Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4 (68 page)

That's why she wouldn't hire any permanent servants. This was ridiculous,
with all their dough, but she said she liked to cook for him and take care
of him all by herself. At first it seemed kind of flattering, the way she
fussed over him, even picking out the clothes he wore, but when he
realized she was often in the habit of just sitting there and watching his
face as he slept, Jimmie began to feel like a damned fool.

Finally, along about the fourth month, he faced up to the truth like a
man. Millie was beginning to give him a distinct pain. Might as well be
honest about it—there were a lot of things about the woman which
disappointed him.

For instance, that doctor's job hadn't been one hundred percent perfect.
True, he'd left no scars, but when Millie was out in the harsh sunlight or
felt particularly dragged, you could see her face wasn't quite natural.
Her nose and chin looked too waxy, and when she smiled her lips went
crooked. Maybe he was just being self-conscious, because he could remember
Millie the Mule. But whatever it was, it bothered him. Especially when he
had to kiss her, which was frequently. That was the real reason for his
gripe; she just couldn't let him alone. At first he'd been surprised at
the way she responded, but in a way it had been sort of a tribute to his
personality and good looks. Jimmie was used to that. But now there was
more than response—there was demand.

Jimmie knew that any virile male like himself wants to be the aggressor;
that was the man's job, to get his kicks from the challenge, the chase,
the conquest. But here there was no challenge, no chase, and he was
beginning to suspect that the real conquest was Millie's.

Of course, there was nothing he could do about it. He was a married man,
and a married man just doesn't walk off and leave his wife just because
she loves him. That would be a sneaky thing to do. And as for walking away
from a million bucks—that would be downright crazy.

A smart guy plays the game. He may stall a little, encourage his wife to
get interested in bridge parties and trips with "the girls," and try to
spend more time himself out in the garage or with the car.

At first this didn't seem to work, because Millie wanted to come along
when he took the Jag out for a spin. But she had a sort of a thing about
high speeds, and when he found that out it was easy to discourage her.
Then, when he told her about joining the Sports Car Club, she wasn't
interested at all. By this time she was up to her neck in suburban social
life; she got her satisfaction out of visiting with all the old school
friends around town—girls who had probably snubbed her but good back
in the days when she was Millie the Mule.

Jimmie wondered if she lorded it over them now, particularly the ones
who'd married potbellied little junior execs or guys with horn-rims who
had to lug their briefcases onto the 8:10 every morning. If so, he could
understand that; under similar circumstances, he'd give them a hard time.

But it didn't matter, as long as she was interested and kept out of his
way. Because he was finding his satisfaction, too.

Her name was Peggy. Peggy Allen.

He'd met her through the club, and she had a Porsche, but she preferred a
Jag. She was only a kid, nineteen or so, and she had some dumb ape of a
boyfriend who was crazy about drag races; it was very convenient when he
went off to school in September.

To be perfectly frank about it, maybe she really wasn't any goddess, but
she knew how to keep a guy interested. Half the club was after her, and
she played the field, but she was no pushover. When it came to wrestling,
she knew all the holds. But the more she stalled him, the more Jimmie
wanted her. And she couldn't fool him: he knew damned good and well it was
mutual. All he needed was the time and place. Meanwhile, Jimmie was
beginning to feel more like himself again. He was having a few laughs, a
little excitement. At the same time, there was the big thing of knowing it
wasn't really serious. Just a little fun on the side. Hell, at
twenty-five, a man is just hitting his stride. He doesn't want to curl up
in a corner and die. And since there was no question about ever leaving
Millie, he had nothing to worry about. No reason why he couldn't enjoy
himself. All he needed now was opportunity.

When the opportunity came, it happened so fast he almost muffed it.

Millie wanted to take a run into Cleveland with a couple of "the girls" to
see some damned ballet troupe or other. They'd stay over a day and do some
shopping; would he like to come along?

Well, there was no trouble getting out of
that
one. Besides, he had
a golf date the following afternoon. So he gave her a pat on the fanny and
told her to run along and enjoy herself. No trouble at all.

The thing was, he didn't check with Peggy Allen right away, and when he
did get hold of her she said she was dated. Fed him the old hard-to-get
line, and it wasn't until he spelled it out for her and told her it was
either-or that she stopped teasing.

So he picked her up the first night in his Jag and took her back to the
house.

Even when it was over, Jimmie was surprised to find out that he was still
coming on strong for the kid, and he wished they had a few more days
before Millie was due back.

Then he got another break. Lucille Sims, one of Millie's snooty friends,
called him up the next afternoon. Millie had come down with a cold and
she'd decided to stay over in Cleveland at the hotel for another day, then
come back on the train.

Jimmie phoned the hotel right away and talked to Millie. She didn't sound
too bad, and he asked if she wanted him to drive up and get her. But she
said no, she'd prefer the train, and he promised to pick her up at the
station the following afternoon.

After that he was set. He called Peggy, and this time there was no
stalling. He brought her over to the house at seven, and it must have been
after midnight when he took her home again.

Driving back after dropping her off, Jimmie felt a lot better. He had
everything under control now. Peggy was a softie underneath, like all the
rest—she really went for him in a big way, and he'd be seeing her
again. No promises, no strings, no problems. Handling Millie would be a
cinch.

He put the car in the garage, the automatic doors closing softly and
silently behind him. He turned on the light and grinned as he inspected
the shining fleet, the immaculate workshop in the corner, the big
breezeway enclosure leading to the house.

Yep, he really had it made. What more could a guy ask for? Plenty of
moola, a dumb wife, and a hep chick on the side. Plus everything it takes
to get anything he wanted. The character who made that crack about your
face being your fortune sure knew what he was handing out.

Jimmie stared at his face in the shiny reflection of the Jag's hood.
You're
not bad, kid,
he told himself.
Not bad at all.
He was still
staring when the lights went out.

And then the lights came on again, hurting his eyes and clear through the
top of his head, and he said to himself
you must have passed out.
He tried to move, and he realized his hands were tied behind his back.
So
you didn't pass out,
he thought.
You were sapped. What goes on
here?

That's when he looked up and saw Millie standing there.

"Hey!" he said.

"Is that all?" Millie asked. "No questions? Don't you want to know about
the first time I got suspicious, when I happened to pick up the extension
phone and heard you talking to that little tramp of yours? It was over a
month ago, and I've been wondering ever since. Wondering so much that I
finally decided to go to Cleveland and arrange to get sick. I kept hoping
I was wrong, of course, even when I slipped out and rented a car tonight
to drive back and surprise you."

"When—when did you get here?"

"Soon enough." Millie stared down at him, and he could see she was still
holding the small wrench she'd used as a sap in her gloved hands. "Soon
enough to know that I could stop wondering, and stop hoping, and stop
worrying about surprises. You and the girl took care of that."

"That girl," Jimmie said. "She's just a—"

"I know what she is," Millie told him. "She doesn't really mean a thing to
you, does she?"

"Of course not, darling. You understand, don't you?"

"I understand."

"Then why the melodrama? Come on, untie me. A gag's a gag."

"I won't need a gag. There's nobody around and this place is practically
soundproof."

"Millie, for God's sake, you aren't going to do anything foolish—"

"No. What I'm going to do is very sensible. I've been sitting here in the
dark, ever since I saw you leave to take that girl home, and I've been
thinking things over. There's no need for me to use this."

She put down the wrench and opened her purse, pulling out the gun.

"Millie!"

"Don't worry. I told you I wouldn't use it." She slipped the gun back into
her bag. "I said I'd be sensible."

Jimmie squirmed and tried to sit up. He couldn't quite make it, but he did
manage a wry grin.

"I suppose that means a divorce," he said.

She shook her head. "That wouldn't work. I thought about it for a while,
but you can see what would happen. No matter what kind of charges we
trumped up, the story's bound to come out. I don't think I'd care to know
about all the gossip going on."

"Then—" Jimmie hesitated, pitching his voice to just the right note
of penitence. "I know I haven't even got the right to ask, but does this
mean that you're going to—forgive me?"

Millie didn't answer, so he went on.

"I don't have to tell you I'm sorry. I know I made a mistake. All I can do
is try to make it up to you."

"Yes." It was Millie's turn to pause. "You are sorry, aren't you? Sorry
because you weren't smart enough, because you got caught."

"No, that's not it. I told you I'd make it up to you, I'd try."

"Of course you'd try, darling. And you'd fail. Because that's the kind of
a person you are, Jimmie dear, the kind of a person you always have been
and always will be. It's my fault for not realizing it from the very
beginning. You're a pretty boy, and you can't stand anything around you
that might mar your own perfection. You've always got to have new clothes,
new cars, new women. You're one of the beautiful people, Jimmie, and you
hate ugliness. The way you hated me when you were a kid. The way you hate
me now."

"But I don't hate you; you're not ugly—"

"Oh yes I am, Jimmie." She smiled at him. "Only an ugly woman could do the
sensible thing I'm going to do."

She walked over to the workbench and picked something up in her gloved
right hand. Then she came back and stood over him again. He saw what she
was holding and his throat went dry, so that the words were only a
whisper.

"You'd better put that down. You can't get away with it!"

"I'm not going to get away with anything, darling. It's the thieves."

"What thieves?"

"The ones the police will think broke in here tonight while you were
sleeping, and while I was still away in Cleveland. I'll be back there in
my hotel room before anyone notices my absence, and tomorrow I'll check
out and come home. I'll be very surprised when you aren't on hand to meet
me at the station, and I'll be very shocked when I come home and find out
what the thieves have done. Don't worry, you'll be mourned. And I'm going
to be proud of you for doing such a foolish, proud thing—trying to
keep the combination of the house safe from the thieves, even under
torture—"

"Millie, you're crazy!"

"Not crazy. Just ugly, remember?" She walked away to the bench again,
picked up a rag from its surface, returned and knelt beside him. "On
second thought, it will look more natural if I do gag you, after all.
Besides, I won't have to listen to your silly interruptions any longer.
And maybe you'll scream more loudly than I thought. I'm almost certain you
will."

"M—"

"There. That's better." She stood up. Jimmie kept watching her hands. She
was holding the thing, pointing it.

"You don't understand what I mean by ugliness yet, do you?" she murmured.
"Beautiful people never do. I suppose that's why you hate it so, because
you don't understand. And you don't care. Life is so very easy for you,
because we live in an age that worships beauty above all else; worships it
the way I worshipped you. Even when you wrecked my life.

"No, I'm not talking about tonight. You wrecked my life years ago, Jimmie.
When we were children together, when you gave me my new name. Millie the
Mule. I told you once you'd never know what that did to me, and I was
right. I didn't realize the
whole
truth until tonight.

"I thought having an ugly face and an ugly nickname was the worst thing
that could ever happen to me. When my friends made fun of me, and even my
parents were ashamed, that seemed the most terrible fate. And it went on
for years, Jimmie. Even after you went away, the name stuck by me. The
name, and the face. I thought nothing more dreadful could possibly happen,
but I was wrong.

"The dreadful thing was to try and change. To forget the old saying that
beauty is only skin-deep. Well, I found out that it's true, Jimmie. You
taught me that, tonight. Because you're one of the beautiful people I've
always envied, one of the favored few who walk through life getting
everything they want without effort, without worries or problems or
unpleasantness. And yet you're not beautiful, inside. You're ugly as sin.
And it is a sin to get everything you want without doing anything to
deserve it.

"That's the thought which used to console me, Jimmie. I guess it helps
console all of us ugly ones. I kept believing that I was better than I
looked, underneath. That my heart was full of understanding, that my love
was pure, all sorts of maudlin nonsense. And I had faith that if I kept
striving, I'd get what I wanted.