Voices From the Street by Philip K Dick

Author:Philip K Dick
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Published: 2013-07-24T16:00:00+00:00

PART THREE

Evening

Alice Fergesson, her face flushed and hectic from the heat, hurried back and forth, satisfying herself that the big house was ready for guests, that dinner was progressing through its intricate stages of preparation, that it was not yet eight o’clock.

In the living room stood her husband, his hands stuffed in his pockets, gazing moodily out the window. Alice paused a moment and called sharply to him. “What are you doing? Just standing there? You could help me, you know.”

The small, heavyset figure stirred grumpily; Jim Fergesson turned toward her and impatiently waved her away. He was meditating again; for the past week he had been meditating constantly. His red, wrinkled, prunelike face was twisted into a worried scowl; he stuck his stump of a cigar between his teeth and abruptly turned his back to her.

A pang of pity caught up the woman as she resumed her cooking. There was something forlorn and pathetic in the sight of the little round worried man, chewing on his cigar and trying to keep all his plans and problems straight in his mind. She concentrated on the sizzling swordfish steaks broiling in the oven, and forced herself not to pay any attention to him.

“What time is it?” Jim Fergesson demanded behind her, suddenly close and insistent.

Alice straightened up quickly. “You scared me.”

“What time is it?” he asked again, blunt and noisy, with the almost childlike directness that dominated when he was worried. As if it were urgent, as if something vital hung on knowing at once, he repeated: “Damn it, where’d you put that electric clock? It used to be over the sink; where is it now?”

“I won’t tell you,” Alice said firmly, “if you’re going to shout in that tone of voice.”

Fergesson howled: “I have a right to know what time it is!” He flushed angrily. “You women, you’re never satisfied. Didn’t I spend a whole afternoon running BX cable around there for that clock?”

“Take these.” She pushed plates into his hands and steered him out of the kitchen, into the dining room. “Then get out the good silver; it’s in that old green-felt box—you know, your mother’s.”

“Why? For Stumblebum?”

“Because it’s company.”

“He can use the regular silver we always use.” Fergesson resentfully began setting dishes around the long oak table. “Don’t make such an occasion out of this—what are you women up to, anyhow?” He glared fearfully at his wife. “Have you and Ellen Hadley got your damn heads together again? This whole thing is rigged!”

Ignoring him, Alice turned her attention to the salad. The tray of white poppy-seed rolls was ready to be slipped into the oven, as soon as the sword-fish steaks were done. The béarnaise was made. The frozen peas lay in their damp carton, melting and oozing. What had she forgotten? The wine gelatin and shortbread cookies had been accomplished the night before… All that remained was the baked potatoes: they reposed like inert lumps in the top of the oven, refusing to cook rapidly or evenly.

In

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