4 - DEADLINE
There are at least two nights a year a doctor doesn't plan on and those are Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve. On Christmas Eve it was Bobby Dascouli's arm burns I was salving and swathing them about the time I would have been nestled in an easy chair with Ruth eyeing the Technicolor doings of the Christmas tree.
So it came as no surprise that ten minutes after we got to my sister Mary's house for the New Year's Eve party my answering service phoned and told me there was an emergency call downtown.
Ruth smiled at me sadly and shook her head. She kissed me on the cheek. 'Poor Bill,' she said.
'Poor Bill indeed,' I said, putting down my first drink of the evening, two-thirds full. I patted her much-evident stomach.
'Don't have that baby till I get back,' I told her.
'I'll do my bestest,' she said.
I gave hurried goodbyes to everyone and left; turning up the collar of my overcoat and crunching over the snow-packed walk to the Ford; milking the choke and finally getting the engine started. Driving downtown with that look of dour reflection I've seen on many a GP's face at many a time.
It was after eleven when my tyre chains rattled onto the dark desertion of East Main Street. I drove three blocks north to the address and parked in front of what had been a refined apartment dwelling when my father was in practice. Now it was a boarding house, ancient, smelling of decay.
In the vestibule I lined the beam of my pencil flashlight over the mail boxes but couldn't find the name. I rang the landlady's bell and stepped over to the hall door. When the buzzer sounded I pushed it open.
At the end of the hall a door opened and a heavy woman emerged. She wore a black sweater over her wrinkled green dress, striped anklets over her heavy stockings, saddle shoes over the anklets. She had no make-up on; the only colour in her face was a chapped redness in her cheeks. Wisps of steel-grey hair hung across her temples. She picked at them as she trundled down the dim hallway towards me.
'You the doctor?' she asked.
I said I was.
'I'm the one called ya,' she said. 'There's an old guy up the fourth floor says he's dyin'.'
'What room?' I asked.
'I'll show ya.'
I followed her wheezing ascent up the stairs. We stopped in front of room 47 and she rapped on the thin panelling of the door, then pushed it open.
'In here,' she said.
As I entered I saw him lying on an iron bed. His body had the flaccidity of a discarded doll. At his sides, frail hands lay motionless, topographed with knots of vein, islanded with liver spots. His skin was the brown of old page edges, his face a wasted mask. On the caseless pillow, his head lay still, its white hair straggling across the stripes like threading drifts of snow. There was a pallid stubble on his cheeks. His pale blue eyes were fixed on the ceiling.
As I slipped off my hat and coat I saw that there was no suffering evident. His expression was one of peaceful acceptance. I sat down on the bed and took his wrist. His eyes shifted and he looked at me.
'Hello,' I said, smiling.
'Hello.' I was surprised by the cognisance in his voice.
The beat of his blood was what I expected however -a bare trickle of life, a pulsing almost lost beneath the fingers. I put down his hand and laid my palm across his forehead. There was no fever. But then he wasn't sick. He was only running down.
I patted the old man's shoulder and stood, gesturing towards the opposite side of the room. The landlady clumped there with me.
'How long has he been in bed?' I asked.
'Just since this afternoon,' she said. 'He come down to my room and said he was gonna die tonight.'
I stared at her. I'd never come in contact with such a thing. I'd read about it; everyone has. An old man or woman announces that, at a certain time, they'll die and, when the time comes, they do. Who knows what it is; will or prescience or both. All one knows is that it is a strangely awesome thing.
'Has he any relatives?' I asked.
'None I know of,' she said.
I nodded.
'Don't understand it,' she said.
'What?'
'When he first moved in about a month ago he was all right. Even this afternoon he didn't look sick.'
'You never know,' I said.
'No. You don't.' There was a haunted and uneasy flickering back deep in her eyes.
'Well, there's nothing I can do for him,' I said. 'He's not in pain. It's just a matter of time.'
The landlady nodded.
'How old is he?' I asked.
'He never said.'
'I see.' I walked back to the bed.
'I heard you,' the old man told me.
'Oh?'
'You want to know how old I am.'
'How old are you?'
He started to answer, then began coughing dryly. I saw a glass of water on the bedside table and, sitting, I propped the old man while he drank a little. Then I put him down again.
'I'm one year old,' he said.
It didn't register. I stared down at his calm face. Then, smiling nervously, I put the glass down on the table.
'You don't believe that,' he said.
'Well -' I shrugged.
'It's true enough,' he said.
I nodded and smiled again.
'I was born on December 31, 1958,' he said, 'At midnight.'
He closed his eyes. 'What's the use?' he said, 'I've told a hundred people and none of them understood.'
'Tell me about it,' I said.
After a few moments, he drew in breath, slowly.
'A week after I was born,' he said, 'I was walking and talking. I was eating by myself. My mother and father couldn't believe their eyes. They took me to a doctor. I don't know what he thought but he didn't do anything. What could he do? I wasn't sick. He sent me home with my mother and father. Precocious growth, he said.
'In another week we were back again. I remember my mother's and father's faces when we drove there. They were afraid of me.
'The doctor didn't know what to do. He called in specialists and they didn't know what to do. I was a normal four-year old boy. They kept me under observation. They wrote papers about me. I didn't see my father and mother anymore.'
The old man stopped for a moment, then went on in the same mechanical way.
'In another week I was six,' he said. 'In another week, eight. Nobody understood. They tried everything but there was no answer. And I was ten and twelve. I was fourteen and I ran away because I was sick of being stared at.'
He looked at the ceiling for almost a minute.
'You want to hear more?' he asked then.
'Yes,' I said, automatically. I was amazed at how easily he spoke.
'In the beginning I tried to fight it,' he said. 'I went to doctors and screamed at them. I told them to find out what was wrong with me. But there wasn't anything wrong with me. I was just getting two years older every week.
'Then I got the idea.'
I started a little, twitching out of the reverie of staring at him. 'Idea?' I asked.
'This is how the story got started,' the old man said.
'What story?'
'About the old year and the new year,' he said. 'The old year is an old man with a beard and a scythe. You know. And the new year is a little baby.'
The old man stopped. Down in the street I heard a tyre-screeching car turn a corner and speed past the building.
'I think there have been men like me all through time,' the old man said. 'Men who live for just a year. I don't know how it happens or why; but, once in while, it does. That's how the story got started. After a while, people forgot how it started. They think it's a fable now. They think it's symbolic; but it isn't.'
The old man turned his worn face towards the wall.
'And I'm 1959,' he said, quietly. 'That's who I am.'
The landlady and I stood in silence looking down at him. Finally, I glanced at her. Abruptly, as if caught in guilt, she turned and hurried across the floor. The
door thumped shut behind her.
I looked back at the old man. Suddenly, my breath seemed to stop. I leaned over and picked up his hand. There was no pulse. Shivering, I put down his hand and straightened up. I stood looking down at him. Then, from where I don't know, a chill laced up my back. Without thought, I extended my left hand and the sleeve of my coat slid back across my watch.
To the second.
I drove back to Mary's house unable to get the old man's story out of my mind - or the weary acceptance in his eyes. I kept telling myself it was only a coincidence, but I couldn't quite convince myself.
Mary let me in. The living room was empty.
'Don't tell me the party's broken up already?' I said.
Mary smiled. 'Not broken up,' she said, 'Just continued at the hospital.'
I stared at her, my mind swept blank. Mary took my arm.
'And you'll never guess.' she said, 'what time Ruth had the sweetest little boy.'
5 - THE MAN WHO MADE THE WORLD
Doctor Janishefsky sat in his office, leaning back in a great leather chair, hands folded. He had a reflective air and a well-trimmed goatee. He hummed a few bars of - 'It Ain't Whatcha Do, It's The Way That You Do It: He broke off and looked up with a kindly smile as the nurse entered. Her name was Mudde.
NURSE MUDDE: Doctor, there is a man in the waiting room who says he made the world.
DOCTOR J: Oh?
NURSE MUDDE: Shall I let him in?
DOCTOR J: By all means, Nurse Mudde. Show the man in.
Nurse Mudde left. A small man entered. He was five foot five wearing a suit made for a man six foot five. His hands were near-hidden by the sleeve ends, his trouser-leg bottoms creased sharply at the shoe tops, assuming the function of unattached spats. The shoes were virtually invisible. As was the gentleman's mouth lurking behind a moustache of mouse-like proportions.
DOCTOR J: Won't you have a seat Mr. -
SMITH: Smith. (He sits.)
DOCTOR J: Now. (They regard each other.)
DOCTOR J: My nurse tells me you made the world.
SMITH: Yes. (In a confessional tone) I did.
DOCTOR J (settling back in his chair): All of it?
SMITH: Yes.
DOCTOR J: And everything in it?
SMITH: Take a little, give a little.
DOCTOR J: You're sure of this?
SMITH (with an expression that clearly says - I am telling the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me): Quite sure.
DOCTOR J (nods once): When did you do this thing?
SMITH: Five years ago.
DOCTOR J: How old are you?
SMITH: Forty-seven.
DOCTOR J: Where were you the other forty-two years?
SMITH: I wasn't.
DOCTOR J: You mean you started out -
SMITH: Forty-two years old. That's correct.
SMITH (shaking his head): No. It isn't.
DOCTOR J: It's five years old.
SMITH: That's correct.
DOCTOR J: What about fossils? What about the age of rocks? Uranium into lead. What about diamonds?
SMITH (not to be bothered): Illusions.
DOCTOR J: You made them up.
SMITH: That's -
DOCTOR J (breaking in): Why?
SMITH: To see if I could.
DOCTOR J: I don't -
SMITH: Anyone can make a world. It takes ingenuity to make one and then make the people on it think that it's existed for millions of years.
DOCTOR J: How long did all this take you?
SMITH: Three and a half months. World time.
DOCTOR J: What do you mean by that?
SMITH: Before I made the world I lived beyond time.
DOCTOR J: Where's that?
SMITH: Nowhere.
DOCTOR J: In the cosmos?
SMITH: That's correct.
DOCTOR J: You didn't like it there?
SMITH: No. It was boring.
DOCTOR J: And that's why -
SMITH: I made the world.
DOCTOR J: Yes. But - how did you make it?
SMITH: I had books.
DOCTOR J: Books?
SMITH: Instruction books.
DOCTOR J: Where did you get them?
SMITH: I made them up.
DOCTOR J: You mean you wrote them?
SMITH: I - made them up.
DOCTOR J: How?
SMITH (moustache bristling truculently): I made them up.
DOCTOR J (lips pursed): So there you were out in the cosmos with a handful of books.
SMITH: That's correct.
DOCTOR J: What if you had dropped them?
SMITH: (chooses not to answer this patent absurdity).
DOCTOR J: Mister Smith.
SMITH: Yes?
DOCTOR J: Who made you?
SMITH: (shakes his head): I don't know.
DOCTOR J: Were you always like this? (He points at Mr. Smith's lowly frame.)
SMITH: I don't think so. I think that I was punished.
DOCTOR J: For what?
SMITH: For making the world so complicated.
DOCTOR J: I should think so.
SMITH: It's not my fault. I just made it, I didn't say it would work right.
DOCTOR J: You just started your machine and then walked away.
SMITH: That's -
DOCTOR J: Then what are you doing here?
SMITH: I told you. I think I've been punished.
DOCTOR J: Oh yes. For making it too complicated. I forgot.
SMITH: That's correct.
DOCTOR J: Who punished you?
SMITH: I don't remember.
DOCTOR J: That's convenient.
SMITH (looks morose).
DOCTOR J: Might it be God?
SMITH (shrugs): It might.
DOCTOR J: He might have a few fingers in the rest of the Universe.
SMITH: He might. But I made the world.
DOCTOR J: Enough, Mr. Smith, you did not make the world.
SMITH (insulted): Yes, I did too.
DOCTOR J: And you created me?
SMITH (concedingly): Indirectly.
DOCTOR J: Then uncreate me.
SMITH: I can't.
DOCTOR J: Why?
SMITH: I just started things. I don't control them now.
DOCTOR J (sighs): Then what are you worried about, Mr. Smith.
SMITH: I have a premonition.
DOCTOR J: What about?
SMITH: I'm going to die.
DOCTOR J: So -?
SMITH: Someone has to take over. Or else -
DOCTOR J: Or else -?
SMITH: The whole world will go.
DOCTOR J: Go where?
SMITH: Nowhere. Just disappear.
DOCTOR J: How can it disappear if it works independently of you?
SMITH: It will be taken away to punish me.
DOCTOR J: You?
SMITH: Yes.
DOCTOR J: You mean if you die, the entire world will disappear?
SMITH: That's correct.
DOCTOR J: If I shot you, the instant you died I would disappear?
SMITH: That's -
DOCTOR J: I have advice.
SMITH: Yes? You will help?
DOCTOR J: Go to see a reputable psychiatrist.
SMITH (standing): I should have known. I have no more to say.
DOCTOR J (shrugs): As you will.
SMITH: I'll go but you'll be sorry about this.
DOCTOR J: I dare say you are already sorry, Mr. Smith.
SMITH: Goodbye. (Mr. Smith exits. Doctor Janishefsky calls for his nurse over the interphone. Nurse Mudde enters.)
NURSE M: Yes, doctor?
DOCTOR J: Nurse Mudde, stand by the window and tell me what you see.
NURSE M: What I -?
DOCTOR J: What you see. I want you to tell me what Mr. Smith does after he comes out of the building.
NURSE M (shrugs): Yes, doctor. (She goes to the window.)
DOCTOR J: Has he come out yet?
NURSE M: No.
DOCTOR J: Keep watching.
NURSE MUDDE: There he is. He's stepping off the kerb. He's walking across the street.
DOCTOR J: Yes.
NURSE M: He's stopping now in the middle of the street. He's turning. He's looking up at this window. There's a look of - of - realization on his face. He's coming back. (She screams.) He's been hit by a car. He's lying on the street.
DOCTOR J: What is it, Nurse Mudde?
NURSE M (reeling): Everything is - is fading! Doctor Janishefsky, it's fading! (Another scream.)
DOCTOR J: Don't be absurd, Nurse Mudde. Look at me. Can you honestly say that. {He stops talking. She cannot honestly say anything. She is not there. Doctor Janishefsky, who is not really Doctor Janishefsky, floats alone in the cosmos in his chair, which is not really a chair. He looks at the chair beside him.) I hope you've learned your lesson. I'm going to put your toy back but don't you dare go near it. So you're bored are you? Scalliwag! You just behave yourself or I'll take away your books too! (He snorts.) So you made them up, did you? (He looks around.) How about picking them up, jackanapes!
SMITH (who is not really Smith): Yes father.
6 - GRAVEYARD SHIFT
DEAR PA:
I am sending you this note under Rex's collar because I got to stay here. I hope this note gets to you all right.
I couldn't deliver the tax letter you sent me with because the Widow Blackwell is killed. She is upstairs. I put her on her bed. She looks awful. I wish you would get the sheriff and the coronor Wilks.
Little Jim Blackwell, I don't know where he is right now. He is so scared he goes running around the house and hiding from me. He must have got awful scared by whoever killed his ma. He don't say a word. He just runs around like a scared rat. I see his eyes sometimes in the dark and then they are gone. They got no electric power here you know.
I came out toward sundown bringing that note. I rung the bell but there was no answer so I pushed open the front door and looked in.
All the shades was down. And I heard someone running light in the front room and then feet running upstairs. I called around for the Widow but she didn't answer me.
I started upstairs and saw Jim looking down through the banister posts. When he saw me looking at him, he run down the hall and I ain't seen him since.
I looked around the upstairs rooms. Finally, I went in the Widow Blackwell's room and there she was dead on the floor in a puddle of blood. Her throat was cut and her eyes was wide open and looking up at me. It was an awful sight.
Shock II Page 4