run.
“Sorry old fellow,” he said as he left for work, giving the tiger a regretful pat.
And, “Got to hustle,” the next day, with a cursory caress. “I’m taking Madeline shopping.”
As the days went by and Benedict saw more and more of the girl, he forgot to apologize. And the tiger remained motionless in the corner as he came and went, reproaching him.
Benedict bought Madeline an Oleg Cassini.
In the corner of the living room, a fine dust began to settle on Ben’s fur.
Benedict bought Madeline a diamond bracelet.
In the corner, a colony of moths found its way into the heavy fur on Ben’s breast.
Benedict and Madeline went to Nassau for a week. They stopped at an auto dealer’s on the way back and Benedict bought Madeline a Jaguar.
The composition at the roots of Ben’s alert nylon whiskers had begun to give. They sagged, and one or two fell.
It was in the cab, on his way home from Madeline’s apartment, that Benedict examined his checkbook carefully for the first time. The trip and the down payment on the car had brought his accounts to zero. And there was a payment due on the bracelet the next day. But what did it matter? He shrugged. He was a man of power. At the door he wrote the cabbie a check, grandly adding an extra five dollars to the tip. Then he went upstairs, pausing briefly to examine his tan in a mirror, and went to bed.
He awoke at three a.m., prey to the shadows and the time of day, uneasy for the first time, and in the cold light of his bed lamp, went through his accounts again. There was less money than he realized—he had to get to the bank to cover that check for the cabbie, or the down payment on the Jag would bounce. But he’d written a check for the last installment on the bracelet, and that would be coming in, and the rent was overdue …
He had to have money now. He sat in bed with his knees drawn up, musing, and as he thought he remembered the woman he and Ben had frightened that first day, and the money in her purse, and it came to him that he would get the money in the park. He remembered rushing down on the woman, her scream, and in memory that first accidental escapade with the tiger became a daring daylight robbery; hadn’t he spent the money? And as he thought back on it he decided to try it again, already forgetting that the tiger had been with him and, in fact, forgetting as he slipped into a striped shirt and tied a kerchief at his throat, forgetting that he was not the tiger, so that he went out without even seeing Ben in the corner, running in low, long strides along side streets and back alleys, hurrying to the park.
It was still dark in the park and he paced the walks, light-footed as a cat, expanding in a sense of power as he stalked. A dark figure came through the gates—his prey—and he growled a little, chuckling as he recognized her, the same sad woman—afraid of a tiger—and he growled again, running toward her, thinking, as he bore down on her, I will frighten her again.
“Hey!” she yelled as he rushed at her, and he broke stride because she hadn’t shrunk from him in terror; she was standing her ground, feet set wide, swinging her handbag.
Eyeing the pocketbook, he circled her and made another rush.
“Hand it over,” he snarled.
“I beg your pardon,” she said coldly, and when he rushed at her with another growl, “What’s the matter with you?”
“The pocketbook,” he said menacingly, hair bristling.
“Oh, the pocketbook.” Abruptly, she lifted the purse and hit him on the head.
Startled, he staggered back, and before he could collect himself for another lunge, she had turned with an indignant snort and started out of the park.
It was too light now to look for another victim. He peeled off the sweatshirt and went out of the park in his shirtsleeves, walking slowly, puzzled over the aborted robbery. He was still brooding as he went into a nearby coffee shop for breakfast, and he worried over it as he ate his Texas steak. The snarl hadn’t been quite right, he decided finally, and he straightened his tie and went too early to work.
“The Jaguar dealer called me,” Madeline said when she came in an hour later. “Your check bounced.”
“Oh?” Something in her eyes kept him from making anything of it. “Oh,” he said mildly. “I’ll take care of it.”
“You’d better,” she said. Her eyes were cold.
Ordinarily he would take this opportunity—before anyone else came in—to bite her on the neck, but this morning she seemed so distant (he decided that it was because he hadn’t shaved) that he went back to his office instead, scowling over several columns of figures on a lined pad.
“It looks bad,” he murmured. “I need a raise.”
His employer’s name was John Gilfoyle—Mr. Gilfoyle, or Sir, to most of his employees. Benedict had learned early that the use of the initials rattled him, and he used them to put himself at an advantage.
Perhaps because he was off his feed that morning, perhaps because Benedict had forgotten his coat, Gilfoyle didn’t even blink. “No time for that now,” he snapped.
“You don’t seem to understand.” Benedict filled his chest and paced the rug in front of the conference desk softly, still the tiger, but noting uneasily that his shoes were muddy from the fiasco in the park. “I want more money.”
“Not today, Benedict.”
“I could get twice as much elsewhere,” Benedict said. He bored in as he always did but there seemed to be a flaw in his attitude (perhaps he was a bit hoarse from running in the early morning air), because
Gilfoyle, instead of rising with an offer, as he always did, said, “You don’t look very snappy this morning, Benedict. Not like a company man.”
“ … The Welchel Works offered me …” Benedict was saying.
“Then why don’t you go to the Welchel Works.” Gilfoyle slapped his desk, annoyed.
“You need me,” Benedict said. He stuck out his jaw as always, but the failure in the park had left him more shaken than he realized, and he must have said it in the wrong way,
“I don’t need you,” Gilfoyle barked. “Get out of here or I may decide I don’t even want you.”
“You …” Benedict began.
“Get out!”
“Y—yessir.” Unnerved, he backed out of the office.
In the corridor, he bumped into Madeline.
“About that down payment,” she said.
“I—I’ll tend to it. If I can just come over …”
“Not tonight,” she sniffed. She seemed to sense a change in him. “I’m going to be a little busy.”
He was too shattered to protest.
Back at his desk, he mulled over and over the figures in his notebook. At lunch he stayed in his chair, absently stroking his paperweight, a tiger-striped lump he had bought in palmier days, and as he stroked it he thought of Ben. For the first time in several weeks he dwelled on the tiger, unexpectedly, overwhelmingly homesick for him. He sat out the rest of the afternoon in misery, too unsure of himself now to leave the office before the clock told him it was time. As soon as he could he left, taking a cab with a five-spot he had found in a lower drawer, thinking all the time that at least the tiger would never desert him, that it would be good to take Ben out again, comforting to run with his old friend in the park.
Forgetting the elevator, he raced up the stairs and into his living room, stopping only to switch on a small lamp by the door. “Ben,” he said, and threw his arms around the tiger’s neck. Then he went into his bedroom and hunted up the microphone. He found it in his closet, under a pile of dirty underwear.
It took the tiger a long time to get to his feet. His right eye was so dim now that Benedict could hardly see by it. The light behind the left eye had gone out. When his master called him to the door he moved slowly, and as he came into the lamplight, Benedict, gulping, saw why.
Ben’s tail was lashing only feebly, and his eyes were dimmed with dust. His coat had lost its luster, and the mechanism that moved him in response to Benedict’s commands had stiffened with disuse. The proud silver ruff was yellow, spotted here and there where the moths had eaten it too close. Moving rustily, the tiger pressed his head against Benedict.
“Hey, fella,” Benedict said with a lump in his throat. “Hey. Tell you what,” he said, stroking the thinning fur, “soon as it’s late enough we’ll go out to the park. A little fresh air—” he said, voice breaking, “—fresh air’ll put the spring back in you.” With an empty feeling that belied his words, he settled himself on the couch to wait. As the tiger drew near, he took one of his silver-backed brushes and began brushing the tiger’s lifeless coat. The fur came out in patches, adhering to soft bristles, and saddened, Benedict put the brush aside. “It’ll be OK, fella,” he said, stroking the tiger’s head to reassure himself. For a moment Ben’s eyes picked up the glow from the lamp, and Benedict tried to tell himself they had already begun to grow brighter.
“It’s time,” Benedict said. “C’mon, Ben.” He started out the door and down the hall, going slowly. The tiger followed him creakily, and they began the painful trip to the park.
Several minutes later the park gates loomed reassuringly, and Benedict pushed on, sure, somehow, that once the tiger was within their shelter his strength would begin to return. And it seemed true at first, because the darkness braced the tiger in some gentle way, and he started off springily when Benedict turned to him and said, “Let’s go.”
Benedict ran a few long, mad steps, telling himself the tiger was right behind him and then slowed, pacing the tiger, because he realized now that if he ran at full strength Ben would never be able to keep up with him. He went at a respectable lope for some distance, and the tiger managed to keep up, but then he found himself going slower and slower as the tiger, trying gallantly, moved his soft feet in the travesty of a run.
Finally Benedict went to a bench and called him back, head lowered so the tiger wouldn’t see he was almost crying.
“Ben,” he said, “forgive me.”
The big head nudged him and as Benedict turned, the faint light from the one good eye illumined his face. Ben seemed to comprehend his expression, because he touched Benedict’s knee with one paw, looking at him soulfully with his brave blind eye. Then he flexed his body and drew it under him in a semblance of his own powerful grace and set off at a run, heading for the artificial lake. The tiger looked back once and made an extra little bound, as if to show Benedict that he was his old self now, that there was nothing to forgive, and launched himself in a leap across the lake. He started splendidly but it was too late—the mechanism had been unused for too long now, and just as he was airborne it failed him and the proud, flying body stiffened in midair and dropped, rigid, into the lake.
When he could see well enough to make his way to the lake Ben went forward, grinding tears from his eyes. Dust—a few hairs—floated on the surface, but that was all. Thoughtfully, Benedict took the microphone from his pocket and dropped it in the lake. He stood, watching the lake until the first light of morning came raggedly through the trees. He was in no hurry because he knew without being told that he was finished at the office. He would probably have to sell the new wardrobe, the silver brushes, to meet his debts, but he was not particularly concerned. It seemed appropriate, now, that he should be left with nothing.
—The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, 1964
Wherein We Enter the Museum
Spike D’Arthenay
Outstanding, we’re the first ones in.
Until today, only authorized personnel made it through the electrified gates to the Museum—builders, painters, plumbers and electricians, tech support and curators. Next month the hundred galleries open for the great American public to look on the works of the mighty and admire.
If the public wants to come.
Today there’s nobody here but us. They want us going in all tabula rasa, with nobody around to get between us and The Donor’s intentions. Like we’re his special, expensive, living crash test dummies or the canaries that they drop into mines to test the air. If we come back dead, will he put off the Grand Opening another year?
Stupid gig, but for people like us, success hangs on stupid things. The Donor is intolerably rich and seriously connected. He says who gets remembered here, and who ends on the Remainders heap. Do this right and we get our own pedestals. Or our portrait in the ’Oughties hall. Worst-case scenario: a footnote on The Wall of Fame.
In a business built on making something out of nothing, you travel on hope. You hope you can do it, hope it’s good, hope to God somebody will take it and you’ll get paid, reviewed. Remembered. It’s about making it. It’s always about making it, but.
Through every gallery in this place? Out alive?
Too soon to tell.
We don’t have long. In today, out by Thursday, and the marble monster crouching on the hilltop is enormous. You could land a Learjet on that roof, and on the facade … Holy crap. The facade.
Bronze block letters stomp across the marble, shouting:
THE MUSEUM OF GREAT AMERICAN WRITERS
Gasping, Charlee gropes for my hand, but I’m too wild and distracted to grope back.
Stan yips like a virgin interruptus, and somebody—Melanie?—goes, “Wow.”
One of us—me?—says, “It’s so big.” Thinking: we are so small.
Stan glares, thinking whatever Stan thinks.
“All for one.” Charlee’s voice flutters up. “Right?”
“As if!” In those wide boots, Mel looks like a castaway raised by pirates.
Tough girl, she races Stan up the steps and hammers on the bell. I’m not the only one thinking, me, me!
Electronically controlled from somewhere, the bronze doors swing wide.
Mr. Me-First muscles past. “Onward and upward with the fucking arts.”
Our ears pop as the doors snap shut behind us like the doors to a new Rolls-Royce. Charlee says into the hush, “We’re here,” but we are neither here nor there.
With one exception, all the doors leading out of the Rotunda are locked but one. That one, we are avoiding. For reasons. We’re stranded until the docent brings the keys, four wannabes eddying around a mammoth bronze.
The craggy hulk dominates the Rotunda like the centerpiece at an A-list banquet, too bad we’re not invited. It’s just like the Iwo Jima Memorial but bigger, and those aren’t Marines struggling to raise the flag. This sculptor put Thoreau and Emerson and Hawthorne and Louisa May Alcott up there, struggling with the flagpole; the rockets’ red glare turns out to be a light show in the dome and, Right. The flag lights up as we approach.
Stan says, “THE TRANSCENDENTALISTS, how over are they?” and frankly, he has a point.
All the statues in niches ringing the Rotunda are of people like that, as in, long dead and too gone to be competition: Theodore Dreiser and Willa Cather and Richard Wright, along with Frank Norris; so, what did he write? Plus Margaret Mitchell that we all know about but face it, she’s dead, and a bunch of others I’ve never heard of, as well as Michael Wigglesworth who, in the posterity sweepstakes, is not what you would call a threat, so, in my career? No problem.
Every museum has to make its manners to the past, but face it. Who cares which hairy old scribblers mattered back in the pen-and-ink days before we had Twitter so everybody knew?
Mel backs off to take a screen shot of the bronze to post at TwitPic, gropes for her phone and smacks her head: DOH! They took our electronics at the checkpoint. The Committee sent us in here with nothing but a floor plan: no equipment, no flashlights, no walkie-talkies or signal flares, not even a ball of string or bag of Goldfish or a Post-it pad to mark our trail in this or any other part of the forest. Which, until they bring the keys, is immaterial.
