THE ANSWER
By Emil Petaja
He had strangled Lisa many times in his
dreams. But always, as she died, the phone rang.
Did he dare to pick it up and answer the call?...
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
September 1951
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The room was dark. It was always dark, so dark he couldn't see thebed, the soft wide bed with the plum satin headpiece that was studdedwith cushioned buttons, and the triangle of chiffon that was drapedelegantly from the ceiling. The Venetian blinds were shut tight, sothat not even the blackness of the black summer's night could be seen.
John Reeve couldn't see the bed, and he also couldn't see his tall selfin the modern half-moon mirror of his wife's dressing table across fromhim. Most of all he couldn't see her—Lisa, his wife.
But he could hear and smell. He could hear Lisa breathing softly. Hecould scent her intoxicating perfume which clung to the hot windlessair of the room. Then there was the uneven pounding of his ownheart—that told him he was here, here in his wife's apartment.
It was so late. It was that dark hour when the planets themselvessleep, couched against their black bed of space. It was that dark hourwhen illusion takes hold and reality wavers in the balance.
Standing there, John Reeve forgot. He forgot—everything. Who hewas, where he had come from, what he was doing here in Lisa's uptownapartment. He didn't belong here. Lisa didn't belong to him any more.It was over. She belonged to—
Why? Why had she left him?
He couldn't remember. He tried, but he couldn't remember. He couldn'teven remember how he got in here. Had he stolen a key? Bribed thered-head at the desk downstairs?
He couldn't even remember two minutes ago.
He stood there in the hot windless dark, listening to Lisa's softbreathing, listening to the uneven rhythm of his heart. He suckedin the heady perfume that he had reason to remember so well. He didremember that. He saw rows of little bottles, lavender bottles, oddlyshaped bottles. Anniversaries. Birthdays. No special days. What wasit called? Tigress? Musetta? Jealousy? Maybe. Maybe that was it. Hecouldn't remember concreteness, only things you feel more than youthink about.
Why didn't Lisa ever open her window at night? Such a hot summer'snight as this?
He curved a little smile into the perfumed dark. Lisa had always beenlike that. Always. No fresh air fiend Lisa. Lisa shrank from draughtsas from dragons. She always kept her windows shut tight at night. Theyhad quarrelled about that—too. Lisa loved warmth. She was like akitten snuggling cosily in front of the fire, a lissome tawny-hairedkitten.
And now.
John Reeve sighed. Because now he remembered the one important thing hehad to remember. He remembered why he had come here, to Lisa's uptownapartment, now in the darkest corner of the hot summer's night. Allin a rush it came to him, a rush of tremulous feeling. There was nothought behind it. It was pure feeling. He didn't stop to analyze thewherefores to any degree, or to catalog them neatly in the pigeonholesof his brain. He just knew what he had to do and he did it.
He walked over to the bed and strangled Lisa.
It wasn't bad, but the long moment afterwards was.
The room was just the same. The windless heat, the jealous scent ofLisa's perfume mingled with the scent of her tawny unseen hair. Hishands saw it though, blindly, so soft and silky under them. Lisa was sostill, she died so gently.
The silence, while he hung