The Number of the Beast Read online

  “Would your father accept a complete set of Weird Tales?”

  “Would he! Northwest Smith and Jirel of Joiry? I’m going to borrow them—or he can’t look at my Oz books. I’m stubborn, I am. And selfish. And mean!”

  “‘Stubborn’ stipulated. The others denied.”

  Deety stuck out her tongue. “You’ll find out.” Suddenly her face was solemn. “But I sorrow, my prince, that I have no present for my husband.”

  “But you have!”

  “I do?”

  “Yes. Beautifully wrapped and making me dizzy with heavenly fragrance.”

  “Oh.” She looked solemn but serenely happy. “Will my husband unwrap me? Please?”

  I did.

  That is all anyone is ever going to know about our wedding night.

  IV

  Because two things equal to the same thing

  are never equal to each other.

  Deety:

  I woke early as I always do at Snug Harbor, wondered why I was ecstatically happy—then remembered, and turned my head. My husband—“husband!”—what a heart-filling word—my husband was sprawled face down beside me, snoring softly and drooling onto his pillow. I held still, thinking how beautiful he was, how gently strong and gallantly tender.

  I was tempted to wake him but I knew that my darling needed rest. So I eased out of bed and snuck noiselessly into my bath—our bath—and quietly took care of this and that. I did not risk drawing a tub—although I needed one. I have a strong body odor that calls for at least one sudsy bath a day, two if I am going out that evening—and this morning I was certainly whiff as a polecat.

  I made do with a stand-up bath by letting water run in a noiseless trickle into the basin—I would grab that proper bath after my Captain was awake; meanwhile I would stay downwind.

  I pulled on briefs, started to tie on a halter—stopped and looked in the mirror. I have a face-shaped face and a muscular body that I keep in top condition. I would never reach semifinals in a beauty contest but my teats are shapely, exceptionally firm, stand out without sagging and look larger than they are because my waist is small for my height, shoulders and hips. I’ve known this since I was twelve, from mirror and from comments by others.

  Now I was acutely aware of them from what Zebadiah calls his “infantile bias.” I was awfully glad I had them; my husband liked them so much and had told me so again and again, making me feel warm and tingly inside. Teats get in the way, and I once found out painfully why Amazons are alleged to have removed their starboard ones to make archery easier.

  Today I was most pleased that Mama had required me to wear a bra for tennis and horseback and such—no stretch marks, no “Cooper’s droop,” no sag, and my husband called them “wedding presents”! Hooray!

  Doubtless they would become baby-chewed and soft—but by then I planned to have Zebadiah steadfastly in love with me for better reasons. You hear that, Deety? Don’t be stubborn, don’t be bossy, don’t be difficult—and above all don’t sulk! Mama never sulked, although Pop wasn’t and isn’t easy to live with. For example he dislikes the word “teat” even though I spell it correctly and pronounce it correctly (as if spelled “tit”). Pop insists that teats are on cows, not women.

  After I started symbolic logic and information theory I became acutely conscious of precise nomenclature, and tried to argue with Pop, pointing out that “breast” denoted the upper frontal torso of male and female alike, that “mammary gland” was medical argot, but “teat” was correct English.

  He had slammed down a book. “I don’t give a damn what The Oxford English Dictionary says! As long as I am head of this house, language used in it will conform to my notions of propriety!”

  I never argued such points with Pop again. Mama and I went on calling them “teats” between ourselves and did not use such words in Pop’s presence. Mama told me gently that logic had little to do with keeping a husband happy and that anyone who “won” a family argument had in fact lost it. Mama never argued and Pop always did what she wanted—if she really wanted it. When at seventeen I had to grow up and try to replace her, I tried to emulate her—not always successfully. I inherited some of Pop’s temper, some of Mama’s calm. I try to suppress the former and cultivate the latter. But I’m not Jane, I’m Deety.

  Suddenly I wondered why I was putting on a halter. The day was going to be hot. While Pop is so cubical about some things that he turns up at the corners, skin is not one of them. (Possibly he had been, then Mama had gently gotten her own way.) I like to be naked and usually am at Snug Harbor, weather permitting. Pop is almost as casual. Aunt Hilda was family-by-choice; we had often used her pool and never with suits—screened for the purpose.

  That left just my lovely new husband, and if there was a square centimeter of me he had not examined (and praised), I could not recall it. Zebadiah is easy to be with, in bed or out. After our hasty wedding I was slightly tense lest he ask me when and how I had mislaid my virginity…but when the subject could have come up I forgot it and he apparently never thought about it. I was the lusty wench I have always been and he seemed pleased—I know he was.

  So why was I tying on this teat hammock? I was—but why?

  Because two things equal to the same thing are never equal to each other. Basic mathematics if you select the proper sheaf of postulates. People are not abstract symbols. I could be naked with any one of them but not all three.

  I felt a twinge that Pop and Aunt Hilda might be in the way on my honeymoon…then realized that Zebadiah and I were just as much in the way on theirs—and stopped worrying; it would work out.

  Took one last look in the mirror, saw that my scrap of halter, like a good evening gown, made me nakeder than skin would. My nipples popped out; I grinned and stuck out my tongue at them. They stayed up; I was happy.

  I started to cat-foot through our bedroom when I noticed Zebadiah’s clothes—and stopped. The darling would not want to wear evening dress to breakfast. Deety, you are not being wifely—figure this out. Are any of Pop’s clothes where I can get them without waking the others?

  Yep! An old shirt that I had liberated as a house coat, khaki shorts I had been darning the last time we had been down—both in my wardrobe in my—our!—bathroom. I crept back, got them, laid them over my darling’s evening clothes so that he could not miss them.

  I went through and closed after me two soundproof doors, then no longer had to keep quiet. Pop does not tolerate anything shoddy—if it doesn’t work properly, he fixes it. Pop’s B.S. was in mechanical engineering, his M.S. in physics, his Ph.D. in mathematics; there isn’t anything he can’t design and build. A second Leonardo da Vinci—or a Paul Dirac.

  No one in the everything room. I decided not to head for the kitchen end yet; if the others slept a bit longer I could get in my morning tone-up. No violent exercise this morning, mustn’t get more whiff than I am—just controlled limbering. Stretch high, then palms to the floor without bending knees—ten is enough. Vertical splits, both legs, then the same to the floor with my forehead to my shin, first right, then left.

  I was doing a back bend when I heard, “Ghastly. The battered bride. Deety, stop that.”

  I continued into a backwards walkover and stood up facing Pop’s bride. “Good morning, Aunt Hillbilly.” I kissed and hugged her. “Not battered. Bartered, maybe.”

  “Battered,” she repeated, yawning. “Who gave you those bruises? What’s-his-name?—your husband.”

  “Not a bruise on me and you’ve known his name longer than I have. What causes those circles under the bags under the rings under your eyes?”

  “Worry, Deety. Your father is very ill.”

  “What? How?”

  “Satyriasis. Incurable—I hope.”

  I let out my breath. “Aunt Hillbilly, you’re a bitchie, bitchie tease.”

  “Not a bitch this morning, dear. A nanny goat—who has been topped all night by the most amazing billy goat on the ranch. And him past fifty and me only twenty-nine. Asto
unding.”

  “Pop’s forty-nine, you’re forty-two. You’re complaining?”

  “Oh, no! Had I known twenty-four years ago what I know now, I would never have let Jane lay eyes on him.”

  “—what you know now—Last night you were claiming to have sneaked into Pop’s bed, over and over again. Doesn’t jibe, Aunt Nanny Goat.”

  “Those were quickies. Not a real test.” She yawned again.

  “Auntie, you lie in your teeth. You were never in his bed until last night.”

  “How do you know, dear? Unless you were in it yourself? Were you? Incest?”

  “What have you got against incest, you bawdy old nanny goat? Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it.”

  “Oh, so you have? How fascinating—tell Auntie!”

  “I’ll tell you the truth, Aunt Hilda. Pop has never laid a hand on me. But if he had… I would not have refused. I love him.”

  Hilda stopped to kiss me more warmly than before. “So do I, dear one. I honor you for what you just told me. He could have had me, too. But never did. Until last night. Now I’m the happiest woman in America.”

  “Nope. Second happiest. You’re looking at the happiest.”

  “Mmm, a futile discussion. So my problem child is adequate?”

  “Well…he’s not a member of the Ku Klux Klan—”

  “I never thought he was! Zebbie isn’t that sort.”

  “—but he’s a wizard under a sheet!”

  Aunt Hilda looked startled, then guffawed. “I surrender. We’re both the happiest woman in the world.”

  “And the luckiest. Aunt Nanny Goat, that robe of Pop’s is too hot. I’ll get something of mine. How about a tie-on fit-anybody bikini?”

  “Thanks, dear, but you might wake Zebbie.” Aunt Hilda opened Pop’s robe and held it wide, fanning it. I looked at her with new eyes. She’s had three or four term contracts, no children. At forty-two her face looks thirty-five, but from her collarbones down she could pass for eighteen. Little bitty teats—I had more at twelve. Flat belly and lovely legs. A china doll—makes me feel like a giant.

  She added, “If it weren’t for your husband, I would simply wear this old hide. It is hot.”

  “If it weren’t for your husband, so would I.”

  “Jacob? Deety, he’s changed your diapers. I know how Jane reared you. True modesty, no false modesty.”

  “It’s not the same, Aunt Hilda. Not today.”

  “No, it’s not. You always did have a wise head, Deety. Women are tough-minded, men are not; we have to protect them…while pretending to be fragile ourselves, to build up their fragile egos. But I’ve never been good at it—I like to play with matches.”

  “Aunt Hilda, you are very good at it, in your own way. I’m certain Mama knows what you’ve done for Pop and blesses it and is happy for Pop. For all of us—all five of us.”

  “Don’t make me cry, Deety. Let’s break out the orange juice; our men will wake any time. First secret of living with a man: Feed him as soon as he wakes.”

  “So I know.”

  “Yes, of course you know. Ever since we lost Jane. Does Zebbie know how lucky he is?”

  “He says so. I’m going to try hard not to disillusion him.”

  V

  “—a wedding ring is not a ring in my nose—”

  Jake:

  I woke in drowsy euphoria, became aware that I was in bed in our cabin that my daughter calls “Snug Harbor”—then woke completely and looked at the other pillow—the dent in it. Not a dream! Euphoric for the best of reasons!

  Hilda was not in sight. I closed my eyes and simulated sleep as I had something to do. “Jane?” I said in my mind.

  “I hear you, dearest one. It has my blessing. Now we are all happy together.”

  “We couldn’t expect Deety to become a sour old maid, just to take care of her crotchety old father. This young man, he’s okay, to the nth power. I felt it at once, and Hilda is certain of it.”

  “He is. Don’t worry, Jacob. Our Deety can never be sour and you will never be old. This is exactly as Hilda and I planned it, more than five of your years ago. Predestined. She told you so, last night.”

  “Okay, darling.”

  “Get up and brush your teeth and take a quick shower. Don’t dawdle, breakfast is waiting. Call me when you need me. Kiss.”

  So I got up, feeling like a boy on Christmas morning. Everything was jake with Jake; Jane had put her stamp of approval on it. Let me tell you, you nonexistent reader sitting there with a tolerant sneer: Don’t be smug. Jane is more real than you are.

  The spirit of a good woman cannot be coded by nucleic acids arranged in a double helix, and only an overeducated fool could think so. I could prove that mathematically save that mathematics can never prove anything. No mathematics has any content. All any mathematics can do is—sometimes—turn out to be useful in describing some aspects of our so-called “physical universe.” That is a bonus; most forms of mathematics are as meaning-free as chess.

  I don’t know any final answers. I’m an all-around mechanic and a competent mathematician…and neither is of any use in unscrewing the inscrutable.

  Some people go to church to talk to God, Whoever He is. When I have something on my mind, I talk to Jane. I don’t hear “voices,” but the answers that, come into my mind have as much claim to infallibility, it seems to me, as any handed down by any Pope speaking ex cathedra. If this be blasphemy, make the most of it; I won’t budge. Jane is, was, and ever shall be, worlds without end. I had the priceless privilege of living with her for eighteen years and I can never lose her.

  Hilda was not in the bath but my toothbrush was damp. I smiled at this. Logical, as any germs I was harboring, Hilda now had—and Hilda, for all her playfulness, is no-nonsense practical. She faces danger without a qualm (had done so last night) but she would say “Gesundheit!” to an erupting volcano even as she fled from it. Jane is equally brave but would omit the quip. They are alike only in—no, not that way, either. Different but equal. Let it stand that I have been blessed in marriage by two superb women. (And blessed by a daughter whose Pop thinks she is perfect.)

  I showered, shaved, and brushed my teeth in nine minutes and dressed in under nine seconds as I simply wrapped around my waist a terry-cloth sarong Deety had bought for me—the day promised to be a scorcher. Even that hip wrap was a concession to propriety, i.e., I did not know my new son-in-law well enough to subject him abruptly to our casual ways; it might offend Deety.

  I was last up, and saw that all had made much the same decision. Deety was wearing what amounted to a bikini minimum (indecently “decent”!) and my bride was “dressed” in a tie-on job belonging to Deety. The tie-ties had unusually large bows; Hilda is tiny, my daughter is not. Zeb was the only one fully dressed: an old pair of working shorts, a worn-out denim shirt Deety had confiscated, and his evening shoes. He was dressed for the street in any western town save for one thing: I’m built like a pear, Zeb is built like the Gray Lensman.

  My shorts fitted him well enough—a bit loose—but his shoulders were splitting the shirt’s seams. He looked uncomfortable.

  I took care of amenities—a good-morning to all, a kiss for my bride, one for my daughter, a handshake for my son-in-law—good hands, calloused. Then I said, “Zeb, take that shirt off. It’s hot and getting hotter. Relax. This is your home.”

  “Thanks, Pop.” Zeb peeled off my shirt.

  Hilda stood up on her chair, making her about as tall as Zeb. “I’m a militant women’s-rights gal,” she announced, “and a wedding ring is not a ring in my nose—a ring that you have not yet given me, you old goat.”

  “When have I had time? You’ll get one, dear—first chance.”

  “Excuses, excuses! Don’t interrupt when I’m orating. Sauce for the gander is no excuse for goosing the goose. If you male chauvinist pigs—I mean ‘goats’—can dress comfortably, Deety and I have the same privilege.” Whereupon my lovely little bride untied that bikini top and threw it aside
like a stripper.

  “‘“What’s for breakfast?” asked Pooh,’” I misquoted.

  I was not answered. Deety made me proud of her for the nth time. For years she had consulted me, at least with her eyes, on “policy decisions.” Now she looked not at me but at her husband. Zeb was doing Old Stone Face, refusing assent or dissent. Deety stared at him, gave a tiny shrug, reached behind her and untied or unsnapped something and discarded her own top.

  “I said, ‘What’s for breakfast?’” I repeated.

  “Greedy gut,” my daughter answered. “You men have had baths, while Aunt Hilda and I haven’t had a chance to get clean for fear of waking you slugabeds.”

  “Is that what it is? I thought a skunk had wandered past. ‘What’s for breakfast?’”

  “Aunt Hilda, in only hours Pop has lost all the training I’ve given him for five years. Pop, it’s laid out and ready to go. How about cooking while Hilda and I grab a tub?”

  Zeb stood up. “I’ll cook, Deety; I’ve been getting my own breakfast for years.”

  “Hold it, Buster!” my bride interrupted. “Sit down, Zebbie. Deety, never encourage a man to cook breakfast; it causes him to wonder if women are necessary. If you always get his breakfast and don’t raise controversial issues until after his second cup of coffee, you can get away with murder the rest of the time. They don’t notice other odors when they smell bacon. I’m going to have to coach you.”

  My daughter reversed the field, fast. She turned to her husband and said meekly, “What does my Captain wish for breakfast?”

  “My Princess, whatever your lovely hands offer me.”

  What we were offered, as fast as Deety could pour batter and Hilda could serve, was a gourmet specialty that would enrage a Cordon Bleu but which, for my taste, is ambrosia: A one-eyed Texas stack—a tall stack of thin, tender buttermilk pancakes to Jane’s recipe, supporting one large egg, up and easy, surrounded by hot sausage, and the edifice drowned in melting butter and hot maple syrup, with a big glass of orange juice and a big mug of coffee on the side.