The Fiend by Margaret Millar Page B

guy to keep his rec­ord with a lot of crazy women scooting around in kiddie cars?”
    â€œShut up,” she said. “Please shut up.”
    â€œWell, well, now you’re trying to get tough with me, eh? Lis­ten, lady, you’ll be damn lucky if I don’t report you for reckless driving, maybe drunk driving. You been drinking?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThey all say that. Where’s your driver’s license?”
    â€œIn my purse.”
    â€œGet it out.”
    â€œPlease don’t—”
    â€œLady, a near accident like this happens and I’m supposed to check on it, see? Maybe you’ve got some kind of restriction on your license, like you’re to wear glasses when you’re driving, or a hearing aid.”
    She fumbled around in her purse until she found her wallet with her driver’s license in it. On the license there was a little picture of her, taken the day she’d passed her test. She was smiling confidently and happily into the camera.
    She saw the truck driver staring at the picture in disbelief. “This is you, lady?”
    She wanted to reach out and strike him between the eyes, but instead she said, “It was taken three years ago. I’ve been— things have happened to me. When you lose weight, it always shows in the face, it makes you appear—well, older. I was try­ing to think of a nicer word for it but there isn’t one, is there? More aged? That’s no improvement. More ancient, decrepit? Worn out? Obsolete?”
    â€œLady, I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, looking embar­rassed. “I mean—oh hell, let’s get out of here.”
    A crowd had begun to gather. The truck driver waved them away and climbed back into his cab. The green coupé had long since disappeared.
    The two girls, on Mike’s orders, were sitting on a bench in an area of the playground hidden from the street by an eight-foot oleander hedge. Mike was lying face down on the grass nearby, listening to a baseball game on a transistor radio. Every now and then he raised his head, consulted his wrist watch in an authori­tative manner, and gave the girls what was intended to be a hypnotic glance.
    They had both been absolutely silent and motionless for seven minutes except for the occasional blink of an eye or twitch of a nose. Mike was beginning to worry about whether he actually had hypnotized them and how he was going to snap them out of it, when Jessie suddenly jumped off the bench.
    â€œOh, I hate this game! It’s not even a game, seeing who can stay stillest the longest.”
    â€œYou’re just sore because Mary Martha won,” Mike said air­ily. “I was betting she would. You can’t keep your trap shut for two seconds.”
    â€œI can if I want to.”
    â€œYackety yak.”
    â€œAnyhow, I know why you’re making us sit here.”
    â€œO clever one, do tell.”
    â€œSo none of your buddies going past will see you baby-sitting. I heard you tell Daddy you’d never be able to hold up your head in public again if they saw you playing with two little girls. But Daddy said you had to play with us anyway. Or else.”
    â€œWell, I wish I’d taken the or else,” Mike said in disgust. “Anything’d be better than looking after a pair of dimwitted kids who should be able to look after themselves. I didn’t need a baby-sitter at your age.”
    Jessie blushed, but the only place it showed was across the bridge of her nose where repeated sunburns had peeled off layers of skin. “I don’t need one either except I’ve got sore hands.”
    â€œYou’re breaking my heart with your itty bitty sore hands. Man, oh man, you get more mileage out of a couple of blisters than I could get from a broken neck.”
    â€œIf I won the game,” Mary Martha said wistfully, “may I move now? There’s a bee on my arm and it tickles