The Shrinking Man, a seminal Richard Matheson novel from 1956 that became an equally seminal film, is surely one of the most beloved fantasy stories of the twentieth century. Mr. Matheson told us what happened to Scott Carey; but what was it like to be Louise, Scott’s wife? Thomas F. Monteleone, author of many successful novels (Night of Broken Souls, Eyes of the Virgin) and editor of the celebrated Borderlands anthologies, provides a surprising answer.
Sunday
Scott went out on the boat with Marty. Beth is playing with Ginny at her house. So I have the whole house, the whole day, to myself. Hate to say it, but it feels damn good.
How come nobody tells you how deadly dull marriage can be? I feel like I’m pretending half the time. All those women on TV—selling refrigerators and appliances or playing the wives of nice-enough guys—all wearing spiffy dresses and salon hairstyles. Is that all there is? I feel like I’m trapped in a Peggy Lee song. And it’s not “Fever.”
If I knew it would be like this, would I get married anyway?
Probably not, sister. Not even for Beth?
Well, maybe. When she’s good, Beth is the best thing in my life.
But nobody told me how much time kids take. Day and night. No break. Ever. For me.
Scott gets the best of it. Gone all day, then just a few hours of play time before he puts her to bed. Beth seems to like him a lot more than me. And why not? I’m the bad guy all day long. He comes in the door all smiles and hugs. So how come she listens to him more than me? Him and his deep voice, hands on hips, and she snaps right to it.
Me, I get the rolling eyes and that sassy no!
I just want to smack her sometimes.
Monday, The Following Day
Scott’s skin still burning from yesterday. He’s such a stubborn ass he won’t go to the doctor. Doesn’t want to waste the money. Never seems to feel that way when he’s buying a good bottle of scotch.
Monday, A Week Later
Marty called me today. He’s been doing it a lot lately. He says he’s calling about Scott. But I wonder.
Like I can really do something about his brother. I mean, they’ve known each other all their lives. Marty always knew Scott’s a hothead. Terrible under pressure. What can I do?
You can hold my hand—that was Marty joking on the phone.
Right.
Tuesday, The Following Day
They were out spraying the neighborhood this morning. Gypsy moths and Japanese beetles. Scott was getting ready to leave for the office when he saw one of the trucks going down the other side of the street. “Look at those donkeys, can you imagine how stupid you have to be to take a job like that?”
Yeah, my husband and the fancy company he thinks he owns. If it wasn’t for Marty, their little business would be in the red.
I had to laugh when he was backing the car out of the driveway. He stopped to move a trashcan out of the way—just as the spray truck turned the corner. He caught it full blast.
That night his skin was on fire. So bad I actually felt sorry for him. Till I tried to put some cream on his back and he went nuts on me. Screaming and yelling like I was trying to hurt him.
He makes me so angry!
Wednesday, Two Weeks Later
Marty called today.
The younger brother. He’s taller and looks like he could’ve been an actor. He’s single and he speaks softly all the time.
He wants to meet with me. To talk about Scott and the business.
I said yes.
Thursday, Two Weeks Later
Marty had been right—something is wrong with Scott.
But nobody could talk him into seeing a doctor until last night. When Scott asked me why I was wearing high heels . . . and I wasn’t.
I can still see the look of shock in his eyes when he realized he was shorter than . . . before.
Doctor Wilson couldn’t figure it out. A man almost six feet tall doesn’t suddenly become five-eight.
Unless he’s shrinking.
They told Scott they needed to do more tests and he blew up. Right there in the office. He told them he wasn’t going to be their guinea pig and pay for the privilege.
Just when I was starting to feel bad for him, he had to go and embarrass me in front of the doctor. There’s only one thing worse than a mean man . . . a mean little man.
Monday, Four Weeks Later
Don’t know how much more I can take of this.
Scott is getting crazier by the day. Marty keeps calling—says Scott is having trouble doing his work.
Worse at home with me. He tore up the special insurance papers when I told him we might need it. Him and his pride and his manhood. To see him strutting around like a little Napoleon I want to laugh in his face.
Now that I can look him square in the eye . . . I just might.
And Marty keeps calling.
Saturday, Five Weeks Later
I feel like some kind of freak . . .
Until last night, it had been one of those things nobody wanted to talk about. But it was always there—like the elephant in the corner of the room. Neither one of us had the nerve to say it—we’re not the same without the sex.
And the funny thing is—I don’t miss it. Not with him acting like a monster half the time. And I’ve tried to let him know it. Like changing into my nightgown in the bathroom. Wearing baggy sweaters and housedresses. No makeup in the house. If he doesn’t get the message, he is just being dumb.
He spends most of his time around the house with Beth, which is fine with me.
I can see the way he looks at me. And finally last night, finally, he said something. I had to make believe . . . like I had no idea . . . like I was one of those dopey women in taffeta on TV.
He was sitting on the couch and when he put his arm around me, it was like being with my 12-year-old son—if I had one, that is.
Oh God . . .
But it got worse.
When he crawled up on me, I felt creepy . . . like those people who like kids.
But he didn’t seem to notice. And again, I almost felt sorry for him.
I could barely feel him and his little thing inside me, and I wanted to grab him and pull him away. I wanted to scream and tell him how awful this was, but he lost himself, and it was finally over.
He didn’t say a word. And neither did I.
We both knew—like I said—it was finally over.
Monday, Seven Weeks Later
I agree with Marty. He can’t have Scott in the office any longer. He doesn’t want him dealing with clients. Too distracting. Too weird.
So now he’s home all the time, and I can’t stand it. He’s angry all the time. He’s three and half feet tall and he looks like a little boy.
But there’s more.
Scott keeps saying his brother will keep him on the payroll, but Marty told me different: if Scott can’t contribute to the business, he’s got to get that insurance to kick in . . . or I’ll have to go out and find work, or . . . maybe something else.
Something that would be good for everybody.
I know what Marty wants. And I don’t mind saying it—I’m starting to think I do too.
Dealing with the flat tire was a mess. I almost laughed when Scott told me he was too little to get the jack and the tire out of the trunk.
But the worst part was the part about the homo who picked him up. That was just sad.
It makes me realize the truth—I’m living with a freak. And maybe it would have been best if he’d gone off with that other odd man who picked him up.
Just ride off and never come back.
Tuesday, Two Weeks Later
I should hate myself for feeling like this . . . but I can’t help it!
I can’t stand to be in the same room with him. Every time I look at him, I want to smack him. We never leave the house together, we hardly ever talk unless we’re arguing.
The only good thing lately—another writer interviewed him today. They paid us good money for the article in Look. Of course, he didn’t want to do it, but I put my foot down. The money was way more important than any of his puny feelings.
Monday, Two Weeks Later
The first article about him showed up today. When he saw the pictures, he tore the page into little pieces. I couldn’t blame him—they made him look like a scary little doll.
Later, when I came back from the grocery, I found him in the bedroom. He was standing in front of the floor-length mirror.
Wearing his pinstripe suit jacket. It sloped off his shoulders all the way to the floor. Like a little boy playing dress-up.
Except he was crying.
He looked so ridiculous, I got the giggles. I honestly didn’t mean to. I couldn’t help it. It just came over me. I had to run from the room so he wouldn’t hear me.
But I didn’t run fast enough . . .
Thursday, Five Weeks Later
We had to move. After the spread in Look, people wouldn’t leave us alone. Scott got his gun out of his old Army footlocker and started cleaning it. He swore he was going to shoot the next idiot who knocked on the door.
He was so upset, he scared me. Marty came last night and took the bullets out of it. Didn’t let Scott know.
By the way, speaking of Marty . . . the apartment he found us is a dump. Low rent neighborhood makes the money last longer, he told me.
Marty says he can find us a better place, but he said I know what I’d have to do to make that happen . . . that’s the way he put it.
I hate this place. We’ll see.
Friday, One Week Later
He’s only three feet tall now. He’s losing an inch every week.
What happens when he runs out of weeks?
Nobody knows he lives here because he never goes out. Fine with me. It’s weird to think he used to be my husband. Even Beth thinks it’s funny now—when he tries to tell her what to do, she just giggles.
We had another fight about Beth. He doesn’t think I’m backing him up as a father. He got so mad, he stomped out of the house in his little Buster Brown shoes.
When he didn’t come right back, I felt guilty so I got in the car with Beth to look for him. Then something happened.
I turned a corner and stopped the car. Down the block, at the edge of the playground, some kids were beating up a little boy. And just as I put the car in gear to drive down there and stop them, I realized it was Scott . . .
I took it out of first, switched to reverse and turned around.
Whatever he got, he probably deserved it. But later on, I felt bad about what I did. It was like I wanted those boys to do something I couldn’t do. Oh God, this whole terrible mess is making me crazy too . . .
Saturday, Seven Weeks Later
He’s barely bigger than Beth’s dolls now.
Last week, after Marty saw that article in the Plain Dealer wondering “what ever happened to the incredible shrinking man,” and he told Scott a book about him might be worth a lot of money, Scott, of course, blew up. Swore he would never do anything like that. But Marty called a friend in New York. Hooked him up with an agent who said a book would sell for at least “six figures.”
Scott was the man of the house. He was supposed to take care of us, and now we’re on poverty row. Scott owes us.
Tuesday, A Week Later
Scott is writing the book. They sent a contract by overnight mail and he signed it.
But I had to make a deal with him.
My friend Tina has a brother who’s a photographer for that magazine, National Geographic. Her brother travels all over the world and he used to show us his pictures and tell us stories about how weird people are in way-off places in the world. One place, I can’t remember where, some jungle place, I think . . . he told us the young mothers had this way to keep their baby boys quiet, to keep them from crying. By sucking on their things.
I almost threw up, but now, no matter what happens, Beth and I can make it.
Wednesday, Seven Weeks Later
The book is almost done. That’s all he did every waking moment for the last month and a half. Marty says he got obsessed with it.
Fine. I don’t care. Just finish it.
He typed until last week when he was getting too little for the portable typewriter (he was 21 inches tall yesterday). Too hard to punch on the keys. So he’s talking the rest into a tape recorder, and Marty has his secretary typing it.
Like I said—just finish it.
Thursday, Three Weeks Later
He’s almost done. And I can’t help it—I’m wondering what he said about me.
Meanwhile, I just got back from the carnival. Scott was pathetic. He wouldn’t get in the car. He’d met a girl from the Midway—“Tom Thumb’s Sister” or something awful like that.
It’s funny, even though I can’t stand to be around him, I got really upset when he told me he was staying with that midget. In her tacky little carnival wagon. I can just imagine what it’s like in that little wagon right about now . . .
I got so crazy-mad, I slapped him before I drove away.
But why?
I should be glad he did it. Now I shouldn’t feel so bad about me and Marty . . .
So why do I feel like this?
Saturday, Three Days Later
The midget-thing only lasted a couple days. He was getting too little—even for her. He came back after dark, and Beth made me let him in.
Friday, A Week Later
He told me to get rid of the cat.
It’s nothing new. He’s been talking about it for weeks—says the cat is starting to “watch” him, and it’s dumb enough to think he might be something like a big mouse.
And pretty soon Scott won’t even be as big as a mouse . . .
I said no because Beth really loves that cat.
I keep telling myself that’s the real reason.
Sunday, Five Weeks Later
Marty had the guy at the hobby shop modify his biggest dollhouse. The extra wall keeps the cat away from Scott. He’s only 12 inches tall now, and he stays in the dollhouse almost all the time.
Beth wants to play with him, and he’s afraid she might hurt him by accident.
When he said that I got really pissed—how could he accuse his own daughter of doing something like that?
Saturday, Five Weeks Later
Maybe Scott was right.
I caught Beth taking him out of his house, and he was screaming, almost crying. He’s only 7 inches tall and he looked so scared.
I yelled at her, and she let him go. Angry and embarrassed, she ran to her room and slammed the door.
Later, when I got out of the shower, Scott was missing.
I checked the cat for . . . blood, but he was clean.
Beth and I looked all over the house. Even outside, but we never found him.
Monday, Four Weeks Later
Beth cried for about a week. Then she started to get over it.
I wasn’t sure how I felt. Marty said it was probably better this way, and I want to believe him. It’s weird to finally get what you want and not be sure it’s what you wanted after all . . .
And then I found something when I went down to check the hot water heater.
A little piece of sponge. A cardboard box. Cracker crumbs stacked up in like little bricks. It was a place . . . a place for somebody small.
Somehow, he’d gotten into the cellar. And kept himself alive. I tried to think of what he must look like now. Way smaller than a little toy soldier. Sleeping and hiding in a little space.
But not just hiding. Something worse.
Not far away from his little place, among the dust motes, I found a big fat black spider. Dead. But with a pin stuck all the way through him.
Scott.
After something like that, was he still alive? I called his name. Heard nothing.
As I stood there, trying to imagine what it must have been like to kill that bug, I felt so bad for him. And for all the awful things I’d thought about him.
I stood there for a few minutes staring at the dead spider. And then I had the feeling I was being watched. Watched by something too small for me to even see.
It scared me and I ran up the steps and waited for Marty.
But even upstairs, I kept thinking about Scott and how he’d killed that spider. How small was he now? How small could he get?
Two Hours Later
Marty showed up and finished getting everything out to the car. The book money had finally arrived. Beth and I are moving to the new place . . . with Marty.
The movers are almost done. I followed Marty down into the cellar. While he dragged up the suitcases, I looked around. Careful. Trying not to be obvious. For some reason, I couldn’t tell him what I’d found.
I kept hoping I would see some sign of him, but it was like looking for a single speck of dust.
I had the thought that maybe he was right there in front of me—but so small I couldn’t see him. Maybe that’s why I felt somebody watching me. I could have stepped on him like an insect and never known it . . . and that made me feel bad all over again.
We’re moving in. Beth is so excited. Marty is smiling. I should be so happy, but I keep thinking of Scott.
He’d been so small.
I kept wondering—did he know I’d been looking for him? Did he know what I’d been feeling?
He’d been shrinking an inch every day. What happened when there were no more inches?
Two things still bother me.
Where is he now?
And what does he think of me?