I think so.
This applies also to your new friends. No Amy, Joe, Crestmeyer. No Stephen White, either, you’ll need another name.
You remembered, this was the man who had deprogrammed his wife and son, believing they had been brainwashed by the religious guru. You said, What kind of person do you want me to become?
That’s up to you.
What if I disappoint you?
The robin’s eye looked straight at you, more like a crow’s. Thus: you can’t disappoint me, because I don’t give a shit. If you want to make that an incentive, or if you want to defy Jack Rome and remain unchanged, I don’t care.
Rome: Always think in dichotomies, it will expand your mind. If there is this, there must also be that. Getting out of Peter Gregory has two steps. First, the struggle to survive. To stay alive in the narrow sense. You enter—reenter—the world. You did that. Second, to form the new person. To live in the broad sense, with the means available to the privileged and fortunate in that world. First to live with nothing: can you do it? Then to live with everything: what will you do? What will you do when your imagination has the power to act, and your future the chance to become real.
You: What do you get out of this?
The pleasure of watching, he said.
You’ll have your eye on me. Won’t that make me less free?
There wouldn’t be any point if I couldn’t watch. But Jack Rome won’t interfere. I want to see what you will do. Can a Gregory change? Will he want to?
How do you intend to watch?
You’ll stay in touch with me, with timely updates now and then. The story of your latest adventures: tape it, write it, come in and talk, I don’t care. That’s all, no strings attached.
You: why would you go to such lengths for mere curiosity?
The only length was the length of my time. The money: what’s big to you is a drop in Jack Rome’s bucket.
Rome: Always been interested in how to remake character. I told you I was a self-made man. You grasped: Did you also disappear from a former life? Rome: It wasn’t necessary in my case. I made it all myself without assistance from anyone.
He was superior to you is what he meant. I like to see what people make of themselves when they have the means, he said. It gives me satisfaction.
What if I refuse?
You won’t. Go home, take a day, think it over, then if you’re interested, come back, I’ll give you the money.
Just like that?
Jack Rome: One other thing. Don’t talk about this. Not to anyone. No Amy and Joe. No advice. If you ask for advice you ruin the experiment before you start. Anything else you want to know?
When I get the money, if I get the money, what am I supposed to do with it?
I already told you. Anything you want, man, any goddamn thing you want.
Except—
No secret messages to abandoned children.
And report to you.
Right. That’s no big deal.
SEVENTEEN
Down in the elevator, back to the people Jack Rome’s skyscraper view eliminated, trying to think a coherent thought through the crackling electrical storm in your mind. Back to Crestmeyer trying to work against the static during the afternoon, dizzy and crazy thinking about Jack Rome. You wondered if he was setting a trap. It wasn’t a joke but there could be a catch, and something was being withheld. It was impossible because there was no reason and because the odds were so great. This was the time you first thought of the millions of sperm.
You kept looking for a real and selfish reason that would explain Jack Rome. Archetypes threatened you. Jack Rome as devil, buying your soul. As spider, luring you. As inquisitor, nailing you. You needed advice: a Better Business Bureau to attest Rome’s honesty. Ann Landers to scout the practical dangers. A philosopher to resolve the ethical questions.
It would not be possible to reject this gift. This knowledge was as powerful as law, leaving you as unfree as if compelled at gunpoint. All afternoon you tried to talk away your doubts so that when you accepted the gift you could think you had done it freely.
When you got home that night, police were removing a yellow tape from the front steps. A few people were standing around. You felt a guilty shock as if you had committed a crime, though you did not know what it was. You remembered another time when you had seen police tape and felt a similar ignorance of guilt. The policeman saw the question on your face. You live here? Go on in, he said. We’re finished.
What is it? you asked. He turned away, probably because he didn’t hear. A woman answered: Somebody jumped. Who? She shrugged her shoulders. Suicide? What else? Another shrug, her eyes full of aged criticism of everything. You live up there? Go up, find out. Already you had guessed, Hank Gummer.
Hank Gummer, depressed and unable to reconcile himself to death, solving his problem by death. With enough breath climbing the stairs to reflect puritanically that this news, if true, was the end of your hopes from Jack Rome. You came into the apartment and Amy told you. Hank Gummer it was. Found at the foot of the stairwell three flights below when Joe came home this afternoon. Police just left. She was frantic. Did you see it coming? Was there anything we should have done?
You were thinking: It couldn’t have come at a worse time. Ashamed of the thought, but thinking it just the same. While Amy asked, as if you were the suicide expert around here, Why did he do it?
They were all there except Lucy Angles, who had gone to stay with somebody. Lucy Angles was crushed, they said. Why did he do it? Why, if he was so worried about dying, would he kill himself?
Because he was stupid, Stowe Thompson said.
Hush, Amy said. He’s dead.
Doesn’t make him less stupid.
All evening they talked about Hank. Poor Hank. We didn’t take him seriously. What could we have done?
It’s not our responsibility, Stowe Thompson said.
Should somebody get him from the morgue? Does he have any relatives?
No one asked where you had been today. A phone call came from someone setting the time for a funeral. Amy looked around and asked if the time was okay. You guessed you wouldn’t be available but didn’t say anything.
You were thinking, these people in their state of shock, and you in your state of shock. With your secret, which they knew nothing about. Worst possible time, screeching across your path like an accident in the road. It was an overpowering disappointment, as if you had lost everything, which you quelled by the clarifying thought that there was really no reason to lose anything. You kept repeating it: there’s no reason to alter your plans. If, that is, they are your plans.
Eventually everyone went to bed, and all night long your mind went back and forth between Jack Rome and Hank Gummer. Suspicion of Jack Rome. So rich and powerful a man must have underworld connections. If he was responsible for the raccoon in the woods, accepting the gift would make you accomplice to the crime. Talk yourself out of that. Think how to spend the money, which will certainly be much less than implied and won’t make you free because you’ll have to clear everything with Jack Rome, despite what he said. Imagine reporting to him on your character at periodic intervals and the effect of this on your freedom. Imagine worrying how to make yourself likable to Jack Rome. Think what it really means to get rid of Gregory, whether it wouldn’t be the same as killing your children and the memories of your father and mother, filling you with grief and guilt. Of course, Rome would say, you got rid of Gregory weeks ago. The gift confirms that.
And then Gummer, whose depressed stare merged in your mind with Jack Rome’s sharp and crafty eyes. You thought, what is Hank to me? You had never known him other than depressed. He irritated you, for which you now felt ashamed. But you were glad to see him gone, as you were when Jock Hadley died. It went beyond relief from petty irritation. It was as if Gummer’s suicide vindicated you, past and future, and gave you liberty to take up Jack Rome’s offer. You felt this at the same time you were thinking if the decorum of Hank Gummer
’s death required you to postpone your fortune. On the other hand, you knew that if you postponed it, Jack Rome would renege and you wouldn’t get it.
Against all such questions and all old Gregory grief and guilt, you weighed the indescribable power of money. You: with a large amount of money you can do anything. Mitigate the awfulness, for the power of wealth would make possible much good you had not dreamed of. Which brings up another question you hadn’t asked. What would Jack Rome do if you disobeyed his rules? Suppose you did violate the ban and made contact with the forbidden? Could Jack Rome take it back? Did he have executioners? Three o’clock in the morning, sweat on your pillow, trying to keep the squeaking cot from waking Stowe Thompson. Forgive me, Hank, you said. You never expected anything of me, and I have my life to lead. Forgive me Linda, forgive me Patty and Jeff. Forgive me, Father and Mother. The night in the window was pale when it occurred to you before you fell asleep: I shouldn’t have accepted his gift. It was a fatal mistake to have done so.
The womanly voice said, Mr. White, come right over. You went, thinking I don’t have to decide yet.
This time a different room. No windows, acoustic tiles, a shiny safe in the wall, a small table with two chairs facing each other. Jack Rome was in one of the chairs, in an open-collar yellow short-sleeved shirt, looking contemptuous.
Have you decided?
You said, One of my roommates killed himself last night.
He stared at you, a long moment. What about it?
I don’t know.
Why are you telling me?
It was a shock.
So you don’t want the money?
You almost jumped. No, I don’t mean that.
You’ve decided then? Did you mention this to anybody?
No. You thought you should ask more questions, but you couldn’t think of any.
Good. He repeated the proposal. Jack Rome will give you a grant sufficient to satisfy your needs, which you’ll be free to use as you wish without interference, subject only to the stipulation you make no contact direct or indirect with any person or persons from your previous life and take pains to keep your new identity and circumstances from becoming known to any such person or persons. He would furthermore like you to report to him informally from time to time. Any questions?
Not to be ungrateful, you didn’t think you should agree without knowing how big a grant it will be.
How much do you want?
Was it up to you? Dizzied, you recognized the danger of ruining yourself by naming a figure too small, or of being ridiculous by something too large. You tried to think how much would give you a comfortable income and make you secure. But the word he had used, several times, was “rich,” and you had to think what that meant. A good baseball player gets five million a year.
He laughed. It adds up. Magic Johnson will get fourteen million, but his life expectancy is reduced. Tell me something to show the magnitude of your imagination.
You didn’t want to. You said hopefully, What seems big to me will seem small to you.
Obviously.
Delaying, you said, if I accept a grant today, must I move out of my apartment right away?
Today. To reduce the temptation of spilling the beans. Don’t say where you’re going, it’s private, just say good bye.
He gave you a look. What’s the matter, you want to go to your friend’s funeral?
There’s no need.
Damn right. What was the matter with him?
He was depressed.
What kind of a reason is that?
I don’t know why he did it.
How did he do it? That’s a more interesting question.
He jumped down the stairwell.
How many flights?
Three.
There should have been more flights. Did he make a splash or was it more a crunch?
I wasn’t there.
Good. It’s none of your business, remember that. He’s an idiot, and your business is here. So it’s decided, right?
Is it really?
He went to the safe, took out an envelope, handed it to you. You didn’t know you had already decided and were full of shock.
Open it now.
You opened it, looked inside, with surprise and unsurprise. Your trembling was palpable, and you wondered if you should faint, except you were not the fainting type. You were riven by forces of wild desire with exaltation terror anguish and rage, if those were the feelings. You said, Who’s Stephen Trace?
You’re Stephen Trace, Jack Rome said.
The envelope contained a check, a passport, and a birth certificate for Stephen Trace. The birth certificate was identical to Stephen White’s except for his and his father’s last name, altered both in the typed part and the father’s signature. The passport belonged to Stephen Trace but had a picture of you. You had never seen the picture before. Where did you get that? you asked. Jack Rome did not reply.
The check was drawn on ROMEX BANK. The pay to the order of was typed, Stephen Trace. The signature was stamped in three-color ink, the name J. Finley Gowan, and printed underneath, Treasurer. The dollar amount was imprinted, a three, followed by a confusing number of zeroes. You checked the commas and counted the zeros.
Cal Ripken and Roger Clemens will catch up to you in six years, he said.
My God, you said, What do I do with it?
Whatever you like. Let me remind you: you’re cutting off your connections now with every person in your past. Do you understand how important? Three reasons, don’t forget. One, Jack Rome doesn’t want it noised around that he does this kind of thing. Two, the new Stephen Trace will not want the public scandal of disclosure of his Gregory connection. Three, it would violate the clarity and integrity of the experiment.
Experiment?
It would offend me.
An alarm was hammering in your head: confess while you can—as if there were a crime you had not confessed to Jack Rome. What could it be, you had told him everything? You thought of the undiscovered little body rotting in the woods, somebody else’s crime, and you thought of somebody unknown grieving and wondering, who would never know what happened. You thought of Jock Hadley with his head smashed in, and Hank Gummer, who couldn’t stand the thought of death, and the mother and her two children in the burning car. These thoughts were sad, but there was nothing to do about them, so you did nothing.
EIGHTEEN
You’d better sign the passport, he said.
Can I borrow your pen?
My pen only writes for me.
You asked, Does Stephen Trace have a life story I should know? Make him up, he said.
The check is for thirty million. What can I do with it? Anything you like. Can I cash it? You can try.
Do I have to move out now? Today, he said, get out of there this afternoon. Where should I go? Wherever you like. Any suggestions? You’re on your own. Do you have any advice? No. I don’t want to see you for a month.
He opened the door, waiting for you to go. You looked at the thirty million check and wondered if it was too late to refuse. No, you wondered if you should thank him or shake his hand.
I appreciate this, you said. You held out your hand. Standing beside him, you noticed how small he was, how thin, his face emaciated, the muscles like strings in his neck to hold him together. He wiped his hand on his shirt, though he had not shaken your hand. I don’t want to hear from you for a month, he said.
He shut the door behind you leaving you in a large office with cubicles, each cubicle with a computer terminal and a color picture of a family with children. You looked at the papers in your hand, flapping losely: four items, the check, the passport, the birth certificate, and the torn envelope. You stopped, put the three documents back in the envelope, and the envelope in the inside pocket of your suit.
Down in the elevator thinking, what should I do? You patted your jacket over the pocket, nervous about it. In the elevator vestibule at the bottom you stood still. The man in uniform at the desk watched
you. You must think things through one at a time. You looked around for a place to sit, but there was none. You went into the lobby and looked through the glass wall to the Romex Bank on your right. You were afraid of dying before you could put the check in a safe place. Should you take it into the Romex Bank? You had to think, you didn’t know, would a bank cash a check for thirty million? Would it be any safer to carry thirty million dollars cash?
Through the glass front you saw a fountain on the plaza with a row of curved stone benches forming parts of a circle around it. You went down and sat on one of the benches. There was a family of children playing around the bench on the opposite side. The fountain rose out of a pile of rectangular blocks, curtains of film hanging from the rims, with a light spray misting coolly across your face. Also the bright sun glinting in the geyser and sparkling on the window corners across the plaza. Men and women with briefcases or attaché cases, wearing suits and ties, walked in diagonal lines across the pavement. The street was beyond, two steps below, and taxis waited in a row by the signs.
All the busy people, and the tourist families with cameras, and two youths in the corner with a frisbee trying not to hit anybody. A man with balloons, an old woman on the bench eating a sandwich and reading the newspaper it was wrapped in. No bums. You: none of these people knows I am carrying a check for thirty million dollars.
You gave numbers to the things you had to do. (1) Get rid of the check. (2) Move out of the apartment. (3) Find a place to stay. (4) Eat lunch. Also (5) Apologize to Mr. Crestmeyer. You considered and moved 3 ahead of 2, then you could move your things from 2 to 3 in a taxi. You thought maybe you could do 4 before 2. You felt nervous about 1, what would happen when you went into a bank and presented the check. Thirty million dollars, you ought to turn that into securities or something, but you’d need advice and for that you’d have to talk in somebody’s office. You weren’t ready for that, in your cheap suit and dull shoes, conscious on the bench of your feet in your socks and your shirt over your sweaty arms and chest, along with your millions. You had to go to the bathroom too, you had to pee.
After Gregory Page 10