“How’s Elise, darling? I didn’t want to be a busybody and poke my nose in there, but I am concerned.”
“Well, she still can’t stand the dog.”
Momo barked in confirmation.
“And even though I’ve gone to see her every day since, she still hasn’t forgiven me for staying away for three months.”
“Darling, she’s just as unreasonable as I was, isn’t she? That’s too bad. I wish you could find someone more suitable. You know, it’s too bad you can’t murder Elise. Then she’d learn her lesson like I have.” She paused, crestfallen. “Oh, dam, that wouldn’t work either, would it? The dead and the living can’t get together very well.”
He crossed the room and sat down on the hassock in front of Alvina’s chair. Momo followed him and hopped up onto his lap. He petted the dog.
“You know something, Alvina?” he said. “If murder were the proper way of managing a woman, I wouldn’t have to bother with Elise at all. Because I would have already found the perfect woman in you.”
“That’s sweet of you, Claude.” Her smile was radiant. “Isn’t it too bad that things have to work out this way? That we couldn’t reach our perfect understanding until it was too late? Oh, I wish there were some way. I’ve asked about borrowing another body somewhere, but they say it can’t be done.”
“Yes, I wish there were some way too, Alvina,” he said.
Momo agreed, barking enthusiastically.
“You know,” Claude said suddenly, “I’ve just had a happy thought.”
“What, darling?” Alvina’s ghostly eyes lighted with hope.
“Well, though you can’t join me, I could join you.”
“Claude!”
“Yes, it’s rather drastic, I know.”
“What about Elise?”
“I don’t think she’d mourn more than a day or two.”
“But there are other things to consider, too. You’re still a young man, Claude. You have so much to live for.”
“What? Just tell me what? I lost everything when I lost you.”
“Claude, darling. Oh, I wish I could kiss you.”
“Can’t you? Have you really tried?”
“I know I can’t. I’ve been told. There’s a barrier between us.”
“Then if you can’t cross it, I certainly shall!”
“Oh, Claude, do you mean it?”
“Of course I mean it. There must be something appropriate in the medicine cabinet. I’d go up to that lake again and use it, darling, for sentimental reasons. But that would mean an awful delay. And I’m impatient to be with you again.”
“Claude, dearest...”
He stood up. “I’ll go see what’s in the medicine cabinet right now.”
He rushed off, but her voice stopped him. He turned back.
“Claude, get something for Momo too, will you?”
“Certainly. I don’t want to be separated from Momo, darling, any more than I want to be separated from you.”
When they met on the other side, Momo jumped down from Claude’s arms and went running to Alvina. She leaped into her mistress’s arms and cuddled there, giving off small, ecstatic squeaks.
“That’s a lucky dog,” Claude said. “When do I get my welcome kiss?”
But for the moment, Alvina and Momo were lost in the contemplation of each other, hugging and squealing and kissing. Claude was patient. He spent the time glancing around at his new surroundings.
“I never thought to ask you, darling,” he said, “but what kind of place is this anyway?”
What prompted the question was the fact that a couple of strangers were approaching. They were wearing a sort of uniform, like doormen, or perhaps guards. The uniforms had a red and black motif.
“Claude Crispin?” one of them asked.
“That’s me,” Claude said.
“Come with us, Mr. Crispin.”
“I’m afraid you don’t understand,” Claude objected. “This is my wife here. I intend to stay with her.”
It was Alvina who explained the difficulty. “Claude darling, Momo and I really would like to have you stay with us. But there are those old rules, darling. You’re a murderer, you know. You’ll have to go to the other place.”
And Alvina and Momo went back to hugging and kissing.
The Children of Noah
Richard Matheson
While your corpulent correspondent is among the first to admit he would be willing to shed a few pounds, he is shudderingly averse to losing them as did Mr. Ketchum in the sleeping town of Zachry, pop. 67!
It was just past three a.m. when Mr. Ketchum drove past the sign that read Zachry: pop. 67. He groaned. Another in an endless string of Maine seaside towns. He closed his eyes hard a second, then opened them again and pressed down on the accelerator. The Ford surged forward under him. Maybe, with luck, he’d reach a decent motel soon. It certainly wasn’t likely there’d be one in Zachry: pop. 67.
Mr. Ketchum shifted his heavy frame on the seat and stretched his legs. It had been a sour vacation. Motoring through New England’s historic beauty, communing with nature and nostalgia was what he’d planned. Instead, he’d found only boredom, exhaustion and over-expense.
Mr. Ketchum was not pleased.
The town seemed fast asleep as he drove along its Main Street. The only sound was that of the car’s engine, the only sight that of his raised headbeams splaying out ahead lighting up another sign. Speed 15 Limit.
“Sure, sure,” he muttered disgustedly, pressing down on the gas pedal. Three o’clock in the morning and the town fathers expected him to creep through their lousy hamlet. Mr. Ketchum watched the dark buildings rush past his window. Good-by Zachry, he thought. Farewell, pop. 67.
Then the other car appeared in the rear-view mirror. About half a block behind, a sedan with a turning red spotlight on its roof. He knew what kind of car it was. His foot curled off the accelerator and he felt his heartbeat quicken. Was it possible they hadn’t noticed how fast he was going?
The question was answered as the dark car pulled up to the Ford and a man in a big hat leaned out of the front window. “Pull over!” he barked.
Swallowing dryly, Mr. Ketchum eased his car over to the curb. He drew up the emergency brake, turned the ignition key and the car was still. The police car nosed in toward the curb and stopped! The right front door opened.
The glare of Mr. Ketchum’s headlights outlined the dark figure approaching. He felt around quickly with his left foot and stamped down on the knob, dimming the lights. He swallowed again. Damned nuisance this. Three a.m. in the middle of nowhere and a hick policeman picks him up for speeding. Mr. Ketchum gritted his teeth and waited.
The man in the dark uniform and wide-brimmed hat leaned over into the window. “License.”
Mr. Ketchum slid a shaking hand into his inside pocket and drew out his billfold. He felt around for his license. He handed it over, noticed how expressionless the face of the policeman was. He sat there quietly while the policeman held a flashlight beam on the license.
“From New Jersey.”
“Yes, that... that’s right,” said Mr. Ketchum.
The policeman kept staring at the license. Mr. Ketchum stirred restlessly on the seat and pressed his lips together. “It hasn’t expired,” he finally said.
He saw the dark head of the policeman lift. Then, he gasped as the narrow circle of flashlight blinded him. He twisted his head away.
The light was gone. Mr. Ketchum blinked his watering eyes.
“Don’t they read traffic signs in New Jersey?” the policeman asked.
“Why, I... You mean the sign that said p-population 67?”