I Will Fear No Evil

3

The guards escorted her up and to her door in respectful silence. Mrs. Branca looked with new interest at "Charlie," the Shotgun—wondered how a mousy, fatherly little man could be as vicious as Jake seemed to know that he was.

They "stood sideboy" as she spoke to her door's lock, then waited until her husband unbolted it. As the door opened Rockford saluted and said, "Oh-nine-forty, Miss—we'll be waiting right here."

"Thank you, Rockford. Good night. Good night, Charlie."

Joe Branca waited until he had thrown the bolts and reset the alarm before he spoke. "What t'hell happen? An' where you trap uniform apes?"

"Don't I get a kiss first? Surely I'm not all that late? It's not yet eighteen."

"Talk, woman. Other ape shows back two hours with your jitterbuggy—tha's okay; your boss's butler phoned." He took off her cloak and kissed her. "So where you been, dizzy baggage? Missed you."

"That's the nicest thing I've heard all day. That you've missed me."

"Walking the ceiling! What happen?"

"Were you worried? Oh, dear!"

"Not worried, Smith's door flunky said you been sent on errand an ‘ud come home in a Brink's. So knew you safe. Just torched it took so long when call made spec you'd short it. Rozzer?"

"Roz. Simple, though. Boss sent me with his Best Boy—Jake Salomon, you know."

"Fixer. Roz."

"Mr. Salomon took me in his car to his office to work on things Boss wanted at once—you know how right-now Boss is and worse since he's been wired down."

"Poor old muck should take the Big One. Pitiful."

"Don't say that, dear. I cry when I think about it."

"You're a slob, Sis. But me, too."

"That's why I love you, dear. Anyhow a longish job and Mr. Salomon had his guards take me home—and they drove through Bird's Nest turf and we got fired on. Chopped all down one side."

"Huh? Doom?"

"Not even grief. Fun."

"Like what inside?"

"Teribly noisy. But exciting. Made me horny."

"Everything makes you horny, Tits." He grinned and mussed her hair. "You're home and no aches, what counts. So peel. Inspiration eating me, who1e day. Walking the ceiling!"

"Which sort of inspiration, dearest?" she asked while sliding the half-sweater off her right shoulder and peeling it down her arm. "And have you eaten? If you start painting, you won't stop to eat."

"Ate some. Too high on inspiration. Big, big! I'll flash a pack for you. Chicken? Spaghetti? Pizza?"

"Anything. I'd better eat if it's that sort of inspiration." She kicked off her sandals, pushed down the panty-ruffle, sat on the floor to slide off the single tight attached to it. "Am I going to pose for a painting or are you going to paint on me and mug it?"

"Both. Tha's the grabber. A Nova."

She laid her dress carefully aside, rocked forward into Lotus seat. "I don't roz it. ‘Both?'

"Both. You'll see." He looked down, ran his eyes over her, smiled; "And both sorts inspiration."

"Well! Happy-making!"

"Not too hungry? Can wait."

"Beloved man, when was I ever that hungry? Never mind the bed; just grab a pillow and come here!"

Shortly Mrs. Branca was thinking happily how lucky it was that she had not let dear Jake go ahead—the sweet thing would have been a disappointment compared with what she had at home... yet he had got her wonderfully primed for this. Really, it was best to be a faithful wife. Usually. What a wonderful, extraordinary day! Should she tell Joe about her big pay raise? No hurry. Couldn't tell him anything else. Too bad. Then she quit thinking coherently.

Sometime later she opened her eyes and smiled up at him. "Thank you, Beloved."

"Good vibes?"

"Just what Eunice needed. At times like this I'm convinced that you're Michelangelo."

He shook his head. "Not old Mike. Boys his jolly. Picasso maybe."

She hugged him. "Anyone you want to be, darling, as long as you go on being mine. All right. I'll pose now, and eat at the breaks."

"Forgot. Letter from Mama. Read?"

"Certainly, darling. Let me up and find it."

He fetched it, still unopened. She sat up and glanced through it to see how much editing it would require. Uh huh, just as you expected, dearie, the periodic threat to come pay us "a nice long visit." Well, she knew how to deal with that. Out! Because Joe did not know how to refuse his mother anything. That one visit had been one too many—yet that had been when they had had two rooms, before she had found this wonderful one-big-everything studio room for Joe. Let that clinging old bag move in? No more jolly romps on the floor? No, Mama Branca, I will not let you ruin our happy nest with your smothering presence. You stay where you are and live on Welfare...and I'll send you a check from time to time and let you think it's a present from Joe. But that's all!

"Anything?"

"The usual, dearest. Her stomach still bothers her but the priest sent her to another doctor and she's doing better, she says. But let me start at the beginning. ‘My darling Baby Boy, Not much news since last time Mama wrote but if I don't write I don't never get a letter back. Tell Eunice to write a longer letter this time and tell me everything that's happened to you; a mother worries so. Eunice is a very nice girl even though I do think you would be better off with a nice girl of your own religion—'"

"Enough."

"Be tolerant, Joe. She's your mother. I don't mind and I will take time—tomorrow—to write her a long letter. I'll send it by Mercury in the company pouch so that she will be sure to get it; Boss doesn't mind. All right, I'll skip the rest of that; we know what she thinks of Protestants. Or ex-Protestants. I wonder what she would think if she heard us chanting ‘Om Mani Padme—'"

"Kark her drawers."

"Oh, Joe!" She skipped, including the self-invitation. "‘Angela is going to have another baby. The Visitor is sore at her but I gave the. Visitor a piece of my mind and I guess that learned her not to mistreat decent people. I can't see why they can't just leave us alone. What's wrong with having a baby?' Which of your sisters is Angela, Joe?"

"Third one. Visitor's right. Mama's wrong. Don't read all, Tits. Just read and tell."

"Yes, dear. Nothing more, really, just gossip about neighbors, remarks about the weather. The actual news is that your mother's stomach is better and Angela is pregnant. Give me a moment to shower this red and black off—Boss liked the combo, by the way—and I'll be ready to be painted or to pose or whatever. You can flash a pizza for me while I get clean and I'll gnaw it between times. And, dear? I shouldn't pose later than midnight and I'd be awfully pleased if you would get up when I do tomorrow—rather early, I'm afraid. But you can go back to bed."

"So?"

"For Boss, dearest. To cheer him up." She explained her idea of full-paint costume alternated with erotic styles.

He shrugged. "Glad to. Why gee-string? Silly. Old man dying, let him look. Can't hurt."

"Because, dear. Boss prides himself on being ‘modern' and ‘keeping up with the times.' But the truth is he formed his ideas so long ago that nakedness wasn't just uncommon₁ it was a sin. He thinks I'm a nice girl from so far back in the cornstalks that I've never been touched by changes. As long as I wear a minimum-gee—and paint and shoes—I'm dressed, not naked. By his ‘modern' standards, I mean. A nice girl pretending to be naughty to amuse him. Which he likes."

He shook his head. "No roz."

"Oh, but you do, dear. Symbolism, as you have explained to me about art. But it has to be Boss's symbols. Nudity doesn't mean a thing to our generation. But it does to Boss. If I leave off that scrap of nylon, then by his symbols I'm not just a sweet girl, naughty-but-nice; I'm a whore."

"Whores okay. Angela one."

(A clumsy one, she said under her breath.) "Sure they are. But not to Boss. The hard part is to guess what-his symbols are. I'm twenty-eight and he's over ninety and I can't possibly roz his mind. If I push it too far, he might be angry—even very angry; he might fire me. Then what would we do? We'd have to give up this lovely studio."

Still in Lotus, she looked around. Yes, lovely. Aside from the Gadabout parked near the door and the bed in the corner all the rest was the colorful clutter of an artist's studio, always changing and always the same. The steel grid over the high north windows made a pretty pattern—and was so strong that she never worried. She felt warm and safe and happy here.

"Eunice my darling—"

She was startled. Joe used short-talk so habitually that she was always surprised when he chose to shift idiom, even though he could use formal English as well as she could—well, almost, she corrected... but he was quite grammatical for a man who had bad only a high school practical curriculum. "Yes, dearest?"

"I roz it perfectly. Wasn't sure you did. Just testing, Beautiful. Not ninety myself but any artist understands figleaf symbol. Could happen you crowd Mr. Smith's symbols too hard, don' know. But we'll do it. Figleaf so that his mind can lie to itself—'No, no, mustn't touch; Mama spank'—then I paint you like sex crime looking for spot marked ‘X.'

"Oh, good!"

"But never worry about job. Sure, this pad is righteous, good north light, I like it. But we lose it, who cares? Broke don't scare me."

(It scares me, dear!) "I love you, darling."

"But we do it for nice old boy dying, not to save studio. Understand?"

"Roz indeed! Joe, you're the nicest husband a girl ever had."

He did not answer and got a pained scowl, which she recognized as birth pangs of creativity. So she kept still. Presently he sighed. "Down off ceiling. Problem what to do for Boss solves inspiration that put me up there. Tomor­row you're a mermaid."

"All right."

"And tonight. Upper body sea green with rosy glow showing through on lips and cheeks and nipples. Lower body golden fish scales blending at waist. Undersea background with sunlight filtering down. Traditional sea bottom symbols, romantic. But upside down."

She hesitated. "So?" (Hard to know when to ask, when to keep quiet, when Joe was creating.)

He smiled. "Fool-the-eye. You're swimming. Diving straight down to bottom, back arched, hair streaming, toes pointed—main light dapple-scrimmed for water. Beautiful. But can't wire you, even if had wires—no way to hide harness, and hair would hang down and buttocks and breasts would sag—"

"My breasts don't sag!"

"Chill it, Jill. You got beautiful breasts and you know I know. But masses of flesh sag and artist sees it. Everybody sees, just don' realize. Something wrong, don' know why. Eye not fooled. Has to be real dive, or it's fake. Bad art."

"Well," she said doubtfully, "if you borrowed a stepladder and dragged the mattress under your background, I suppose I could dive off and roll out and not hurt myself. I guess."

"I don't guess! Break pretty neck, little stupid. Dive up.

Not down."

"Huh?"

"I said. Background upside down. So jump straight up in air. Like going for hot return in volley ball. I shoot stereo stop-action, a thousandth. Shoot six, seven, eight, nine times till just right. Turn pic upside down—lovely mermaid diving for sea bottom."

"Oh. Yes, I'm stupid."

"Not stupid, just not artist." He started scowling again; she kept quiet. "Too much for one night. Tomorrow paint background, tonight paint you for drill. Then maybe stereo-mug some jumps against any background, more drill. Bed early, up early—paint you again for Boss."

"Fine," she agreed. "But why paint me twice, dear, if I'm to be a mermaid for Boss tomorrow? If you set up the cot for me and I slept alone, I wouldn't disturb paint job much. Then you could touch it up in the morning. Not get up as early."

He shook his head. "Won't paint quite same way for Boss. But won't let you sleep in paint anyhow."

"My skin won't break out."

"No, my darling. Your skin don' break out because I don' paint you too much, or too often, or let paint stay on too long—and always damn sure you get it all off, then oil you. But you see, I see, everybody see what happen to girls who paint too much. Pimples, blackheads, itching, scratching—ugly. Sure, we'll paint you for Boss from ears to toes—but not too often and scrub you minute you're home. That's official."

"Yes, sir."

"So scrub jet and scarlet off, while I flash pizza."

A few minutes later she shut off the shower and called out through the door of the bath unit.: "What did you say?"

"Forgot. Big Sam stopped by. Pizza ready."

"Cut me a chunk, that's a dear. What did he want? Money?"

"No. Well, I let him have a fin. But stopped to invite us. Sunday. All day meditation. Gigi's pad."

She stepped out into the room, till toweling. "All day, huh? Just us four? Or his whole class?"

"Neither. A Seven Circle."

"Swinging?"

"Suppose so. Didn't say."

"Swinging." She sighed. "Darling, I don't mind you lending him a five you'll never see. But Big Sam is no guru, he's just a stud. And a bliffy."

"Big Sam and Gigi share what they got, Eunice. And nobody has to swing. Ever."

"Theoretically, yes. But the only good way to break a Circle is never to join it. Especially a Seven Circle. Did you promise? I can grit my teeth and smile if I have to."

"No. Told him had to see you, tell him tomorrow."

"Well? What do you want me to say, dearest?"

"I'll tell him No."

"Dearest, I don't think you answered me. Is there some special reason you want us in this Seven? An art critic perhaps? Or a dealer? If it's Gigi you have on your mind, why not ask her to model some daytime while I'm working? She'd be up here at once, her tail quivering—I've seen her eyeing you."

He shook his head and grinned. "Nyet, Yvette. Believe, lass—I stalled Big Sam because possible you wanted to join in. But Big Sam chills me too—bad aura."

"Oh, I'm so relieved! I'll swing, darling; I promised you that when I asked you to marry me. And I have, the few times you've wanted to. And most were fun and only one struck me as boring. But I like to size up the players."

"Grab pizza, climb throne. Paint legs while you eat."

"Yes, darling." She mounted the model's throne with a I wedge of pizza in each hand; there followed a long period broken only by sounds of chomping, and of low profanity that punctuated his alternating pleasure and exasperation. Neither noticed either; Joe Branca was deep in the euphoria of creation, his wife was immersed in the warm glow of being cherished.

At last he said, "Down," and offered his hand.

"May I look?"

"No. Ribs and tits now. Don' raise arms yet. Want to study them."

"As if you didn't know every wrinkle."

"Shut up. Want to think about how to paint ‘em In the morning." Presently he said, "Been thinking maybe you crowd Boss too hard with only a gee-panty. Solved now."

"So."

"Da. Paint a bra on you."

"But wouldn't that spoil it, dear? Mermaids don't wear bras."

"Was problem. Bad empathy. So use sea shells. Flat curved kind with nubbly backs. You know."

"Sorry but I don't, dear. Sea shells are scarce in Iowa."

"No matter. Sea shells fix bad empathy, symbols all match." He grinned. "Pretty one, I'll paint sea-shell bra cups so fool-the-eye that Boss won' know for sure. He'll spend day trying to see whether is real bra or just paint. If he breaks down and asks—I win."

She gurgled happily. "Joe, you're a genuis!"