“Give me your pulse,” Myma said. I gave her.
“A hundred fifteen beats a minute?”
“Normal for me. Normal.”
“Something is bothering you, Harold.” Myma sat down on my bed. “Talk to me. I’m a good listener.”
“Nothing,” I said. “Besides, Myma, if your mother walks by and sees you sitting there in your sleepies, what will she think? What?”
Myma got up with her serious face and closed the door. She came back to the bed and stretched herself, her chin propped on elbows. She made herself at home.
“You are suffering,” Myma said. “Don’t deny it.”
“Better you should go,” I said.
Myma was very attractive in those PJ’s. They were sad cotton PJ’s with no class, covered with blue flowers, a thing little girls wear. When she moved they tightened around her breasts, small volcanos. They held her bottom nicely, too. For a slender lady she was well built. That long, lazy body was a winding road.
“Is it your stomach, Harold?” she said.
“No. Yours.”
“Don’t be a glib. Come sit here and talk to me.”
“I can’t move.”
“Why?”
“Don’t be alarmed. Don’t shout. Myma, I’m sitting on an egg. You might as well know. I’m sitting on a large egg.”
“Harold?”
Like a fool I told her everything. Everything. Everything. The dam broke. I was amazed by my own need to confide. Always a loner, I dropped my guard with a thud. That is the danger of human contact. It breeds humanity.
When I finished the tale of the Glak, Myma cried.
“I can’t speak,” she said. “In some ways, this is the most wonderful story I have heard since Rapunzel. Harold, dear Harold, my impulse is to cherish you, to hold you and give you back heat. I know it’s wrong. I know that. I know your work is its own reward, and the thing you are doing for Dr. Hikhoff is beautiful and contained in itself. But I have the impulse to take you to me, to be naked with you, to recharge you with all the sun I stored up on Lake Winnapokie last summer. Bring the egg here. Let me give.”
Am I made of aluminum? Myma, Glak and Harold fell together and again the winter was kept outside.
Even the egg was radiant. If you have never seen a contented, happy, and secure egg, let me tell you it is a fine experience. Dear Myma, half rib-cage, half air, generated fire like a coil. Her nerves practically left her skin. She gave like a sparkler.
Before going to her own room, Myma promised to come regularly, on a schedule, and to help me with my egg and my own thawing. I felt marvelous. I had a friend, a lover, a bed partner interested only in nourishing.
The next morning, I woke rested, nicely sore as after a ball game, restored and ready for anything. I sat on the side of the bed and the egg came toward me. First, it thumped, then jiggled, did a half turn, then rolled right up to my thigh.
“Look,” I said, “enough is enough. Hear me, Glak, I will do my part and take good care, but this rolling stuff has got to stop. I need time for my own pursuits.”
I made a nest for the egg, using the pillow again, and put it under the blanket. Then I went to wash my face, shave, and brush my teeth.
Bright as a penny, tingling with menthol, on the way back to my room, I heard what sounded like the Great Sneeze.
It was Cynthia who stood, blowing into a handkerchief, in my room, at my bed, holding my blanket, looking at my egg. She was wearing a quilted housecoat over her nightgown, her long hair tumbled down, her dark face darker than usual.
“Harold,” she said, “we have something to talk about.”
“What are you doing home?” I said.
“I have a cold.”
“Where’s your mother? It’s drafty in here.”
“Harold, why is there an egg in your bed?”
“I didn’t lay it, if that’s what you think.”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“Look, Cyn, your father is a plumber, he’s got a plunger. I’m in science. I have an egg. There’s a perfectly logical explanation.”
Hearing my voice the egg began to turn circles. That’s one smart, responsive Glak, I thought, but the incident shook Cynthia, she so young, and she cried like her sister, only wetter.
“Oh, don’t weep,” I said. “Please.”
“A man shouldn’t sleep with an egg.”
“There’s a quote from the Old Testament. Who are you to judge me?
“It’s perverse. When ma hears about what’s going on in this house. …”
“Cyn, why, oh why should ma or pa or any lady be involved. Cyn, older people get nervous about such things. They think right away suppose it hatches and is some kind of nutty meat-eater. Cyn, please, this whole expisode demands silence. If you’ve ever kept your cool, keep it now.”
“It’s wrong for a man to sleep with a big egg.”
Standing there, she manufactured commandments. It was informative to watch her, though. She breathed in heaves. Clouds practically formed over her head. Her toes nearly smoked. So totally involved, so passionate, she was different by more than chromosomes from Myma. Plumber blood shot through her pipes. Her valves hissed. You could see needles rise on gauges and warning lights flash.
I had to tell her something. You owe it to your audience. Myma had the whole truth. It seemed somehow disloyal to tell Cynthia the same story.
“Cyn, this egg is my responsibility. A lot of lives depend on what happens in this room. Because this egg is no ordinary egg. It is an egg found in the wreckage of a strange and unidentified crashed aircraft, a UFO.”
“Harold, stop.”
“Cyn, on my heart. Probably the whole thing is nothing, a hoax. Maybe there really is a big chicken in there. I may even be a control.”
“Control?”
“There are 42 agents like myself in 42 rooms with 42 eggs like this. None of us knows if he has the space-egg. To throw off the competition, Cyn. Standard procedure. The point is, this egg may just be the one. The thing.”
“The thing?”
“Cyn, you have got to keep this to yourself.”
“A thing in our house?”
“A nice thing. A vegetarian. We know that much by tests. Lettuce, carrots, parsley, like that. By computer calculations, a furry, sweet kind of beast like a rabbit. A bunny. Nice.”
“Beast? Why did you use the word beast?”
“Well, a furry bunny is a beast, Cyn. It’s still a beast.” “I don’t know what to say.”
“Nothing. Go about your business.”
“How come our house?”
“IBM selected. Strictly impersonal from a juggle of IBM cards with punched classified ads. Out of the way. Small city. Quiet. Unlikely discovery. IBM didn’t figure on you, Cyn. I mean, it’s obvious if this got out there could be panic.”
“Harold, I do not believe you. And to me what matters is what I know, which is that you personally are sleeping with a lousy egg while youth flies.”
“Where does youth come in? And what do you know about youth? You’re too young to know beans about youth.”
“Look at me. Do you see the bags under each eye? Do you know how sleepless I have been for a month because of you in this house?”
“Me?”
“Yes. And now you tell me about lettuce-eaters from the movies. I don’t want to know anything, Harold. I hate you and I hate your thing.”
The egg rolled again. Cynthia could not contain herself. She grabbed a dust pan and began to swing. I got my hand under the flat part just in time. She would have splattered my Glak all over the neighborhood.
We struggled and it was not all violence. We tangled as people do, and it came to pass that Cyn ended up with her back to me, my arms around her front, and she threw back her head so I drowned in perfumed black hair. She was a buttery girl, a pillow, who gave where squeezed but popped right back to shape. Now she stopped the battle and cried again. I turned her and comforted her. What could I do? Send her out
yelling?
As we fell together onto the sturdy bed (it was maple), Cynthia tried to crunch the egg with a leg this time. I thwarted her, then put the Glak on the floor where it jumped like a madman.
Love was made that morning.
“Harold,” she said near noon, at which time her mother was expected from the supermarket, “I don’t care who or what you are. All I care about is that I come first and not some turkey from Mars.”
“OK, Cyn, my honor. And the egg business is between us.”
“Don’t say between us. I’ll break the bastard if you ever so much as pat it in my presence.”
“I didn’t mean between us, I meant between-us. Hush-a-bye. Our business.”
“Hush-a-bye yourself. Make me sleepy again.”
Within an hour I had swollen glands. They were heaven’s gift. I would have preferred measles or mumps, but the glands would do. I needed time and Cynthia’s cold, a splendid virus that made me sweat, chill and shake, gave me time.
With Myma offering fire, with Cynthia openly hostile, competing for egg-time, and me being only one human being, I needed time, time, time.
I refused to recover. But my illness did not protect me. The sisters were stirred by helplessness. The nights were much. First Myma would come and soon fall asleep. I pulled blankets over her. Cynthia liked the bed’s far side. She blew fire in my ear. One Fonkle slept; another awoke until the weest hours. I was destroyed.
I had nothing left for the Glak. I was spent, an icicle, so cold and uncaring I could have sunk the Titanic. The Glak lept in deprivation and threw covers on the floor.
“Harold,” Mrs. Fonkle said to me one gray morning soon after, “something is going on.”
“What?” I said weakly, coughing a lot.
“A woman with daughters is a woman with all eyes. And such daughters. I think they like you, Harold.”
“Fine ladies,” I said. “Cute as buttons.” I put a thermometer in my mouth, which was not even oral, to prevent further speech.
“And my intuition tells me, Harold, you like them. But them is not Myma and them is not Cynthia. You follow my mind? Harold, your blanket is shaking. Are you all right?”
“Mmmm.” I tried to hold down the egg with my hand.
“What is life but decisions,” Mrs. Fonkle said. “A time for fun and games, a time for decisions.”
I was expecting this inevitable confrontation and prepared. With the thermometer still plugged in, I dived, without warning, under the pillow. I howled. There, in readiness, was a can of Foamy. I squirted the Foamy around my whole head, mouth, face, eyes, and hair. To cancel the whoosh of the lather, I yelled like an owl. Then up I came like a sub, from the depths of the Sea of Despair. Mrs. Fonkle was torpedoed.
My wet white face, waving arms, kicking feet, jumping quilt, had a fine effect. A cargo ship by nature, hit on her water line, Mrs. Fonkle slid slowly under waves without time for an SOS.
After carrying her to her room and leaving her on her bed with a wet rag on her forehead, I went back to my own room. My thermometer was on the floor, its arrow touching the silver line at normal. I quick-lit a Pall Mall and heated the mercury drop. At 104.6 I was happy and left it in a prominent place, wiped myself clean, got back in the bed and awaited commotion.
Should all the air raid sirens and dystrophy ads and cancer warnings we go through be wasted, a total loss? How much has society spent to keep you alert, Harold North, pumping adrenalin, listening for vampires? Use your training. Deal with challenge. I lay there waiting for my next idea.
Coma. A beautiful word, and my answer. Coma.
When I heard Mrs. Fonkle rise finally, I put myself into a coma. In a self-created and lovely blue funk I lay there, smiling like Mona Lisa, stroking my egg.
Naturally enough, she called the doctor.
“And the blanket was jumping during all this?”
“Like a handball. …”
I heard them in the hall. Mrs. Fonkle came with him to my room. I stayed in my coma while the doctor stuck pins, took blood, gave needles, checked pressure.
Later, in a miserable mood, Mrs. Fonkle stormed back alone, pulled at my blanket while I pulled back, and she said I was a cheat, a malingerer, a fraud, a leecher.
“Dr. Zipper says nothing is wrong with you. Not even athlete’s foot.”
I never would have given Zipper the credit. He actually found me out.
“So, Mr. North, name the game.”
“Darling,” I said, “darling, darling and darling.” I planted a kiss on Mrs. Fonkle’s thyroid. “I hope you are on the pill,” I said. “I hope at least you took precautions.” I looked lovingly at her while her eyes rolled, a slot machine making jackpots.
“You never did,” she said.
“I didn’t. We did.”
“It never happened.”
“Old speedy,” I said. “When again? Tell me. Come on. Tell.”
“It never happened.”
“They’re not kidding when they say like mama used to make,” I said.
“Pig,” she said. “An unconscious lady.”
How I hated myself. If I could, I would lay down on spikes, I thought. Well, maybe something in her will be flattered. Maybe she will feel good that a young man was inspired to do her some mayhem. Let her think of me as a crumb, a nibble, a K ration on the road to social security.
It was Myma who brought supper on a tray.
“Harold,” she said. “I have thought you over. In your present weakened condition this egg business is too much for you. Psychologically, I mean. You have got to think of keeping for yourself, not of giving. Darling, we are all so worried. Even mama is in a state of distraction. She served daddy three portions of liver tonight. You have got to get well. Let me take the egg. I will keep it cozy while you recuperate. Let me take it to my room, at least for the nights. Harold, please say yes.”
Why not? If Myma, who had embers to waste, said she would care for the Glak, she would care for it. This was a trustworthy lady. And my blanket would no longer bounce.
“I agree,” I said. “Thank you, dear one. Thank you.”
Myma beamed. Then and there she took the box, put back the angry egg, and carried it to her bedroom. Transporting the bundle she hummed a lullabye.
“Now,” she said, removing my empty tray, “use all your energies to heal. Save everything like a miser until you are better.”
“I will save,” I said, nearly crying from good feeling.
To do her duty, Myma retired early, even eagerly. I think for the first time in her life she locked her door. When the house settled down, Myma asleep, the Fonkles watching television, Cynthia came with dessert.
“Hello, Jello,” she said.
“Hello jello to you, angel.”
“Harold, I have had some second thoughts.”
“At this late date?”
“Harold, that stinking egg has got to go. It’s draining your strength. Government or not, I am going to bust it to pieces. I never liked it, but I lived with it. But when the time comes, that the egg hurts you and keeps you from total recovery, then it’s time for a change. I want your permission to smash that egg because permission or not here I come.”
“Let me think on it.”
“Think fast. You know me. The first minute I catch you with your eyes closed—splat.”
“I‘11 think fast. I must weigh personal gain against my sworn… .”
“I have stated my intention, Harold.”
I thought fast. Not bad. Why not let Cynthia eliminate the egg, at least, some egg. It would remove her desperation, apprehension and combativeness. Not to mention her curiosity if she ever discovered that the Glak was already gone.
After doing with my jello what I have always done, that is, slicing around the cup and putting the saucer over it and turning the whole thing upside down so that the jello comes out like a ruby hill, Cynthia removed the dishes.
“I am going to the movies,” she said. “Have your mind made up, Harold, by th
e time I get back. And by the way, you eat jello in the most disgusting sensual manner. I’m dying to be with you.”
I kissed her nose.
What a marvelous family. Even Mr. Fonkle was roaring with laughter downstairs, so happy with the “Beverly Hillbillies.”
The TV which occupied Mr. and Mrs. Fonkle with slices of flickering life was in the living room. The living room was removed by a dining room from the kitchen.
On the balls of my feet, I went down and slipped into the control center of the house. There I opened the fridge and removed three eggs. Why three? Cynthia knew the egg of the Glak was big. In fact, by then it had swelled to the size of a small football. Big eggs make big splashes.
I tiptoed upstairs walking in my own footprints. In the room I took scotch tape strips from the dresser drawers where they held paper to the wood. With what glue was left I pasted two eggs together. Praise be, there was only enough tape for a pair. I cut my pinky with a blade and speckled the pasted eggs with A-positive. There was enough left, before clotting, to dot the third too.
I waited with my egg bomb under the blanket in the Glak’s former place. The third egg went under my pillow on an impulse.
The arrival of the specialist surprised me. Mr. Fonkle showed him in.
“Harold,” Mr. Fonkle said, “this is Doctor Bim. Doctor Zipper called him in for consultation. It seems you are a puzzling case, a phenomenon to medicine.”
Dr. Bim nodded. I replied in kind. If Zipper was sure I was faking, why this? Playing safe against malpractice, I thought, and I looked to my Hikhoff for confirmation.
“Feel well, Harold,” Mr. Fonkle said. “We’re in the middle of a hot drama. Excuse me.”
Dr. Bim went to wash his hands, then came back and closed the door. After drying, he put on white cotton gloves.
“I never saw a doctor do that,” I said.
“We all have our ways,” he said. “Now to work.”
Dr. Bim pounded me with hands like hammers.
“Now, close your eyes and open your mouth,” he said. I closed hard and opened wide.
“When I tell you, Harold, then look. Not before. Depress the tongue. Hooey, what a coat.”
“Aghh.”
“Keep the eyes closed.”
Smart Dragons, Foolish Elves Page 7
