Shivers by William Schoell

once to talk to her husband about the changing role of women, about “alternate lifestyles.” He had listened uncomprehendingly, too much of the old school to be concerned. She believed with all her heart that the new, freer attitudes were right, were necessary. Not every woman had to marry and raise a family if she didn’t want to. Why hadn’t she realized that earlier, so at least she could have experimented? Maybe she’d have stuck to her old life, gone back to the housewifey routine after she’d had her fling. It was the not-knowing that bothered her. And her daughter, their first child, with so much talent—what had she done? Gotten married at nineteen. To a bum yet.
    Bobby was fast asleep. Cute little kid. Looked more like her than like his father. Seven years old. Helpless. She went over to the bed and hugged him softly, tenderly. How many children had run away today, she wondered, so many of them unloved, running from unbearable home lives and horrible situations. How many kids would wake up to find a parent gone? What a sad, heartbreaking life it could be, this family life. How sad and unrewarding. She wanted things to be different for this child. Different.
    She pushed the boy over slightly, careful not to wake him, and spent the night at his side.
    One room away, her husband was drifting off to sleep. He would have been crying had he not been taught that men don’t cry. He was scared. He felt so alone. What a sad life, he thought. So sad.
     
    There was a wild party at Harry Faulkin’s place that night. And it was still going strong at 3:30. It was his thirty-first birthday and he’d decided to throw himself a bash. Why not? No one could give a party for Harry Faulkin like Harry Faulkin could give himself. New York City’s premiere weatherman would do it up BIG!
    He had his multi-level apartment done up in weather motifs. Huge cotton wads were thrown all over the place to resemble clouds. He had special sprinklers installed so that it looked as if the walls were dripping rain. His stereo played a sound-effects recording that imitated thunder, and the lights were gimmicked so that they would flash on and off like lightning. Fans were situated throughout the room, making it windy, and giving the more scantily clad guests a hypochondriacal case of the sniffles. It was absolutely crass.
    Everybody loved it.
    Some people thought that Harry Faulkin was an obnoxious, conceited jackass, about as much a “meteorologist” as the bubble-brained anchorman were “journalists.” He was pretty and young and helped the ratings, which is why he’d been installed as WNUC’s latest weatherman. WNUC was the home of “FUNNEWS,” the news program that was never boring. Airplane disasters, earthquakes, and mass murders were reported with the same plastic smiles used for “cute” spots about roller-skating nuns. Underneath this “funny” approach was a hardcore conservatism that would have embarrassed Joe McCarthy.
    Faulkin avoided most of his colleagues and stayed in one corner with selected guests of the nubile variety. He had been putting the make on a bosomy redhead earlier that evening when someone called him to the phone. “It was ringing and ringing in the bedroom,” a drunken executive said, “so I thought it might be important.”
    Faulkin shut the bedroom door and said, “Who’s this?”
    “Steven.”
    “Steven, baby! Where are ya? Tonight’s the party!”
    “I know. Look, I can’t come. I completely forgot about your birthday. I’m kind of upset about something. I just woke up.”
    “What’s wrong, pal?”
    “Nothing. Look, you’ve got a party to throw. I just wanted to call, say Happy Birthday, and explain why I wouldn’t be there.”
    “Well, why?” Faulkin listened for a few moments, nodding his head and going “uh hmm.” “You ask me, buddy, your brother’s shacked up with some chick.” He listened again. “ Heeyy , don’t bite my head off. But the little bugger is quite a