I Will Fear No Evil (37 page)

“Thank you, Finchley.”

They continued through the farm, came to another high gate; Fred got out and pressed a button, spoke to the security office. The gate rolled back, closed after them. Shortly the car stopped; Finchley unloaded the passenger compartment, offered his hand to Joan Eunice.

She looked around. “Oh, this is lovely! I didn’t know there were such places left.”

The spot was beautiful in a simple fashion. A little stream, clear and apparently unpolluted, meandered between low banks. On and near its banks were several sorts of trees and bushes, but they were not dense and there was a carpet of grass filling the open spaces. From its lawnlike texture it had apparently been grazed. The sky was blue and scattered fair-weather cumulus and the sunshine was golden warm without being too hot. (Eunice, isn’t it grand?) (Uh huh. ’Minds me of Iowa before the summer turns hot.)

Joan Eunice stripped off her sandals, tossed them into the car on top of her cloak. She wiggled her toes. “Oh, delicious! I haven’t felt grass under my bare feet for more than twenty years. Finchley, Shorty, Fred—all of you! If you’ve got the sense God promised a doorknob, you’ll take off your shoes and socks and give your feet a treat.”

Shotguns looked impassive; Finchley looked thoughtful. Then he grinned. “Miss Smith, you don’t have to tell me twice!” He reached down and unclicked his boots. Joan Eunice smiled, turned away, and wandered down toward the stream, judging that Shorty would be less shy about it if she did not stare.

(Eunice, is Iowa this beautiful? Still?) (Parts of it, hon. But it’s filling up fast. Take where we lived, between Des Moines and Grinnell. Nothing but farms when I was a baby. But by the time I left home we had more commuter neighbors than farm neighbors. They were beginning to build enclaves, too.) (Dreadful. Eunice, this country is breeding itself to death.) (For a freshly knocked-up broad you have an odd attitude toward reproduction, twin. See that grassy spot where the stream turns?) (Yes. Why?) (It takes me back . . . it looks like a stream bank in Iowa where I surrendered my alleged innocence.) (Well! Nice place for it. Did you struggle?) (Twin, are you pulling my leg? I cooperated.) (Hurt?) (Not enough to slow me down. No reason for it to. Boss darling, I know how it was in your day. But there is no longer any issue over tissue. Girls with smart mothers have it removed surgically when they reach menarche. And some just lose it gradually and never know where it went. But the girl who yells bloody murder and bleeds like a stuck pig is a rare bird today.) (Infant, I must again set you straight. Things haven’t changed much. Except that people are more open about it now. Do you suppose that water is warm enough to swim in?)

(Warm enough, Boss. But how do we know it’s clean? No telling what’s upstream.)

(Eunice, you’re a sissy. If you don’t bet, you can’t win.)

(That was true yesterday . . . but today we’re an expectant mother. A babbling brook can be loaded with nineteen sorts of horribles.)

(Uh . . . oh, hell! If it’s polluted, it’d be posted.) (Back here where you can’t reach it without being passed through two electric gates? Ask Finchley; he may know.)

(And if he says it’s polluted?) (Then we go swimming anyhow. Boss, as you pointed out, if you don’t bet, you can’t win.) (Mmmm . . . if he
knows
it’s polluted, I’m chicken. As
you
pointed out, beloved, we now have responsibilities. Let’s go eat, I’m hungry.) (
You’re
hungry? I was beginning to think you had given up the habit.) (So let’s eat while we can. How soon does morning sickness start?) (Who dat, Boss? The other time the only effect it had was to make me hungry morning, noon, and night. Let’s eat!)

Joan Eunice trotted back toward the car, stopped dead when she saw that Shorty was laying the car’s folding table—with one place setting. “What’s that?”

“Your lunch, Miss.”

“A picnic? On a table? Do you want to starve the ants? It should be on the ground.”

Shorty looked unhappy. “If you say, Miss.” (Joan! You’re not wearing panties. If you loll on the ground, you’ll shock Shorty—and interest the others.) (Spoilsport. Oh, all right.)

“Since it’s set up, Shorty, leave it that way. But set three more places.”

“Oh, we eat in the car, Miss—we often do.”

She stomped her foot. “Shorty, if you make me eat alone, I’ll make you walk home. Whose idea was this? Finchley’s?
Finchley!
Come here!”

A few moments later all four sat down at the table. It was crowded as Joan had insisted that everything be placed on it at once—“Just reach,” she explained. “Or starve. Is there a strong man here who can open that wine bottle?”

The dexterity with which Shorty opened it caused her to suspect that he had not always been a teetotaler. She filled her glass and Fred’s, then reached for Finchley’s. He said, “Please, Miss Smith—I’m driving,” and put his hand over it.

“Give it to me,” she answered, “for four drops. For a toast. And four drops for you, Shorty, for the same purpose.” She put about a quarter of an inch in each of their glasses. “But first—Shorty, will you say grace?”

The big man looked startled, at once regained his composure. “Miss Smith, I’d be pleased.” He bowed his head. (Boss! What’s eating you?) (Pipe down! Om Mani Padme Hum.) (Oh! Om Mani Padme Hum.) (Om Mani Padme Hum.) (Om Mani Padme Hum. . . . . . . . . . . . )

“Amen.”

“Amen!”

(Om Mani Padme Hum. Amen.)

“Amen. Thank you, Shorty. Now for a toast—which is a sort of a prayer, too. We’ll all drink it, so it must be to someone who isn’t here . . . but should be.” (Boss! You must
stop
this—it’s morbid.) (Mind your own business!) “Will one of you propose it?”

Finchley and Shorty looked at each other—looked away. Joan caught Fred’s eye. “Fred?”

“Uh—Miss, I don’t know how!” He seemed upset.

“You stand up”—Joan stood, the others followed —“and say whatever you like about someone who isn’t here but would be welcome. Anyone we all like. You name the person to be honored.” She raised her glass, realized her tears were starting. (Eunice! Are
you
crying? Or am
I?
I never used to cry!) (Then don’t get me started, Boss—I told you I was a sentimental slob.)

Fred said uncertainly, “A toast to . . . someone we all like . . . and who should be here.
And still is!
” He suddenly looked frightened.

“Amen,” Shorty said in sonorous baritone. “ ‘And still
is
.’ Because Heaven is as close as you’ll let it be. That’s what I tell my people, Fred . . . and in your heart you know I’m right.” He poured down, solemnly and carefully, the symbolic teaspoonful of wine in his glass; they all drank.

Joan said quietly, “Thank you, Fred. She heard you. She heard you too, Shorty. She hears me now.” (Boss! You’ve got them upset—and yourself, too. Tell them to sit down. And
eat
. Tell ’em
I
said to! You’ve ruined a perfectly good picnic.) (No, I haven’t.) “Finchley. You knew her well. Probably better than I did . . . for I was a cranky old man and she catered to my illness. What would
she
want us to do now?”

“What would . . . Mrs. Branca? . . . want us to do?”

“Yes. Did you call her ‘Mrs. Branca’? Or ‘Eunice’?” (They called me ‘Eunice,’ Boss—and after the first week I kissed them hello and good-bye and thanked them for taking care of me. Even if Jake could see. He just pretended not to notice.) (Busybody. You’re a sweet girl, beloved. Anything more than kiss them?) (Heavens, Boss! Even getting them to accept a kiss in place of the tips they wouldn’t take took doing.) (I’ll bet!—on
you
, that is—sister tart.) (Knocked-up broad.)

“Uh, I called her ‘Mrs. Branca’ at first. Then she called me ‘Tom’ and I called her ‘Eunice.’ ”

“All right, Tom, what does Eunice want us to do? Stand here crying? I see tears in your eyes; I’m not the only one crying. Would Eunice have us spoil a picnic?”

“Uh—She’d say, ‘Sit down and eat.’ ”

“That she would!” Shorty agreed. “Eunice would say, ‘Don’t let hot things get cold and cold things get hot—
eat!
”

“Yes,” agreed Joan Eunice, sitting down, “as Eunice was never a spoilsport in all her short and beautiful life and wouldn’t let anyone else be. Especially me, when I was cranky. Reach me a drumstick, Fred—no, don’t pass it.”

Joan took a bite of chicken. (Twin, what Shorty said sounded like a quotation.) (It was, Boss.) (Then you’ve eaten with him before.) (With all of them. When a team drove me late at night, I always invited them in for a bite. Joe never minded, he liked them all. Shorty he was especially glad to see; he wanted Shorty to model for him. At first Shorty thought Joe was making fun of him—didn’t know that Joe rarely joked and never about painting. They never got to it, though, as Shorty is shy—wasn’t sure it was all right to pose naked and scared that I might show up while he was posing. Not that I would have.) (Not even once, little imp? Shorty is a beautiful tower of ebony.) (Boss, I keep telling you—) (—that nudity doesn’t mean anything to your generation. Depends on the skin, doesn’t it?
I
would enjoy seeing our black giant—and that goes for Johann as well as for Joan.) (Well—) (Take your time thinking up a fib; I’ve got to make conversation.) “Tom, do you have those mustard pickles staked out, or may I have some? Shorty, you sounded as if you had sampled Eunice’s cooking. Could she cook?”

Finchley answered, “You bet she could!”

“Real cooking? Anybody can flash a prepack—and that’s what kids nowadays seem to think is cooking.” (Boss, I’ll spit in your soup!) “But what could she have done faced with flour and lard and baking powder and such?”

“Eunice would have done just fine,” Shorty said quietly. “True, she mostly never had time for real cooking—but when she did—or whatever she done, anyways—she done just perfect.”

(My fan! Boss—give him a raise.) (No.) (Stingy.) (No, Eunice. Shorty killed the vermin who killed you. I want to do something for him. But it can’t be money; he would not accept it.)

“She was an artist,” agreed Fred.

“You mean ‘artist’ in the general sense. Her husband was, I recall, an artist in the usual sense. A painter. Is he a good one? I’ve never seen any of his work. Do any of you know?”

Finchley said, “I guess that’s a matter of opinion, Miss Smith. I like Joe Branca’s paintings—but I don’t know anything about art; I just know what I like. But—” He grinned. “Can I tell on you, Shorty?”

“Aw, Tom!”

“You were flattered, you know you were. Miss Smith, Joe Branca wanted to paint that big ape on your right.”

(
Bingo!
) (Trouble, Eunice?) “And did he, Shorty?”

“Well, no. But he
did
ask me. He did.” (Don’t you
see
, Boss? This is that clincher. A fact you first learned from
me
and nowhere else . . . and then had confirmed to the hilt. Now you know I’m
me
.) (Oh, piffle, darling.) (But Boss—) (I’ve known you were you all along, beloved. But this isn’t proof. Once I knew that Joe and Shorty had met, it was a logical necessity that Joe would want him to model—
any
artist would want to paint him.)

(Boss, you make sick! It’s proof. I’m
me
.) (Beloved darling without whom life would not be worth living even in this beautiful body, I
know
you are you. But flatworms don’t matter, coincidences don’t matter, no mundane proof matters: There is no proof that some cocksure psychiatrist could not explain away as coincidence, or déjà vu, or self-delusion. If we let
them
set the rules, we’re lost. But we shan’t. What
does
matter is that you have me, and I have you. Now shut up; I want to get them all so easy with me that they’ll call me Eunice. You say they used to kiss you?)

(Oh, sure. Friendly kisses. Well, Dabrowski used to put zing in it but you know how Poles are.) (I’m afraid I don’t.) (Put it this way, Boss. With a Pole don’t advertise unless you mean to deliver—because
his
intentions are as honest as a loaded gun. With Dabrowski I was very careful not to let it go critical.)

(I’ll remember. Just as well he isn’t here. Because the situation is like that with Jake, only milder. Little baggage, you caused all my mobile guards to fall in love with you. So now I’ve got to get them to accept that you are dead while feeling that you are still alive, equally. If they call me ‘Eunice,’ I’m halfway there. If they kiss me—) (
What?
Boss! Don’t try it!)

(Now see here, Eunice! If you hadn’t played ‘My Last Duchess’ to half the county, I wouldn’t be having to repair the damage.) (‘Damage,’ huh? You’re
complaining?
)

(No, no, my darling! Never. I was the prime beneficiary of your benevolence. But to lose something of value is a damage, and that is the damage I must repair.) (Well . . . I won’t argue, dearest. But in this case you can let it be; I never let it warm up that much.) (And
I
say you don’t know what you are talking about. Cool you may have meant to keep it. Unsexy—or as unsexy as you could manage which isn’t very. But all four of my mobiles were willing to die for you—correct?) (Uh—) (Let’s have no silly talk. Do you think the fact that I paid them had anything to do with their willingness? Careful how you answer.)

(Uh . . . I don’t
have
to answer! Boss, what’s the use of stirring them up over my death?) (Because, my darling, from now on they will be guarding
me
—as I now am, inside your lovely body—just as they guarded you. They’ve got to
want
to guard me, or they’ll never be happy in this weird situation. It’s either that, or fire them or retire them—) (Oh, no!) (Of course not. To paraphrase Sherlock Holmes; when you have eliminated what you can’t do, what remains is what you
must
do. Besides, dearest and only, this is stem practice for the much harder case we still face.) (Jake? But Jake is—) (Little stupid! Jake has already accepted the impossible. I mean
Joe
.)

(But, Boss! You must
never
see Joe.)