“Seems to me there’s a coolness between the two of you,” Leo said. “It sure would be terrible, Jack, if you grew apart. That’s a fine woman you got there–one in a million.”
“I recognize that,” Jack said uncomfortably.
“Back Home,” Leo said, “when you were a young fellow, you always played around a lot. But I know you’re settled down, now.”
“I am,” Jack said. “And I think you’re imagining things.”
“You do seem withdrawn, Jack,” his father said. “I hope that old trouble of yours, you know what I mean, isn’t bothering you. I’m talking about–”
“I know what you’re talking about.”
Relentlessly, Leo went on, “When I was a boy there was no mental illness like there is now. It’s a sign of the times; too many people, too much overcrowding. I remember when you first got sick, and a long time before that, say from when you were seventeen on, you were cold toward other people, uninterested in them. Moody, too. Seems to me you’re like that, now.”
Jack glared at his father. This was the trouble with having one’s folks visit; they could never resist the temptation to resume their old roles as the All-wise, the All-knowing. To Leo, Jack was not a grown man with a wife and child; he was simply his son Jack.
“Look, Leo,” Jack said. “Out here there are very few people; this is a sparsely settled planet, as yet. Naturally, people here are less gregarious; they have to be more innerdirected than back Home where it’s like you said, just a mobscene day after day.”
Leo nodded. “Hmm. But that should make you more glad to see fellow humans.”
“If you’re referring to yourself, I’m very glad to see you.”
“Sure, Jack,” Leo said, “I know. Maybe I’m just tired. But you don’t seem to say much; you’re preoccupied.”
“My work,” Jack said. “This boy Manfred, this autistic child–I have that on my mind all the time.”
But, as in the old days, his father could see through his pretexts effortlessly, with true parental instinct. “Come on, boy,” Leo said. “You got a lot on your mind, but I know how you work; your job is with your hands, and I’m talking about your mind, it’s your mind that’s turned inward. Can you get that psychotherapy business here on Mars? Don’t tell me no, because I know better.”
“I’m not going to tell you no,” Jack said, “but I will tell you that it’s none of your goddamn business.”
Beside him in the darkness his father seemed to shrink, to settle. “O.K., boy,” he murmured. “Sorry I butted in.”
They were both uncomfortably silent.
“Hell,” Jack said, “let’s not quarrel, Dad. Let’s go back inside and have a drink or something and then turn in. Silvia fixed up a good soft bed for you in the other bedroom; I know you’ll have a good rest.”
“Silvia’s very attentive to a person’s needs,” Leo said, with a faint note of accusation toward his son. Then his voice softened as he said, “Jack, I always worry about you. Maybe I’m old-fashioned and don’t understand about this–mental illness business; everybody seems to have it nowadays; it’s common, like flu and polio used to be, like when we were kids and almost everybody caught measles. Now you have this. One out of every three, I heard on TV, one time. Skizo–whatever. I mean, Jack, with so much to live for, why would anyone turn his back on life, like these skizo people do. It doesn’t make sense. You got a whole planet to conquer, here. Tomorrow, for instance, I’m going with you to the F.D.R. Mountains, and you can show me around all over, and then I’ve got all the details on legal procedure here; I’m going to be buying. Listen: You buy in, too, you hear me? I’ll advance you the money.” He grinned hopefully at Jack, showing his stainless-steel teeth.
“It’s not my cup of tea,” Jack said. “But thanks.”
“I’ll pick out the parcel for you,” Leo offered.
“No. I’m just not interested.”
“You–enjoying your job, now, Jack? Making this machine to talk to the little boy who can’t speak? Sounds like a worthy occupation; I’m proud to hear about it. David is a swell kid, and boy, is he proud of his dad.”
“I know he is,” Jack said.
“David doesn’t show any signs of that skizo thing, does he?”
“No,” Jack said.
Leo said, “I don’t know where you got yours, certainly not from me–I love people.”
“I do, too,” Jack said. He wondered how his father would act if he knew about Doreen. Probably Leo would be griefstricken; he came from a strait-laced generation–born in 1924, a long, long time ago. It was a different world, then. Amazing, how his father had adapted to this world, now; a miracle. Leo, born in the boom period following World War One, and now standing here on the edge of the Martian desert . . . but he still would not understand about Doreen, about how vital it was for him to maintain an intimate contact of this sort, at any cost; or rather, almost any cost.
“What’s her name?” Leo said.
“W-what?” Jack stammered.
“I got a little of that telepathic sense,” Leo said in a toneless voice. “Don’t I?”
After a pause, Jack said, “Evidently.”
“Does Silvia know?”
“No.”
“I could tell because you didn’t look me in the eye.”
“Balls,” Jack said fiercely.
“Is she married, too? She got kids, too, this other woman you’re mixed up with?”
Jack said in as level a voice as possible, “Why don’t you use your telepathic sense and find out?”
“I just don’t want to see Silvia hurt,” Leo said.
“She won’t be,” Jack said.
“Too bad,” Leo said, “to come all this way and find out something like this. Well–” He sighed. “I got my business, anyhow. Tomorrow you and I’ll get up good and early and get started.”
Jack said, “Don’t be too harsh a judge, Dad.”
“All right,” Leo agreed. “I know, it’s modern times. You think by this playing around you keep yourself well–right? Maybe so. Maybe it’s a way to sanity. I don’t mean you’re not sane–”
“Just tainted,” Jack said, with violent bitterness. Christ, your own father, he thought. What an ordeal. What a miserable tragedy.
“I know you’ll come out O.K.,” Leo said. “I can see now that you’re struggling; it’s not just playing around. I can tell by your voice–you got troubles. Same ones you always had, only as you get older you wear out, and it’s harder–right? Yeah, I see that. This planet is lonely. It’s a wonder all you emigrants didn’t go crazy right off the bat. I can see why you would value love anywhere you can find it. What you need is something like what I’ve got, this land thing of mine; maybe you can find it in building your machine for that poor mute kid. I’d like to see him.”
“You will,” Jack said. “Possibly tomorrow.”
They stood for a moment longer, and then they walked back into the house. “Does Silvia still take dope?” Leo asked.
“Dope!” He laughed. “Phenobarbital. Yes, she does.”
“Such a nice girl,” Leo said. “Too bad she’s so tense and worries so much. And helping that unfortunate widow next door, like you were telling me.” In the living room, Leo seated himself in Jack’s easy chair, crossed his legs and leaned back, sighing, making himself comfortable so that he could continue talking . . . he definitely had much more to say, on a variety of subjects, and he intended to say it.
In bed, Silvia lay almost lost in sleep, her faculties doused by the 100 milligram tablet of phenobarbital which she had taken, as usual, upon retiring. Vaguely, she had heard the murmur of her husband’s and her father-in-law’s voices from the yard; once, their tone became sharp and she had sat up, alarmed.
Are they going to bicker? she asked herself. God, I hope not; I hope Leo’s stay isn’t going to disrupt things. However, their voices had sunk back down, and now she rested easily once more.
He certainly is a fine old man, she thought. Much like Jack, only more set in his ways.
Lately, since he had started working for Arnie Kott, her husband had changed. No doubt it was the eerie job which he had been given; the mute, autistic Steiner boy upset her, and she had been sorry from the first to see him appear. Life was complicated enough already. The boy flitted in and out of the house, always running on his toes, his eyes always darting as if he saw objects not present, heard sounds beyond the normal range. If only time could be turned back and Norbert Steiner could be somehow restored to life! If only . . .
In her drugged mind she saw, in a flash, that ineffectual little man setting out in the morning with his suitcases of wares, salesman off on his rounds, yogurt and blackstrap molasses.