Charles Beaumont: Selected Stories (20 page)

Introduction to

THE NEW PEOPLE
by Saul David

It was when I was re-reading the story that it came back to me. Not the story itself-I remembered that in a vague way as soon as the title was suggested-but Chuck's barely suppressed snicker when I reacted to the name of one of the main characters, Matt Dystal. Dystel, Oscar Dystel, was the name of the then new president of Bantam Books. The businessmen who head publishing companies often don't have editorial backgrounds and they're sometimes suspicious of the artistic airs and graces of editors and the lunatics who actually write the damn books. Publishers would often say, not quite joking, "This would be a good business if it wasn't for editors and writers." And since Dystel had inherited me along with a lot of editors and writers, he looked hard at every lifted eyebrow.
"Don't you think he should feel honored?" asked Chuck. I said "He may never read it. But if he does, he'll be sure it's an inside joke."
"Okay-you want to change the name?"
If I said yes, Chuck would have something funny to tell the guys who met in his cellar to swap ideas. I had my own image to keep up. So I said, "forget it."
"Tell you what," Chuck said magnamimously, "spell it different."
That's why it's spelled with an "a" where the other man is spelled with an "e".
One of the things I remember best is that playfulness. As a tribe, Sci-fi and fantasy writers tend toward solemnity-at least in public. Probably it comes from reading all those deep-dish critical pieces about far-sigh tedness and prophecy. When someone tells you that your stories have deep significance and look forward down the corridors of time, it's hard to deny. Look at Ron Hubbard. But Chuck was not that kind of True Believer. He played with ideas and enjoyed the play. That accounts for the sparkle you find in the grimmest of them,
In publishing jargon, these stories-all sci-fi, fantasy, etc. were called "category fiction" and, in literary status, sat below the salt. To escape from his caste was not easy for a writer. He had to break an invisible quality barrier-out of the category ghetto and into hard covers and slick magazines; into the company of Roald Dahl and John Cheever and Saki. Chuck used to speculate about that barrier-was it really literary quality?
The results of his musings are evident in the stories. In most of them there's an effort to add a bit of dimension to the people-very difficult in the kind of story in which the idea, the event, the surprise ending is what makes the sale and the memory. In "The New People," Prentice casts a shadow, he is almost real enough to make the reader wonder if he could have escaped-gotten off the story's rails. Could he have done so? Of course not-but it's a measure of the writer's reach that the question comes up at all. Chuck died tragically young with his reach still far beyond his grasp-a great loss,

THE NEW PEOPLE

by Charles Beaumont

If only he had told her right at the beginning that he didn't like the house, everything would have been fine. He could have manufactured some plausible story about bad plumbing or poor construction-something; anything!-and she'd have gone along with him. Not without a fight, maybe: he could remember the way her face had looked when they stopped the car. But he could have talked her out of it. Now, of course, it was too late.
For what? he wondered, trying not to think of the party and all the noise that it would mean. Too late for what? It's a good house, well built, well kept up, roomy. Except for that blood stain, cheerful. Anyone in his right mind .
"Dear, aren't you going to shave?"
He lowered the newspaper gently and said, "Sure." But Ann was looking at him in that hurt, accusing way, and he knew that it was hopeless.
Hank-what's-wrong, he thought, starting toward the bathroom.
"Hank," she said.
He stopped but did not turn. "Uh-huh?"
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he said.
"Honey. Please."
He faced her. The pink chiffon dress clung to her body, which had the firmness of youth; her face was unblemished, the lipstick and powder incredibly perfect; her hair, cut long, was soft on her white shoulders: in seven years Ann hadn't changed.
Resentfully, Prentice glanced away. And was ashamed. You'd think that in this time I'd get accustomed to it, he thought. She is, Damn it!
"Tell me," Ann said.
"Tell you what? Everything is okay," he said,
She came to him and he could smell the perfume, he could see the tiny freckles that dotted her chest, He wondered what it would be like to sleep with her. Probably it would be very nice.
"It's about Davey, isn't it?" she said, dropping her voice to a whisper. They were standing only a few feet from their son's room.
"No," Prentice said; but, it was true-Davey was part of it. For a week now Prentice had ridden on the hope that getting the locomotive repaired would change things. A kid without a train, he'd told himself, is bound to act peculiar. But he'd had the locomotive repaired and brought it home and Davey hadn't even bothered to set up the track,
"He appreciated it, dear," Ann said. "Didn't he thank you?"
"Sure, he thanked me."
"Well?" she said. "Honey, I've told you: Davey is going through a period, that's all. Children do. Really."
"I know,"
"And school's been out for almost a month."
"I know," Prentice said, and thought: Moving to a neighborhood where there isn't another kid in the whole damn block for him to play with, that might have something to do with it, too!
"Then," Ann said, "it's me,"
"No, no, no," He tried to smile. There wasn't any sense in arguing: they'd been through it a dozen times, and she had an answer for everything. He could recall the finality in her voice…" I love the house, Hank. And I love the neighborhood. It's what I've dreamed of all my life, and I think I deserve it, Don't you?" (It was the first time she'd ever consciously reminded him). "The trouble is, you've lived in dingy little apartments so long you've come to like them. You can't adjust to a really decent place-and Davey's no different, You're two of a kind: little old men who can't stand a change, even for the better! Well, I can. I don't care if fifty people committed suicide here, I'm happy. You understand, Hank? Happy."
Prentice had understood, and had resolved to make a real effort to like the new place. If he couldn't do that, at least he could keep his feelings from Anne-for they were, he knew, foolish, Damned foolish. Everything she said was true, and he ought to be grateful.
Yet, somehow, he could not stop dreaming of the old man who had picked up a razor one night and cut his throat wide open…
Ann was staring at him.
"Maybe," he said, "I'm going through a period, too." He kissed her forehead, lightly. "Come on, now; the people are going to arrive any second, and you look like Lady Macbeth."
She held his arm for a moment. "You are getting settled in the house, aren't you?" she said. "I mean, it's becoming more like home to you, isn't it?"
"Sure," Prentice said.
His wife paused another moment, then smiled. "Okay, get the whiskers off. Rhoda is under the impression you're a handsome man."
He walked into the bathroom and plugged in the electric shaver. Rhoda, he thought. First names already and we haven't been here three weeks.
"Dad?"
He looked down at Davey, who had slipped in with nine-year-old stealth. "Yo." According to ritual, he ran the shaver across his son's chin.
Davey did not respond. He stepped back and said, "Dad, is Mr. Ames coming over tonight?"
Prentice nodded. "I guess so."
"And Mr. Chambers?"
"Uh-huh. Why?" Davey did not answer, "What do you want to know for?"
"Gee." Davey's eyes were red and wide. "Is it okay if I stay in my room?"
"Why? You sick?"
"No. Kind of."
"Stomach? Head?"
"Just sick," Davey said, He pulled at a thread in his shirt and fell silent again. Prentice frowned, "I thought maybe you'd like to show them your train," he said. "Please," Davey said. His voice had risen slightly and Prentice could see tears gathering. "Dad, please don't make me come out. Leave me stay in my room, I won't make any noise, I promise, and I'll go to sleep on time."
"Okay, okay. Don't make such a big deal out of it!" Prentice ran the cool metal over his face. Anger came and went, swiftly. Stupid to get mad. "Davey, what'd you do, ride your bike on their lawn or something? Break a window?"
"No."
"Then why don't you want to see them?"
"I just don't,"
"Mr. Ames likes you. He told me so yesterday. He thinks you're a fine boy, so does Mr. Chambers. They-"
"Please, Dad!" Davey's face was pale; he began to cry. "Please, please, please. Don't let them get me!"
"What are you talking about? Davey, cut it out. Now!"
"I saw what they were doing there in the garage. And they know I saw them, too. They know. And-"
"Davey!" Ann's voice was sharp and loud and resounding in the tile-lined bathroom. The boy stopped crying immediately. He looked up, hesitated, then ran out. His door slammed.
Prentice took a step.
"No, Hank. Leave him alone."
"He's upset."
"Let him be upset." She shot an angry glance toward the bedroom, "I suppose he told you that filthy story about the garage?"
"No," Prentice said, "he didn't. What's it all about?"
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Honestly, I'd like to meet Davey's parents!"
"We're his parents," Prentice said, firmly.
"All right, all right. But he got that imagination of his from somebody, and it wasn't from us. You're going to have to speak to him, Hank. I mean it. Really."
"About what?"
"These wild stories. What if they got back to Mr. Ames? I'd-well, I'd die. After he's gone out of his way to be nice to Davey, too."
"I haven't heard the stories," Prentice said.
"Oh, you will," Ann undid her apron and folded it, furiously. "Honestly! Sometimes I think the two of you are trying to make things just as miserable as they can be for me."
The doorbell rang, stridently.
"Now make an effort to be pleasant, will you? This is a housewarming, after all. And do hurry."
She closed the door. He heard her call, "Hi!" and heard Ben Roth's baritone booming: "Hi!"
Ridiculous, he told himself, plugging the razor in again. Utterly goddam ridiculous. No one complained louder than I did when we were tripping over ourselves in that little upstairs coffin on Friar, I'm the one who kept moaning for a house, not Ann.
So now we've got one.
He glanced at the tiny brownish blood stain that wouldn't wash out of the wallpaper, and sighed. Now we've got one, "Hank!"
"Coming!" He straightened his tie and went into the living room.
The Roths, of course, were there. Ben and Rhoda. Get it right, he thought, because we're all going to be pals. "Hi, Ben."
"Thought you'd deserted us, boy," said the large, pink man, laughing.
"No. Wouldn't do that."
"Hank," Ann signaled. "You've met Beth Cummings, haven't you?"
The tall, smartly dressed woman giggled and extended her hand. "We've seen each other," she said, "Hello,"
Her husband, a pale man with white hair, crushed Prentice's fingers. "Fun and games," he said, tightening his grip and wheezing with amusement. "Yes, sir."
Trying not to wince, Prentice retrieved his hand. It was instantly snatched up by a square, bald man in a double-breasted brown suit. "Reiker," the man said. "Call me Bud. Everyone does. Don't know why; my name is Oscar."
"That's why," a woman said, stepping up. "Ann introduced us but you probably don't remember, if I know men. I'm Edna."
"Sure," Prentice said. "How are you?"
"Fine, But then, I'm a woman: I like parties!"
"How's that?"
"Hank!"
Prentice excused himself and walked quickly into the kitchen. Ann was holding up a package.
"Honey, look what Rhoda gave us!"
He dutifully handled the salt and pepper shakers and set them down again. "That's real nice."
"You turn the rooster's head," Mrs. Roth said, "and it grinds your pepper."
"Wonderful," Prentice said.
"And Beth gave us this lovely salad bowl, see? And we've needed this for centuries!" She held out a gray tablecloth with gold bordering. "Plastic!"
"Wonderful," Prentice said. Again, the doorbell rang. He glanced at Mrs. Roth, who had been staring thoughtfully at him, and returned to the living room.
"How you be, Hank?" Lucian Ames walked in, rubbing his hands together briskly. "Well! The gang's all here, I see. But where's that boy of yours?"
"Davey? Oh," Prentice said, "he's sick."
"Nonsense! Boys that age are never sick. Never!"
Ann laughed nervously from the kitchen. "Just something he ate!"
"Not the candy we sent over, I hope."
"Oh, no."
"Well, tell him his Uncle Lucian said hello."
A tan elf of man, with sparkling eyes and an ill fitting mustache, Ames reminded Prentice somewhat of those clerks who used to sit silently on high wooden stools, posting infinitesimal figures in immense yellow ledgers. He was, however, the head of a nationally famous advertising agency.
His wife Charlotte provided a remarkable contrast. She seemed to belong to the era of the twenties, with her porcelain face, her thin, delicately angular body, her air of fragility.
Nice, Prentice told himself.
He removed coats and hung them in closets. He shook hands and smiled until his face began to ache. He looked at presents and thanked the women and told them they shouldn't have. He carried out sandwiches. He mixed drinks.
By eight-thirty, everyone in the block had arrived. The Johnsons, the Ameses, the Roths, the Reikers, the Klementaskis, the Chamberses; four or five others whose names Prentice could not remember, although Ann had taken care to introduce them.
What it is, he decided, looking at the people, at the gifts they had brought, remembering their many kindnesses and how, already, Ann had made more friends than she'd ever had before, is, I'm just an antisocial bastard.
After the third round of whiskeys and martinis, someone turned on the FM and someone else suggested dancing. Prentice had always supposed that one danced only at New Year's Eve parties, but he said the hell with it, finally, and tried to relax.
"Shall we?" Mrs. Ames said.
He wanted to say no, but Ann was watching. So he said, "Sure, if you've got strong toes," instead.
Almost at once he began to perspire. The smoke, the drinks, the heat of the crowded room, caused his head to ache; and, as usual, he was acutely embarrassed at having to hold a strange woman so closely.
But, he continued to smile.
Mrs. Ames danced well, she followed him with unerring instinct; and within moments she was babbling freely into his ear. She told him about old Mr. Thomas, the man who had lived here before, and how surprised everyone had been at what had happened; she told him how curious they'd all been about The New People and how relieved they were to find him and Ann so very nice; she told him he had strong arms. Ann was being twirled about by Herb Johnson. She was smiling.
An endless, slow three-step came on, then, and Mrs. Ames put her cheek next to Prentice's. In the midst of a rambling sentence, she said, suddenly, in a whisper: "You know, I think it was awfully brave of you to adopt little Davey. I mean considering."
"Considering what?"
She pulled away and looked at him. "Nothing," she said. "I'm awfully sorry."
Blushing with fury, Prentice turned and strode into the kitchen. He fought his anger, thinking, God, God, is she telling strangers about it now? Is it a topic for backfence gossip? "My husband is impotent, you know. Is yours?"
He poured whiskey into a glass and drank it, fast. It made his eyes water, and when he opened them, he saw a figure standing next to him.
It was-who? Dystal. Matthew Dystal; bachelor; movie writer or something; lives down the block, Call him Matt.
"Miserable, isn't it?" the man said, taking the bottle from Prentice's hand.
"What do you mean?"
"Everything," the man said. He filled his glass and drained it smartly. "Them, Out there," He filled the glass again.
"Nice people," Prentice forced himself to say.
"You think so?"
The man was drunk, Clearly, very drunk. And it was only nine-thirty.
"You think so?" he repeated.
"Sure. Don't you?"
"Of course. I'm one of them, aren't I?"
Prentice peered at his guest closely, then moved toward the living room.
Dystal took his arm. "Wait," he said. "Listen. You're a good guy. I don't know you very well, but I like you, Hank Prentice. So I'm going to give you some advice," His voice dropped to a whisper. "Get out of here," he said.
"What?"
"Just what I said. Move away, move away to another city."
Prentice felt a quick ripple of annoyance, checked it. "Why?" he asked, smiling.
"Never mind that," Dystal said. "Just do it. Tonight. Will you?" His face was livid, clammy with perspiration; his eyes were wide.

"Well, I mean, Matt, that's a heck of a thing to say. I thought you said you liked us. Now you want to get rid of us."
"Don't joke," Dystal said. He pointed at the window. "Can't you see the moon? You bloody idiot, can't you-"
"Hey, hey! Unfair!"
At the sound of the voice, Dystal froze. He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them, slowly. But he did not move.
Lucian Ames walked into the kitchen. "What's the story here," he said, putting his arm on Dystal's shoulder, "you trying to monopolize our host all night?"
Dystal did not answer.
"How about a refill, Hank?" Ames said, removing his hand.
Prentice said, "Sure," and prepared the drink. From the corner of his eye, he saw Dystal turn and walk stiffly out of the room. He heard the front door open and close,
Ames was chuckling. "Poor old Matt," he said. "He'll be hung over tomorrow. It seems kind of a shame, doesn't it? I mean, you know, of all people, you'd think a big Hollywood writer would be able to hold his liquor. But not Matt. He gets loaded just by staring at labels,
Prentice said, "Huh."
"Was he giving you one of his screwball nightmares?"
"What? No-we were just sort of talking. About things."
Ames dropped an ice cube into his drink. "Things?" he said.
"Yeah."
Ames took a sip of the whiskey and walked to the window, looking lithe, somehow, as well as small. After what seemed a long time, he said, "Well, it's a fine night, isn't it. Nice and clear, nice fine moon." He turned and tapped a cigarette out of a red package, lighted the cigarette. "Hank," he said, letting the gray smoke gush from the corners of his mouth, "tell me something. What do you do for excitement?"
Prentice shrugged. It was an odd question, but then, everything seemed odd to him tonight. "I don't know," he said. "Go to a movie once in a while. Watch TV. The usual."
Ames cocked his head. "But-don't you get bored?" he asked,
"Sure, I guess. Every so often. Being a C.P.A. you know, that isn't exactly the world's most fascinating job."
Ames laughed sympathetically. "It's awful, isn't it?"
"Being a C.P.A.?"
"No. Being bored. It's about the worst thing in the world, don't you agree? Someone once remarked they thought it was the only real sin a human could commit."
"I hope not," Prentice said.
"Why?"
"Well, I mean-everybody gets bored, don't they?"
"Not," Ames said, "if they're careful."
Prentice found himself becoming increasingly irritated at the conversation, "I suppose it helps," he said, "if you're the head of an advertising agency."
"No, not really. It's like any other job: interesting at first, but then you get used to it. It becomes routine, So you go fishing for other diversions,"
"Like what?"
"Oh… anything. Everything." Ames slapped Prentice's arm good naturedly. "You're all right, Hank," he said.
"Thanks ."
"I mean it. Can't tell you how happy we all are that you moved here."
"No more than we are!" Ann walked unsteadily to the sink with a number of empty glasses. "I want to apologize for Davey again, Lucian. I was telling Charlotte, he's been a perfect beast lately. He should have thanked you for fixing the seat on his bike."
"Forget it," Ames said, cheerfully. "The boy's just upset because he doesn't have any playmates." He looked at Prentice. "Some of us elders have kids, Hank, but they're all practically grown. You probably know that our daughter, Ginnie, is away at college. And Chris and Beth's boy lives in New York. But, you know, I wouldn't worry. As soon as school starts, Davey'll straighten out. You watch,"
Ann smiled. "I'm sure you're right, Lucian. But I apologize, anyway."
"Nuts." Ames returned to the living room and began to dance with Beth Cummings.
Prentice thought then of asking Ann what the devil she meant by blabbing about their personal life to strangers, but decided not to. This was not the time. He was too angry, too confused.
The party lasted another hour. Then Ben Roth said, "Better let these folks get some sleep!" and, slowly, the people left.
Ann closed the door. She seemed to glow with contentment, looking younger and prettier than she had for several years. "Home," she said, softly, and began picking up ash trays and glasses and plates. "Let's get all this out of the way so we won't have to look at it in the morning," she said.
Prentice said, "All right," in a neutral tone. He was about to move the coffee table back into place when the telephone rang.
"Yes?"
The voice that answered was a harsh whisper, like a rush of wind through leaves. "Prentice, are they gone?"
"Who is this?"
"Matt Dystal. Are they gone?"
"Yes ."
"All of them? Ames? Is he gone?"
"Yes. What do you want, Dystal? It's late."
"Later than you might think, Prentice. He told you I was drunk, but he lied. I'm not drunk. I'm-"
"Look, what is it you want?"
"I've got to talk with you," the voice said. "Now. Tonight. Can you come over?"
"At eleven o'clock?"
"Yes. Prentice, listen to me. I'm not drunk and I'm not kidding. This is a matter of life and death. Yours. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Prentice hesitated, confused.
"You know where my place is-fourth house from the corner, right-hand side. Come over now. But listen, carefully: go out the back door. The back door. Prentice, are you listening?"
"Yes," Prentice said.
"My light will be off, Go around to the rear. Don't bother to knock, just walk in- but be quiet about it. They mustn't see you."
Prentice heard a click, then silence. He stared at the receiver for a while before replacing it.
"Well?" Ann said. "Man talk?"
"Not exactly." Prentice wiped his palms on his trousers. "That fellow Matt Dystal, he's apparently sick. Wants me to come over."
"Now?"
"Yeah. I think I better; he sounded pretty bad. You go on to sleep, I'll be back in a little while."
"Okay, honey. I hope it isn't anything serious. But, it is nice to be doing something for them for a change, isn't it?"
Prentice kissed his wife, waited until the bathroom door had closed; then he went outside, into the cold night.
He walked along the grass verge of the alleyway, across the small lawns, up the steps to Dystal's rear door.
He diliberated with himself for a moment, then walked in.
"Prentice?" a voice hissed.
"Yes. Where are you?"
A hand touched his arm in the darkness and he jumped, nervously. "Come into the bedroom."
A dim lamp went on. Prentice saw that the windows were covered by heavy tan drapes. It was chilly in the room, chilly and moist.
"Well?" Prentice said, irritably.
Matthew Dystal ran a hand through his rope-colored hair. "I know what you're thinking," he said. "And I don't blame you. But it was necessary, Prentice. It was necessary. Ames has told you about my 'wild nightmares' and that's going to stick with you, I realize; but get this straight." His hand became a fist. "Everything I'm about to say is true. No matter how outlandish it may sound, it's true-and I have proof. All you'll need. So keep still, Prentice, and listen to me, It may mean your life: yours and your wife's and your boy's. And, maybe, mine…" His voice trailed off; then, suddenly, he said, "You want a drink?"
"No."
"You ought to have one. You're only on the outskirts of confusion, my friend. But, there are worse things than confusion, Believe me," Dystal walked to a bookcase and stood there for almost a full minute. When he turned, his features were slightly more composed. "What do you know," he asked, "about the house you're living in?"
Prentice shifted uncomfortably. "I know that a man killed himself in it, if that's what you mean."
"But do you know why?"
"No."
"Because he lost," Dystal said, giggling. "He drew the short one. How's that for motivation?"
"I think I'd better go," Prentice said.
"Wait." Dystal took a handkerchief from his pocket and tapped his forehead. "I didn't mean to begin that way. It's just that I've never told this to anyone, and it's difficult. You'll see why. Please, Prentice, promise you won't leave until I've finished!"
Prentice looked at the wiry, nervous little man and cursed the weakness that had allowed him to get himself into this miserably uncomfortable situation. He wanted to go home. But he knew he could not leave now.
"All right," he said. "Go on."
Dystal sighed. Then, staring at the window, he began to talk. "I built this house," he said, "because I thought I was going to get married. By the time I found out I was wrong, the work was all done. I should have sold it, I know, I see that, but I was feeling too lousy to go through the paper work. Besides, I'd already given up my apartment. So I moved in." He coughed. "Be patient with me, Prentice: this is the only way to tell it, from the beginning. Where was I?"
"You moved in."
"Yes! Everyone was very nice. They invited me to their homes for dinner, they dropped by, they did little favors for me; and it helped, it really did. I thought, you know, what a hell of a great bunch of neighbors. Regular. Real. That was it: they were real. Ames, an advertising man; Thomas, a lawyer; Johnson, paint company; Chambers, insurance; Reiker and Cummings, engineers-I mean, how average can you get?" Dystal paused; an ugly grin appeared on his face, disappeared. "I liked them," he said. "And I was really delighted with things. But, of course, you know how it is when a woman gives you the business. I was still licking my wounds. And I guess it showed, because Ames came over one evening. Just dropped by, in a neighborly way. We had some drinks. We talked about the ways of the female. Then, bang, out of nowhere, he asked me the question. Was I bored?"
Prentice stiffened.
"Well, when you lose your girl, you lose a lot of your ambition. I told him yes, I was plenty bored. And he said, 'I used to be'. I remember his exact words. 'I used to be,' he said. 'The long haul to success, the fight, the midnight oil: it was over, I'd made it', he said. 'Dough in the bank. Partnership in a top agency. Daughter grown and away to school. I was ready to be put out to pasture, Matt. But the thing was, I was only fifty-two! I had maybe another twenty years left. And almost everybody else in the block was the same way-Ed and Ben and Oscar, all the same. You know: they fooled around with their jobs, but they weren't interested any more-not really. Because the jobs didn't need them any more. They were bored." Dystal walked to the nightstand and poured himself a drink. "That was five years ago," he murmured. "Ames, he pussy-footed around the thing for a while-feeling me out, testing me; then he told me that he had decided to do something about it. About being bored. He'd organized everyone in the block. Once a week, he explained, they played games. It was real Group Activity. Community effort. It began with charades, but they got tired of that in a while. Then they tried cards. To make it interesting they bet high. Everybody had his turn at losing. Then, Ames said, someone suggested making the game even more interesting, because it was getting to be a drag. So they experimented with strip poker one night. Just for fun, you understand. Rhoda lost. Next time it was Charlotte. And it went that way for a while, until, finally, Beth lost, Everyone had been waiting for it. Things became anticlimactic after that, though, so the stakes changed again. Each paired off with another's wife; lowest scoring team had to-" Dystal tipped the bottle, "Sure you won't have a bracer?"
Prentice accepted the drink without argument. It tasted bitter and powerful, but it helped.
"Well," Dystal went on. "I had one hell of a time believing all that, I mean, you know: Ames, after all-a little bookkeeper type with gray hair and glasses… Still, the way he talked, I knew-somehow, I knew-it was the truth. Maybe because I didn't feel that a guy like Ames could make it all up! Anyway: when they'd tried all the possible combinations, things got dull again. A few of the women wanted to stop, but, of course, they were in too deep already. During one particular Fun Night, Ames had taken photographs. So, they had to keep going. Every week, it was something new. Something different. Swapsies occupied them for a while, Ames told me: Chambers took a two week vacation with Jacqueline, Ben and Beth went to Acapulco, and that sort of thing. And that is where I came into the picture." Dystal raised his hand. "I know, you don't need to tell me, I should have pulled out. But I was younger then. I was a big writer, man of the world. Training in Hollywood. I couldn't tell him I was shocked: it would have been betraying my craft. And he figured it that way, too: that's why he told me. Besides, he knew I'd be bound to find out eventually. They could hide it from just about everybody, but not someone right in the block. So, I played along. I accepted his invitation to join the next Group Activity-which is what he calls them.
"Next morning, I thought I'd dreamed the whole visit, I really did. But on Saturday, sure enough, the phone rings and Ames says, 'We begin at eight, sharp.' When I got to his house, I found it packed. Everybody in the neighborhood. Looking absolutely the same as always, too. Drinks; dancing; the whole bit. After a while, I started to wonder if the whole thing wasn't an elaborate gag. But at ten, Ames told us about the evening's surprise." Dystal gave way to a shudder. "It was a surprise, all right," he said. "I told them I wanted nothing to do with it, but Ames had done something to my drink. I didn't seem to have any control. They led me into the bedroom, and…"
Prentice waited, but Dystal did not complete his sentence. His eyes were dancing now.
"Never mind," he said. "Never mind what happened! The point is, I was drunk, and-well, I went through with it. I had to. You can see that, can't you?"