101 Mystery Stories

46 The Prevalence of Monsters Thomas B. Dewey

Ellen MacDonald was roused from a dream of midsummer madness to hear Robbie, her five-year-old son, screaming his head off. Her throat was dry and twisted with longing. Her dream in that short afternoon nap had centered on a mountain of ice cream (fresh peach) topped by a veritable lava flow of sauce (maple walnut), rigorously forbidden in reality, but now all hers just as soon as she could make her way to the table. The table had seemed at first to be in her own kitchen, and then, curiously, it had shifted to the farthest corner of the student union, on a campus she had not seen for eight years.

The screen door banged heavily and she whimpered at the shock. She managed to get her feet on the floor as Robbie hurled himself at her. She interpreted his gasped explanation to mean that her older son Dean, eight, had tried to force Robbie to go into the boathouse.

“—and there’s — a — monster in there!”

“There’s no such thing as a monster,” she said sharply.

“There is so a monster in the boathouse!”

“Well, you don’t have to go in the boathouse if you don* t want to.”

By the time he had quieted down, it was a quarter to five and she had to hurry her bath, as usual, then fly to get their dinners and something for the babysitter, who would be there at six. Then she would have to dress hastily, not knowing for sure that ever\ting was in place, properly hooked. All this in order to meet Betty Quillan and Patricia Dom at the mailbox, so they could drive over to Nancy Caldwell’s cottage for the weekly meeting of “The Castaways” — the wives of men who worked in the city and sent their families to the Lake for the summer.

Not that she really wanted to go, but the group had been formed to provide some solidarity for the city wives and she felt a certain loyalty. If only it weren’t for Nancy Caldwell’s annoying habit of posing her “hypothetical problems”— Some of those nasty, penetrating questions might be all right in the security of the full home, in winter; but how they were upsetting, even hair-raising, in the summer dog days.

Tonight, for instance, they were nearly finished with dessert and coffee when Nancy said, “Let’s just face it, what would you do? Say you have to go into town unexpectedly; it’s long after working hours, you let yourself into the apartment, and there he is, that great god guy of yours from Olympus to whom you’ve given the best years of your life, wrapped in the arms of some tantalizing bit of blonde fluff with nothing in the world to do but provide female companionship for lonely males. What would you do? Really and truly. Let’s take turns.”

One by one, according to their inclinations, they made shift to answer. Waiting for her turn, Ellen brooded. She was tired and she had an uncomfortable, stuffed feeling, mingled with guilt, from the rich, forbidden dessert.

Why do I let myself get trapped, she thought, into doing so many things I don’t want to do? I hate these scratchy hen parties. I hate coming to the Lake, having to cope with children and dead fish, while Bill stays in the city in an air-conditioned office with his bright, unencumbered secretary—

“Ellen?” Nancy was saying. “It’s your turn. What would you do?”

“I’d — I think I’d kill him,” Ellen said.

A hush fell, deep and embarrassing.

Trapped again, she thought, and she wanted to slap at the sly smile on Nancy’s face...

Ellen got back at 11:15 and heard Robbie whimpering in the bedroom.

“What’s the matter with him?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” the babysitter said. “I read to him — but he keeps on talking about monsters.”

When the babysitter had gone, Ellen fixed warm milk for Robbie and stayed with him till he fell asleep. Then she woke up Dean and marched him to the kitchen.

“Repeat after me,” she said. “There is no such thing as a monster.”

He rubbed his eyes, mumbling, “Therenoschthinsamonster.”

“Say it again, and this time slowly, distinctly.”

He stared at her.

“There is no such thing as a monster,” he said.

“All right. Now go back to bed and don’t let me hear you scaring Robbie again with that nonsense.”

He lingered a moment, hurt and confused, and she turned away because she had begun to cry. By the time she got to bed it was 1:30 and her body felt like a knotted rope.

“It isn’t fair!” she said through her teeth.

She groped for the telephone beside the bed, got the local operator, and put in a call to their city apartment. She let them ring at least twenty times before she finally hung up.

Almost two in the morning, she thought, and he’s always in the office by nine. Where would he be at two in the morning? And what would he be doing?

The next day was hot, the Lake glassy calm. At four in the afternoon she called Betty Quillan, who had two children Robbie’s and Dean’s age.

“Sure, send them over,” Betty said.

“I may be late, you know the trains—”

“I’ll put them up in the bunks. Don’t hurry, and have yourself a good time.”

“Thanks, Betty. I’ll do the same for you—”

She caught the 5:15, which got her to the city at 7:30. She took a taxi to the apartment and let herself in at five minutes after eight.

Everything seemed orderly enough, except for some debris on the coffee table — three cocktail glasses and some crumpled napkins. But one of the glasses bore lipstick stains, as did one of the napkins.

She carried the tray to the kitchen and was sick at her stomach in the sink. She washed her face, turned out the lights, and sat in the dark living room — waiting.

At ten she dragged herself out of a sour-smelling stupor and went to the bedroom. The bed was neatly made, and everything hung in place. She could see Nancy Caldwell’s face smirking at her.

But he’s always neat, she thought desperately.

In the bathroom she found a couple of discarded tissues, stained a bright pink. She wadded them into a ball and flushed them out of sight. She had begun to cry and her throat was pinched and dry. Braced on both hands over the lavatory, she forced out words as if spitting.

“You will not do this to me—”

On tiptoe, stretching, she groped on the high closet shelf, dislodging shoe boxes and bundles of obsolete accessories. Finally she found the gun — a small .25 caliber pistol that Bill had taught her how to use — “just in case of possible prowlers.” It was loaded and she carried it to the bed, sat there with it in her lap, and tried to ignore the pain in her stomach, the buzzing in her ears.

The telephone rang four times before she realized what the sound was. There was a man’s voice, briefly nonplused. Then—

“Oh — you would be Mrs. MacDonald. Sorry to call so late — this is George Reamer. Just wanted to tell Bill that I signed the contract with Mr. Devlin.”

“I see—” Ellen said.

“Sorry you couldn’t be with us — afraid we kept your husband up till all hours. The wife and I enjoyed ourselves very much. Great guy you’ve got there — glad he’ll be on the account. If you’ll tell him—”

Over the voice and the buzzing in her head she heard the front door of the apartment.

“Yes, I’ll tell him,” she said.

The gun slipped from her lap and she barely had time to pick it up and push it under the pillow before the bedroom door opened and Bill came in.

Thank you, Mr. Reamer, whoever you are — thank you for assuming that I’m Mrs. MacDonald—

“Baby, baby, baby!” Bill was saying, pulling her down beside him on the bed. “Am I glad to see you! How did you know to come home tonight? I got great news — a big new account—”

“Yes,” she said, “Mr. Reamer just called—”

“What a couple, those Reamers! Cleaned us out of gin in thirty minutes. But listen, I’ve got some ice cream out there, your favorite, and some maple walnut sauce—”

“Yes... yes, darling.”

Later, bathed and cool, the ache in her throat melted away with the ice cream, and she looked at the familiar ceiling while Bill got ready for bed.

“On account of inflation,” he said, “five cents for your thoughts.”

Under the pillow she could feel the hard lump of the gun she hadn’t yet had a chance to hide away.

“Not worth it,” she said drowsily. “But if you want to be a spendthrift — I was just thinking—”

She let it trail off.

“Come on,” Bill nudged, “you made a deal.”

“—about the prevalence of monsters.”