Puttering About In a Small Land by Philip K Dick

Author:Philip K Dick
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Published: 2013-07-15T16:00:00+00:00

13

Fixing dinner, her hands buried in the egg and mustard and bread and onion and ground beef that would become the meat loaf, Virginia heard a mans steps on the front porch. He’s home, she said to herself. But then the doorbell rang and she underwent a tremor of fright; a vision of highway patrolmen formed before her, notification of the catastrophe in the mountains between Ojai and Los Angeles.

She wiped her hands with a paper towel and ran through the house to open the front door.

On the porch stood Chic Bonner, with a flat packet under his arm. “Hello, Virginia,” he said docilely.

“He’s not back,” she said. “Did something happen?”

“Not that I know of,” Chic said, with his sturdy calm.

“Shouldn’t he be back?”

Raising his arm he held his wristwatch up to the light. “No, not necessarily. Liz usually never got the thing tied up until six or seven.” Lowering his arm he proceeded into the house, a steady moving-forward that brought him deep into the living room. At the coffee table he put down his packet; he removed his coat, and Virginia found herself closing the door and coming after him to accept the coat.

“You startled me,” she said, taken aback by his entry into her house. He seemed to consider himself welcome; he did not go into an explanation or apology, or make any attempt to find out what she was doing, if she had company or if she was busy, or even if she was willing to have him come in and lay down his packet on the table.

“Ahhh,” he said, sinking down on the chair that faced the fireplace. “Say listen,” he said. “Go on with what you’re doing. I can talk while you work.”

“I was fixing dinner,” she said, uncertain as to what she should do.

He accepted her statement. “Go ahead. You know, I think your husband’s smarter than I am. I brought over some stuff I want him to see.” His tone was melancholy.

“Excuse me,” Virginia said. “I’ll go on with what I was doing.” She went into the kitchen and resumed her kneading of the meat loaf ingredients; she poured the milk in and began stirring with a wooden ladle. In the living room Chic Bonner occupied himself with his packet. She could hear him opening it: once she glanced behind her and saw that he had put out a row of manila sheets the length of the table. His approach had a thoroughness and silence to it that reminded her of the activity of provident mammals, those that set about collecting materials for winter. Chic surveyed things and saw where they would be ten years from now. He was unimpressed by the present.

“You have a second?” Chic said.

“Not right now,” she said, adding salt to the meat loaf; she had almost forgotten it.

He entered the kitchen. Immediately his size became evident; just by standing there he made it impossible for her to get from one side of the kitchen to the other. He had planted himself, and now he watched her go about her work.

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