In January, at two o’clock one morning, Jim Briskin woke with the telephone ringing. Beside him in the bed, Pat stirred and sat up as be reached for the receiver.
“H-h-hey!” Art shouted as he put the receiver to his ear. “Hey, Jim?”
“Is it time?” he muttered. The apartment was pitch—dark and cold. Pat snapped on the lamp.
“Now?” he said, rubbing his eyes.
“Yeah, I think so,” Art said. “Can you come around?”
He dressed, got in the car, and drove to the house on Fillmore Street. At the door Art met him.
“Yeah,” he said desperately, “It’s every five minutes.” Entering the apartment, he said, “Rachael?”
She had put on a long, pink-wool robe; she was sitting on the edge of the bed, pushing at her hard pale temples with her hands.
“Yes,” she said in a grating voice.
“She’s in a lot of pain,” Art said, hurrying past him to his wife “Let’s go.”
Jim picked her up, robe and all, and carried her out to the car. A few minutes later they were driving in the direction of the hospital.
Later, as he and Art sat in the hospital waiting room, he thought to himself that this was the only time. He had never waited for this; he had never waited while a woman gave birth to a child. From the pay phone he called Pat to tell her how it was going.
“I guess they give them something so they won’t feel it,” he said to Art, walking back to him. “Y-y-yeah,” Art said.
“But that doesn’t help us,” he said. It did not take away his own concern. So this, he thought, was how it felt. After a while he said, “That’s a sweet wife you have.”
Art nodded.
“You’re lucky,” he said. “I’ve never seen anybody like her.”
Beyond the doors of the hospital a few cars moved in the early, morning darkness. To ease his tension, Jim Briskin walked over and stood with his hands in his pockets.
One of the cars towed behind it a huge white papier-mâché float-like sign. The car moved inflexibly and the sign followed. On the sign were words, vast words for everyone to read.
Words, he thought. Here, at four o’clock in the morning, with no one up to read, the words were still being towed by. Even here. Still circulating the streets.
For a moment it seemed to him that the sign was a Looney Luke sign. But he was wrong. It was not. Even so, he thought, it might as well have been.
He watched the sign. The words hovered; they remained as long as possible. No, he thought. You can’t come in here.
The words began to leave.
Leave, he said.
Slowly the words were gone. He stood at the doors to be sure. And they did not come back. He watched and waited, and they did not come back.
Book info
Title: The Broken Bubble
Authors: Philip K. Dick
Year: 1988-07-00
ISBN-10: 1-55710-012-8
ISBN-13: 978-1-55710-012-2
Publisher: Arbor House / William Morrow
Price: $16.95
Pages: 246
Binding: hc
Type: NOVEL