Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “Yes, my dear,” Mr. Rewbarb sighed meekly.

  “Very good. Now no more of this nonsense about talking to the radio. I thought I had you broken of your silly habits. I see you still need a firm hand now and then. I have been altogether too lenient.”

  Having thus concluded her sermon for the day, Mrs. Rewbarb strode majestically from the room.

  Mr. Rewbarb remained where he had been standing a strange puzzled look on his face.

  “Losing my wits,” he muttered, “that’s what she said.”

  He glanced down indecisively at the radio and then he snapped his fingers. “Maybe I’d better find out,” he muttered.

  THE tall, white-haired neuro-psychiatrist was very kind and understanding. He clucked his tongue several times after Mr. Rewbarb had finished speaking, and then he ran a lean hand through his hair.

  “So the radio talked back to you, did it?” he asked pleasantly. “Not an entirely unusual phenomenon at that.” His voice was as soothing as syrup and Mr. Rewbarb felt his fears smoothing away under the gentle effects of this melifluous voice. He was thankful that he had decided to consult a psychiatrist that same evening. Jennifer probably wondered where he had gone, and would probably raise cain when he got back but that was all right.

  “So it’s nothing to worry about, then?” he asked hopefully.

  The psychiatrist looked Mr. Rewbarb over carefully.

  “No,” he said, “it won’t help you to be worrying about it. But don’t talk out loud to the radio. Just think the things you’d like to say. Then when the radio talks back to you just ignore it.”

  Mr. Rewbarb was not quite as foolish as he looked.

  “You don’t believe me,” he said excitedly. “I can tell. You think this is all an hallucination or something. Well I tell you it isn’t. It actually happened just like I told you.”

  Mr. Rewbarb stood up and took his hat.

  “Good day,” he said with stiff dignity.

  The Doctor shook his head as the door slammed behind Mr, Rewbarb.

  “Memo this,” he said to his secretary. “Get in touch with Mrs. Jennifer Rewbarb at earliest convenience. In regards husband . . .

  AFTER his unsatisfactory visit to the Doctor, Mr. Rewbarb returned home and went to bed. The radio had nothing more to say to him, but his wife had plenty to say. Mr. Rewbarb lay in bed still stinging under the lash of her caustic tongue. But even more upsetting than this was the predicament he found himself in, in regard to his animated or wilful radio. Till the wee small hours Mr. Rewbarb writhed and tossed, his mind a seething cauldron of hopes and fears and misery. Then finally exhausted by his frantic worryings, he dropped into a fitful sleep.

  THE NEXT morning Mr. Rewbarb dusted the floors and ran the vacuum cleaner over the rugs until almost noon. Then his wife gave him instructions for the day.

  “The girls will be here any minute,” she said firmly, “and I want you to come in and say hello to them when they arrive. Stay only a minute or so and then leave, change your trousers and carry out the ashes. And by the way, Mr. Click phoned earlier this morning to say he’d drop by this afternoon to see you in regard to some office matters. You haven’t forgotten that he’s coming to dinner tonight, have you?”

  “No,” Mr. Rewbarb said dismally. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  The shrill ring of the front door bell interrupted them.

  “It must be the girls,” Mrs. Rewbarb said as she left the room to answer the door.

  Mr. Rewbarb left to himself in the dining room contemplated his existence mournfully. What was he? A lackey, a housemaid, a subservient wretch bossed about by even the radio!

  These gloomy musings continued for a half hour or so until Mr. Rewbarb heard the shrill cackles that indicated the progress of the bridge game.

  He rose then, and with the bearing of an early Christian martyr entering a lion-filled arena, he walked in to greet the “girls.”

  The “girls” were, for the most part, heavy-duty matrons, cast in the same mold as Mrs. Rewbarb. They played bridge in a savage silence, punctuated occasionally by shrill cacophonic cries of triumph or venomous whispers of dissatisfaction. Their devotion to the game and its attendant gossip was almost passionate.

  It was into this tense nervous atmosphere that Mr. Rewbarb intruded. Several of the women bestowed polite smiles upon him and turned back to their cards with feverish absorption.

  Mr. Rewbarb had composed a rather clever quip to herald his entrance, but as he opened his mouth to deliver the little gem, an angry masculine voice said:

  “That sloppy looking creature in the flowered chiffon dress is a damned cheat! Furthermore she is a vicious gossip and I heartily wish she would clear out of here.”

  A LOUD, incredulous silence settled over the room. With sickening certainty, Mr. Rewbarb knew the origin of that devastating voice. It was the malignant, nasty voice of the radio. Mr. Rewbarb’s mouth was still open, and he noticed for the first time, that the angry glares of the assembled women were directed straight at him.

  The inference was obvious. They thought he had uttered the grossly damaging words.

  He essayed a weak grin.

  “If you think . . .” he began.

  But the radio voice continued, “that you’re the only cheat in the crowd, you’re badly mistaken. In fact I’ve watched all of you cheating and lying and gossiping until I’m sick of it. I should have had you all thrown out long ago.”

  A murmur like the angry noise of disturbed bees was growing in the room. The women glared in undisguised dismay and anger from Jennifer Rewbarb to her sputtering husband. The woman in the flowered chiffon seemed to swell twice her normal size. Her moon-like face was stained an angry, violent crimson.

  “Reeeealy Mrs. Rewbarb,” she thundered impressively, “this is more than I can tolerate. For your husband to imply, to think of implying, that I would cheat! It’s monstrous. The very thought, the mere idea of my cheating is incredible.”

  “Not too incredible,” her opponent said pointedly. “Considering your very unusual luck, this afternoon, dearie.”

  “I will not remain to be insulted,” the woman in chiffon cried distractedly, “I’m leaving.”

  This chorus was taken up by at least a majority of the “girls.”

  Mrs. Rewbarb rose, a stalwart avenging figure, and bore down on the cringing figure of her husband.

  “Apologize at once,” she cried. “Don’t you see what you’ve done, you little fool?”

  “Good riddance,” the voice from the radio said with relish.

  “Stop that,” Mr. Rewbarb wailed, “don’t you see what you’ve done?”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Rewbarb cried wrathfully, “I’ll teach you to mimic me, Rupert Rewbarb.”

  “I’m not mimicing you,” Mr. Rewbarb said frantically. “I wasn’t even talking to you. As a matter of fact I haven’t said a word.”

  There was a sudden silence in the room. The disorganized women paused in the act of putting on their wraps. They looked at Mr. Rewbarb with a new interest. They noticed his disordered appearance, his flushed face, his eyes opened wide in pleading supplication.

  Then they exchanged knowing glances. Glances that said, “we’ll talk this over later.” One of them even tapped her forehead significantly.

  The radio took this pause in proceedings to laugh sarcastically.

  MR. REWBARB’S outraged feelings and trampled dignity rebelled at this mockery. He strode angrily to the radio.

  “Why don’t you keep quiet?” he demanded, shoving his face within inches of the speaker. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  “Rupert!” Mrs. Rewbarb cried imperiously.” Stop that this instant.”

  “Keep your nose out of this,” the radio snapped angrily. “What the devil are you women hanging here for anyway? Clear out, you overstuffed herd of cows!”

  “Rupert,” Mrs. Rewbarb cried again, “what’s come over you?”

  “It’s not me,” Mr. Rewbarb wailed piteously.

 
; “Get out!” the radio blared.

  The women left in a wild milling scramble. As they swept through the front door and down the steps they encountered a lone figure who had the misfortune to be going in the opposite direction. This gentleman was swept along by the stampeding women until finally he stumbled to the ground, dazed and battered. His hat was crushed foolishly down to his ears and his cane had been swept away in the vortex.

  Mr. Tadmington Glick crawled to his feet, simmering with incarnate rage. He glared furiously after the women who were disappearing down the street, and then wheeling, he strode up the stone steps and into the Rewbarb residence.

  The door was standing ajar and he entered without knocking.

  “Well,” he said, “well!”

  Mr. Rewbarb turned and paled.

  “It’s Mr. Glick,” he said weakly to his wife, “Mr. Glick—it’s Mr. Glick,” his voice trailed off aimlessly.

  “Don’t give me double talk,” Mr. Glick fumed. “Tell me what occasioned the feminine stampede that just about killed me as I tried to enter your home. I hope for your sake Rewbarb that it was not deliberate.”

  “Oh how could you think such a horrid thought,” Mrs. Rewbarb trilled sweetly. It was one of the never-ending mysteries to Mr. Rewbarb how his wife could accomplish such amazing transformation in temperament. The instant before Mr. Glick’s arrival she’d have gladly fricaseed him on an open fire, but now saccharine was as bitter gall compared to her.

  Mr. Glick’s rumpled feathers subsided somewhat under this onslaught of verbal glucose.

  “Of course,” Mr. Glick said with ponderous joviality, “I was merely jesting, merely jesting.”

  Mr. Rewbarb breathed a tremulous sigh of relief. He forced a feeble smile of welcome to his lips. He knew with deadly certainty, though, that this respite would be short-lived. If the perverse ill-humor of the radio broke loose now the jig would be up and over.

  He decided on strategy.

  “Very, very proud to have you, Mr. Glick,” he said breathlessly. He crossed the room, took his employer by the arm. “Let’s step into the dining room,” he said hurriedly. “Less noise, less interruptions.”

  MR. GLICK looked at Mr. Rewbarb searchingly and then settled down in an over-stuffed chair.

  “I’m quite comfortable here,” he said, “but you don’t seem to be. You’re acting rather strangely, you know, Rewbarb. All flushed and excited. I don’t know quite what to make of you.”

  “It’s perfectly comfortable here,” Mrs. Rewbarb said sweetly. “I always say Mr. Glick has such good sound judgment about things in general.”

  “No, no,” Mr. Rewbarb interrupted hastily, “it just won’t do to stay here. It just won’t do.” He grabbed Mr. Glick’s arm tugged frantically at it. “You’ve simply got to get out of here. I mean, I want to show you my garden, and then maybe we can take a little walk. Just a—a eight or ten mile hike to sort of look around.”

  “Are you feeling all right?” Mr. Glick asked irritatedly. “For the last time I’m quite comfortable here. My business won’t take but a few minutes. That should please you since you’re making such an obvious attempt to get rid of me.”

  “Oh, no,” Mrs. Rewbarb cried unctuously. “Rupert didn’t mean that Mr. Glick.”

  A cold hand of terror closed over Mr.

  Rewbarb’s heart as he heard a warning cough emanate from the radio. Mr. Glick looked up inquiringly.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “N—nothing at all,” Mr. Rewbarb quaked.

  “It was me,” the radio said suddenly.

  “Eh?” Mr. Glick was obviously exasperated.

  “It was me,” Mr. Rewbarb cried in a falsetto voice, “it was me, it was me, it was me.”

  Mr. Glick waved his hand despairingly.

  “More double talk,” he said bitterly. “I don’t know what’s got into you, Rewbarb.”

  “What business is it—” the radio began savagely.

  But Mr. Rewbarb leaped frantically into the breach.

  “Oooooh say can you see,” he sang loudly and badly, drowning completely the voice from the radio, “by the dawn’s early light, What so prrrroooudly we hailed, at the twilight’s last gleammmming.” Drawing a frantic breath he roared on? “And the rocket’s red glaaaarrrre, bombs bursting in airrrrr! Gave proof through the night, that our flag was still therrrre!”

  Mr. Rewbarb flung both arms wide and struck a heroic pose before the astounded eyes of Mr. Glick and his wife. With laboring lungs and crimson face, Mr. Rewbarb bawled out all three verses of the national anthem. Between breaths he cast despairing glances at the grimly silent radio. He simply had to keep anything from happening in front of Mr. Glick. It might mean his job.

  But in spite of these heroic resolves, Mr. Rewbarb’s flesh weakened. His tortured vocal chords felt as if the north wind had been howling over them, and his lungs were about ready to go out on strike. After the last verse he stopped, in fact he almost collapsed.

  MR. GLICK was slumped deep in his chair, a haunted look on his face.

  “Very nice,” he said weakly. “I didn’t suspect you did things like this.” His tone implied that he didn’t suspect him of beating his wife either—until now.

  Mr. Glick pulled out a cigar and bit the end from it. He looked about for a match. Mr. Rewbarb felt his pockets, then turned to an ashtray.

  “Why doesn’t he get his own matches?” the radio snapped.

  Mr. Rewbarb froze. Mrs. Rewbarb almost strangled on a mouthful of air. A heavy tension grew in the room.

  “What was that?” Mr. Glick inquired icily.

  “I said,” Mr. Rewbarb began.

  “Why don’t you get your own matches,” the radio interrupted.

  “And furthermore why don’t you put your hat on, shut your big mouth and clear out of here. I’ve had enough of you. You’re a triple-distilled pain in the neck. So clear out—fast!”

  Mr. Rewbarb turned as Mr. Glick rose from his chair and placed his hat carefully on his head.

  “I shall see you Monday,” he said icily, “and be most happy in accepting your resignation.” With this as a curtain speech, he turned and left the room.

  Mrs. Rewbarb stared after him and then turned to her husband. There was a peculiar look in her eye. If Mr. Rewbarb did not know his wife better he would have mistaken it for fear. She backed quickly toward the door, still staring at him like a chicken at a cobra.

  “Go on, beat it!” the radio bellowed.

  “Oooooh Rupert,” Mrs. Rewbarb wailed. Then she turned and fled from the room, after the outraged person of Mr. Glick.

  Mr. Rewbarb sank into a chair. His world had crashed down on him and there was nothing left but chaos and confusion. His wife was gone, his job was gone, everything was gone.

  “What did you want to do that for?” he said woefully to the impassive radio cabinet.

  “Oh stop griping,” the radio said unsympathetically. “It’s darn good riddance any way you look at it. I don’t see how you’ve stood those people around you all these years. Come on now, brace up. What do you say we have a little drink to celebrate?”

  This roused Mr. Rewbarb from his morose coma.

  “You?” he said incredulously. “You drink?”

  “Sure,” the radio said, and Mr. Rewbarb detected a note of eagerness in the voice. “Just fix a couple of drinks and we’ll have a little party.”

  Mr. Rewbarb knew where his wife hid the liquor, but never in his life had he done any surreptitious tippling. But there was something warm and exciting rushing through his veins now that tipped the scales in favor of foolishness. He left the room, hurried to his wife’s bureau, opened the bottom drawer and removed a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of ginger ale. Then he hurried back to the living room with his treasure. Ice came next and then Mr. Rewbarb mixed the first drinks of his sheltered life.

  IT WASN’T at all hard, he discovered.

  You merely filled the glasses with whiskey and then there wasn’t room for the
ice and ginger ale. It simplified things wonderfully.

  Feeling a little foolish he approached the radio, glass in hand. To fortify himself he took a large swallow from his own glass. The effect was almost instantaneous. A ball of fire collected in his stomach and began to shoot sparks through his body. A rather pleasant sensation, all in all.

  “Just how do you go about this?” he asked frowning sternly.

  “Put the glass on top of me,” the radio directed. “Be sure and take the doily off. Set the glass on the wood, like they do at parties.”

  Mr. Rewbarb took another swig of his glass and did as directed. Things, he discovered, were looking much brighter. He took another sip and beamed fondly at the radio.

  “Now what?” he asked gravely.

  “Just jiggle the glass,” the radio directed.

  Mr. Rewbarb blinked happily and joggled the glass until liquor sloshed over the sides and streamed across the top of the radio cabinet.

  “Like that?” he asked.

  “That’s fine,” the radio answered ecstatically. “Don’t be so stingy though. Slop over a neat two fingers.”

  Mr. Rewbarb took another long pull at his own glass before complying with the radio’s request. Then he giggled.

  “Thish is funny,” he said blearily. He sat down suddenly to keep from falling. “People get drunk at parties,” he continued philosophically, “and then they think the radio sounds queer. But thash not it.” He wagged his head solemnly. “It’s jush that the radio’s got drunk too.”

  “Hie!” this came from the radio.

  Mr. Rewbarb beamed at this corroboration, and took another drink. He patted the radio fondly and slopped more whiskey over its top. Everything seemed rosy and gay. Everything was spinning too, but this was not too great a price to pay for finding everything rosy and gay.