Walter Eberhart Character Analysis

“And I’m interested in politics and in the Women’s Liberation movement. Very much so in that. And so is my husband.”

“I’ve changed my mind; I’m joining that Men’s Association.”

She stopped and looked at him.

“Too many important things are centered there to just opt out of it,” he said. “Local politicking, the charity drives and so on…”

She said, “How can you join an outdated, old-fashioned—”

“I spoke to some of the men on the train,” he said. “[…] They agree that the no-women-allowed business is archaic.” He took her arm and they walked on. “But the only way to change it is from inside,” he said.

“Hey,” she said, shifting uncomfortably and smiling, “I’m no Ike Mazzard girl.”

“Every girl’s an Ike Mazzard girl,” Mazzard said, and smiled at her and smiled at his pecking.

She looked to Walter; he smiled embarrassedly and shrugged.

Walter wasn’t particularly surprised to hear about the change in Charmaine. “[Her husband] must have laid the law down to her,” he said, turning a fork of spaghetti against his spoon. “I don’t think he makes enough money for that kind of a setup. A maid must be at least a hundred a week these days.”

“How was the second honeymoon?” Walter asked.

“Better than the first,” Dave said. “Just shorter, that’s all.” He grinned at Walter.

Joanna looked at Bobbie, expecting her to say something funny. Bobbie smiled at her and looked toward the stairs.

“Speak to you tomorrow,” Joanna said.

“Sure,” Bobbie said. They smiled at each other. Bobbie moved to Walter at the door and offered her cheek. He hesitated—Joanna wondered why—and pecked it.

“I spoke to Bobbie tonight,” she said. “She sounded—different, washed out.”

“She’s probably tired from all that running around she’s been doing,” Walter said, emptying his jacket pockets onto the bureau.

“She seemed different Sunday too,” Joanna said. “She didn’t say—”

“She had some make-up on, that’s all,” Walter said. “You’re not going to start in with that chemical business, are you?”

He came closer to her. “There’s nothing in the water, there’s nothing in the air,” he said. “They changed for exactly the reasons they told you: because they realized they’d been lazy and negligent. If Bobbie’s taking an interest in her appearance, it’s about time. It wouldn’t hurt you to look in the mirror once in a while.”

She looked at him, and he looked away, flushing, and looked back at her. “I mean it,” he said. “You’re a very pretty woman and you don’t do a damn thing with yourself any more unless there’s a party or something.”

“[…] Now look, I’m trying to see this from your viewpoint and make some kind of fair judgment. You want to move because you’re afraid you’re going to ‘change’; and I think you’re being irrational and—a little hysterical, and that moving at this point would impose an undue hardship on all of us, especially Pete and Kim.”

“I’ve begun to suspect—” Joanna said. “Oh Jesus, ‘suspect’; that sounds so—” She worked her hands together, looking at them.

Dr. Fancher said, “Begun to suspect what?”

She drew her hands apart and wiped them on her skirt. “I’ve begun to suspect that the men are behind it,” she said.

“I’m going out,” she said.

He shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not when you’re talking like this. Go upstairs and rest.”

She came down a step. “I’m not going to stay here to be—”

“You’re not going out,” he said. “Now go up and rest. When you’ve calmed down we’ll—try to talk sensibly.”

“You must think we’re a hell of a lot smarter than we really are,” the man in the middle said. “Robots that can drive cars? And cook meals? And trim kids’ hair?”

“And so real-looking that the kids wouldn’t notice?” the third man said. He was short and wide.

“You must think we’re a townful of geniuses,” the man in the middle said. “Believe me, we’re not.”

“You’re the men who put us on the moon,” she said.

“Who is?” he said. “Not me. […]”

She was wrong, she knew it. She was wrong and frozen and wet and tired and hungry, and pulled eighteen ways by conflicting demands. Including to pee.

If they were killers, they’d have killed her then. The branch wouldn’t’ have stopped them, three men facing one woman.

[…]

Bobbie would bleed. It was coincidence that Dale Coba had worked on robots at Disneyland, that Claude Axhelm thought he was Henry Higgins, that Ike Mazzard drew his flattering sketches. Coincidence, that she had spun into—into madness. Yes, madness.

When had it begun, her distrust of him, the feeling of nothingness between them? Whose fault was it?

His face had grown fuller; why hadn’t she noticed it before today? Had she been too busy taking pictures, working in the darkroom?

“And I’m interested in politics and in the Women’s Liberation movement. Very much so in that. And so is my husband.”

“I’ve changed my mind; I’m joining that Men’s Association.”

She stopped and looked at him.

“Too many important things are centered there to just opt out of it,” he said. “Local politicking, the charity drives and so on…”

She said, “How can you join an outdated, old-fashioned—”

“I spoke to some of the men on the train,” he said. “[…] They agree that the no-women-allowed business is archaic.” He took her arm and they walked on. “But the only way to change it is from inside,” he said.

“Hey,” she said, shifting uncomfortably and smiling, “I’m no Ike Mazzard girl.”

“Every girl’s an Ike Mazzard girl,” Mazzard said, and smiled at her and smiled at his pecking.

She looked to Walter; he smiled embarrassedly and shrugged.

Walter wasn’t particularly surprised to hear about the change in Charmaine. “[Her husband] must have laid the law down to her,” he said, turning a fork of spaghetti against his spoon. “I don’t think he makes enough money for that kind of a setup. A maid must be at least a hundred a week these days.”

“How was the second honeymoon?” Walter asked.

“Better than the first,” Dave said. “Just shorter, that’s all.” He grinned at Walter.

Joanna looked at Bobbie, expecting her to say something funny. Bobbie smiled at her and looked toward the stairs.

“Speak to you tomorrow,” Joanna said.

“Sure,” Bobbie said. They smiled at each other. Bobbie moved to Walter at the door and offered her cheek. He hesitated—Joanna wondered why—and pecked it.

“I spoke to Bobbie tonight,” she said. “She sounded—different, washed out.”

“She’s probably tired from all that running around she’s been doing,” Walter said, emptying his jacket pockets onto the bureau.

“She seemed different Sunday too,” Joanna said. “She didn’t say—”

“She had some make-up on, that’s all,” Walter said. “You’re not going to start in with that chemical business, are you?”

He came closer to her. “There’s nothing in the water, there’s nothing in the air,” he said. “They changed for exactly the reasons they told you: because they realized they’d been lazy and negligent. If Bobbie’s taking an interest in her appearance, it’s about time. It wouldn’t hurt you to look in the mirror once in a while.”

She looked at him, and he looked away, flushing, and looked back at her. “I mean it,” he said. “You’re a very pretty woman and you don’t do a damn thing with yourself any more unless there’s a party or something.”

“[…] Now look, I’m trying to see this from your viewpoint and make some kind of fair judgment. You want to move because you’re afraid you’re going to ‘change’; and I think you’re being irrational and—a little hysterical, and that moving at this point would impose an undue hardship on all of us, especially Pete and Kim.”

“I’ve begun to suspect—” Joanna said. “Oh Jesus, ‘suspect’; that sounds so—” She worked her hands together, looking at them.

Dr. Fancher said, “Begun to suspect what?”

She drew her hands apart and wiped them on her skirt. “I’ve begun to suspect that the men are behind it,” she said.

“I’m going out,” she said.

He shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not when you’re talking like this. Go upstairs and rest.”

She came down a step. “I’m not going to stay here to be—”

“You’re not going out,” he said. “Now go up and rest. When you’ve calmed down we’ll—try to talk sensibly.”

“You must think we’re a hell of a lot smarter than we really are,” the man in the middle said. “Robots that can drive cars? And cook meals? And trim kids’ hair?”

“And so real-looking that the kids wouldn’t notice?” the third man said. He was short and wide.

“You must think we’re a townful of geniuses,” the man in the middle said. “Believe me, we’re not.”

“You’re the men who put us on the moon,” she said.

“Who is?” he said. “Not me. […]”

She was wrong, she knew it. She was wrong and frozen and wet and tired and hungry, and pulled eighteen ways by conflicting demands. Including to pee.

If they were killers, they’d have killed her then. The branch wouldn’t’ have stopped them, three men facing one woman.

[…]

Bobbie would bleed. It was coincidence that Dale Coba had worked on robots at Disneyland, that Claude Axhelm thought he was Henry Higgins, that Ike Mazzard drew his flattering sketches. Coincidence, that she had spun into—into madness. Yes, madness.

When had it begun, her distrust of him, the feeling of nothingness between them? Whose fault was it?

His face had grown fuller; why hadn’t she noticed it before today? Had she been too busy taking pictures, working in the darkroom?