Coincidence

by David Ambrose

  I shaved, dressed, and made coffee. When Sara came into the kitchen, I had breakfast ready. She looked at me curiously, almost distrustfully, as though she feared some hidden motive behind my calmness. I reassured her that everything was going to be all right, that I was fine, although in fact I felt like I were bleeding to death inside.

  She looked at her watch and said her cab would be arriving any second. Rauol had the weekends off unless we wanted him for something particularly important, and she had no wish to go by road to Philadelphia, so she was going by train and had ordered a cab to take her to the station. It was raining, so I went down with her, carrying an umbrella.

  I stood there watching as her cab disappeared into the traffic. As she, Sara, disappeared. From my life. Forever. It was then that I felt for the first time a sense of panic. But it passed. I mastered it. I kept telling myself that I had to stay in control, that I couldn’t afford not to. Because if I lost control, anything might happen.

  The mailman was emerging as I went back into the lobby—the lobby of what had been our building, I remember thinking, but was now her building. I had my key ring so I opened the box. There were half a dozen letters for Sara, a couple of things for me. One of them was a long white envelope that bore the name of the detective agency I’d visited the previous week. I opened it right away and read it in the elevator. When I reached my floor, the doors had opened and closed again before I moved.

  I didn’t understand what had just happened to me. Not just that the elevator was moving again. It was what I read, and now read again, that had stunned me.

  Dear Mr. Daly,

  I write to inform you of the conclusion of the recent inquiry you commissioned this office to undertake on your behalf.

  Records in the United Kingdom show both Jeffrey Hart and Lauren Paige to be deceased, she in 1978, he in 1984. Further inquiry has established that their only living relative is a son, Laurence Jeffrey Hart. Mr. Hart is an author and journalist living in Manhattan. His address came to us as something of a surprise.

  Perhaps you may be able to throw some light on this coincidence.

  The address given for Larry Hart was my own.

  Chapter 11

  No matter how many times I reread it, it didn’t change. Nor did the phone number. They had written a letter to me at my address, telling me that the man I was looking for lived there.

  But there was no man at my address apart from myself. Nobody who, for example, could have been living under a false identity. It made no sense.

  I became aware that the elevator had stopped again, and saw I was back on my floor. I stepped into the corridor and sleepwalked to the apartment, then stood looking out over the park, my head spinning.

  Was it a joke of some kind? If so, whose?

  Instinctively I picked up the phone to call the agency before remembering it was Saturday. I dialed all the same in case there was somebody there or an emergency number. All I got was an answering machine, with nothing to indicate when messages would be picked up. I asked that someone call me as soon as possible.

  I looked at the envelope. The letter had been posted yesterday, Friday. Why hadn’t they called me? Didn’t they foresee how great a shock this information would be to me? Didn’t it occur to them that I might need to talk about it? Or did they think I was simply some kind of crackpot who should be kept at arm’s length? They enclosed an account of their fees and expenses, which they said were covered by the retainer I’d paid. It wasn’t a lot of money. At the same time they listed all the other services they could provide or advise on, including insurance and finance generally. Maybe they hoped to do more business. If so, they were going about it the wrong way. I intended to let them know that I was unhappy and angry about this.

  At some point (I hadn’t noticed when) my head had started throbbing painfully. Only now did I become aware of it and went to my bathroom in search of something to take for it. I discovered as I struggled with the childproof cap on the bottle that my hands were shaking uncontrollably. I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror and for a surreal moment failed to recognize the hollow-eyed, drawn face that stared back at me. Then I thought it was little wonder I should look so terrible. In the space of only a few hours I had lost my wife and perhaps, if this letter was to be taken seriously, was now in the process of losing my sanity.

  How could this be? How could any of it be? I knew only that I needed help, and it would have to come from someone who stood outside this whirlwind that was threatening to tear my life apart. But who was there? One or two friends at most I could call up and say my wife has left me and I’m falling apart. One or two only, but at least they were there—except when I came down to it I had to admit that I didn’t really want to talk to them at all. I couldn’t face any of it—the explaining, the sympathy, the empty words of reassurance. On top of that I wasn’t even sure I could keep my mind on one thing long enough to talk coherently. Sara’s announcement that she was in love with this man Steve had sent me reeling; on top of that the arrival of this extraordinary letter, which appeared somehow to be the culmination of a string of odd and often meaningless coincidences, had scrambled my brains completely. I was in no fit state to be with anyone.

  So where was the help I still felt in need of to come from? No sooner was the question framed than I knew the answer. Somehow it seemed inevitable, the only thing that, in the circumstances, offered some kind of lifeline. I took down the I Ching once again, dug into my pocket for three coins, and threw them six times. The baseline was three tails, therefore a changing line, giving first:

  This was “T’ai,” or “Peace.” The judgment read:

  The small departs,

  The great approaches.

  Good fortune. Success.

  “This hexagram,” I read, “denotes a time in nature when heaven seems to be on earth.”

  Next, I looked up the alternative hexagram that was created by the changing baseline.

  This was “Sheng,” or “Pushing Upward.” The judgment read:

  Pushing upward has supreme success.

  One must see the great man.

  Fear not.

  Departure toward the south

  Brings good fortune.

  Between the two of them, I thought, I should feel reassured, even encouraged. The only possibly questionable note seemed to be “departure toward the south,” but I didn’t suppose that in ancient China “going south” had acquired the same negative connotation it has in our day.

  I looked out of the window again. It had stopped raining. I knew it was impossible to concentrate, to keep my mind on either reading, writing, or watching television for more than a few seconds at a time. And it was hardly the calm moment I’d been telling myself for months I needed to get back into meditation. I decided to take a walk in the park.

  The noise and movement all around me helped. Rollerblades, running shoes, kids in strollers, ice-cream sellers, shrieks and laughter, deafening blasts of clashing music battling for air space—the whole cacophony created a welcome numbness in my brain. I looked without seeing and heard without listening. Somewhere at the back of my mind the worm of rationalization stirred and began whispering its poisonous balm into my inner ear. Sara didn’t mean it. She would come to her senses. It was just a temporary fling, a renewal of an old passion that would burn itself out as it had last time. And as for that absurd letter, whoever typed it had simply made a mistake. It would all be sorted out on Monday with apologies and red faces all around.

  I was walking north, and the Saturday morning crowds had thinned a little, the raucous music grown more distant. Back into the growing silence came the tantalizing doubts and fears that I knew would drive me to distraction before the weekend was through. Maybe the best thing I could do was call a friend and get some Prozac, or whatever the tranquilizer of choice was these days. Maybe I could just sleep most of the weekend.

  There was a bench in the corner of a winding, narrow path around which rocks and overhanging branches
had created a kind of grotto. It was unoccupied and welcoming, a secret oasis in a public place. I sat down, hunched forward, elbows resting on my knees. I found myself playing with the three coins I’d used earlier to cast that last hexagram in the apartment. I realized I’d come out with no other money, but it didn’t matter; there was nothing I needed to buy so urgently that I didn’t have time to walk back to the apartment and collect my wallet—which is what I thought I probably would do, then go to a movie. Anything to occupy my brain and get me through the day.

  I continued to play with the coins, absently shaking, turning, and tipping them from hand to hand, until one slipped through my fingers and hit the ground with a sharp metallic clink. It landed on its edge and, before I could catch it, started to roll down the path to my left, the path I had climbed a few minutes earlier. Another man was coming up now. He stopped the coin with his foot, then bent to pick it up. He wore a soft felt hat and sunglasses. I thought there was something oddly familiar about his face when he looked up at me. Then he removed his hat and sunglasses.

  And I froze.

  My first thought was that it was like looking in a mirror, except the image wasn’t reversed. Nor was it identical except in the face and general build. He wore well-cut jeans and a good jacket in contrast to my sweater, old cords, and scuffed loafers.

  Gradually I became aware that our confrontation came as no surprise to him. In fact he was watching my confusion with amusement, even enjoying it. He took the last few steps up the path and stood before me, holding out the coin I had dropped. I accepted it automatically without taking my eyes off his face.

  “Who the hell are you?” I managed to demand, once I’d remembered to shut my mouth before trying to speak.

  “I’m Larry Hart,” he said. “Hadn’t you guessed?”

  I stared at him. I could think of nothing to say, yet everything I could think of was spinning through my mind.

  “I know how you feel,” he said. “I’ve been watching you for the past ten minutes. It’s weird seeing yourself, isn’t it?”

  “Where the hell did you come from?”

  He smiled. “It’s a long story.”

  I felt a sudden suspicion, and asked him, “Did you have anything to do with that letter I got this morning?”

  He nodded with, I thought, a hint of apology. “It was rather infantile, I agree. But any way I sprang this thing on you was going to be a shock. At least this way you had some warning.”

  I toyed with a variety of nonconciliatory answers, but in the end let my indignation drop. It seemed a petty thing in the face of the discovery I found myself on the verge of making.

  “Why don’t you just tell me about this from wherever it starts?” I said.

  Chapter 12

  He put his hat and sunglasses back on. As we walked, no one gave us a second glance. Whether it was his intention to disguise himself I didn’t know and didn’t ask; I was, however, glad to be spared the idly curious stares that we might have otherwise attracted as such obvious twins.

  “The day before yesterday,” he said, “Thursday, I’m walking across town minding my own business, when suddenly I hear this woman’s voice saying, ‘What a coincidence, Mr. Daly. I was just about to call you.’ Naturally I don’t pay any attention because I’m not Mr. Daly, and whoever the woman was couldn’t possibly have been talking to me. Then I feel a hand on my arm, and I stop and turn. And I find myself looking at this very attractive young woman. Darkish blonde hair, smart business suit, kind of sparkly eyes, and this big mouth. I’ve always gone for women with big mouths. I’m not trying to be crude, but it’s a fact. They turn me on.

  “Anyway, I must have been looking kind of blank or something, because she says, like she’s jogging my memory, ‘Nadia Shelley. From the agency. Last week. You remember me?’

  “Now, I have never seen this girl in my life before, but I am not about to let an opportunity like this go to waste. But I swear I only meant to play her along for a little while, then make some joke and let her off the hook. Naturally, I thought, who knows, maybe I’ll get her phone number and we’ll have a date some time. So we carry on walking, and she’s saying, ‘I was going to call you and ask you to come to the office, but if you have time you could step up right now. As you know, we’re just around the corner.’

  “So now I’m wondering, Is this a pick-up or some kind of a scam? Looking at her, it’s hard to believe, so I look at my watch and say something vague about maybe having a couple of minutes. She gives a big smile. Oh, that mouth!

  “I’m letting her lead the way. We turn a corner, catch a light, and cross the street. As though just making conversation, but in reality trying to find out something of what’s going on here, I say, ‘And what exactly was it you were going to call me about, Miss Shelley?’

  “She looks at me, kind of surprised, and says, ‘About that inquiry you hired us to undertake, Mr. Daly. Tracing that English couple, those actors you were interested in—Jeffrey Hart and Lauren Paige.’

  “I don’t know what kind of expression was on my face at that moment, because she frowned and said, ‘You know, I believe you really didn ‘t recognize me just now, did you? You were just being polite.’

  “’No, I recognized you,’ I said quickly. I didn’t want to blow it now. ‘Of course I did. It’s just that my mind was elsewhere, that’s all.’

  “She flashed me that big smile again. But this time it didn’t do anything for me. Because suddenly my thoughts really were somewhere else.

  “The two names she’d just mentioned—Jeffrey Hart and Lauren Paige—were my parents.”

  The way Larry told the story, I knew I would have done the same thing he did at that point. I would have jettisoned all my good intentions about letting Nadia Shelley off the hook and telling her she had made a mistake. Just as Larry did, I would have followed her into the respectable-looking suite of offices, I would have met the same junior partner whom I, George, had spoken with the previous week, and I would have continued to let him labor under the misapprehension that he knew me. I would have wanted, just as Larry did, to learn everything I possibly could about this Alice-in-Wonderland situation that I seemed to have stumbled into.

  Larry listened. He hoped that the other two in the room with him, Nadia Shelley and the junior partner, would take his stunned silence for interest and would not ask any questions or expect him to comment just yet. He was not ready to speak for the moment. He just checked every fact as it emerged against his memory. There was an absolute correspondence every time.

  Why were these people telling him the story of his life? He listened to the familiar and painful story of how his parents’ lives had gone from the glamour of their early success in the West End theater, when they had briefly been stars and their future looked assured, to the dismal end they had both endured. The sixties had wiped out their style of acting, singing, and dancing at a stroke. Everything they were and did was suddenly old hat. Overnight they were has-beens. They struggled on as long as they could, with provincial tours and summer seasons around the country, but they were relics of the past in the age of the Beatles and actors who looked and talked more like construction workers than matinee idols.

  First they had gone bankrupt, then in 1974 they had divorced. Jeffrey had enjoyed a brief Indian summer hosting an afternoon game show on television, but Lauren (“Larry”) was already in and out of clinics with a drinking problem that she seemed unable to master, and probably didn’t want to. She had died in 1978.

  Jeffrey, despite his brief popularity on television, had fared little better. By the mid-seventies he was terminally out of work, and in 1984, six years after his ex-wife’s death, he had gassed himself in the tiny apartment he was renting in south London.

  Then Larry heard the words he had been waiting for, wondering if he was going to react. There had been a son. Laurence Jeffrey Hart. Larry.

  He sat there listening to the junior partner speak of him as an abstraction, a name to which no face or physical r
eality was attached. He heard how he’d been born in 1960, a late child who must have seemed like the crowning happiness in the lives of his, at that time, still famous and successful parents.

  Jeffrey had seen photographs of his early childhood, though he remembered little of it. His parents had weathered Elvis and rock and roll by that time, which had instilled in them a false and very unfortunate confidence about the future; after all, there had still been an audience throughout the fifties for what they had to offer, so why wouldn’t there always be one? They had lived to regret the money squandered on fashionable living, the rented house in Mayfair, the nanny and the cook, the Rolls-Royce and uniformed chauffeur. It had been a hard lesson, all the harder because too late.

  The first surroundings of which the young Larry was really aware were a series of theatrical “digs” that his parents lived in while touring old West End hits around the provinces. It was not a glamorous life, and his mother’s drinking habit was beginning to make itself felt. She was still a lively and often flirtatious drunk, but the hangovers were getting worse.

  Eventually Larry was sent away to school, paid for out of a trust left by grandparents. Holidays were a nightmare, shuttling between two desperately unhappy and now self-destructive parents. Perhaps out of a lack of imagination, at least that was how he felt about it, he became an actor and got a little work for a few years, mainly in fringe theater. Then, as he heard the junior partner solemnly announcing, young Larry Hart had dropped out of sight. That was almost twenty years ago. The firm’s associates in London had called Equity as well as his former agents, but nobody had any clue as to his whereabouts, or even whether he was alive or dead.

  The junior partner closed the file he had been reading from and pushed it across his desk to the man he took to be his client. Did Mr. Daly wish, he asked, to pursue further the search for Laurence Jeffrey Hart?