SHUDDERVILLE FIVE

by Mia Zabrisky

  “Depends what you mean by reality.”

  Will’s eyelids stuttered in a series of blinks. He turned his head away. This man had brought him nothing but grief. Hospital staff flitted past the open doorway, and he yelled, “Nurse!”

  She poked her head inside the high-ceilinged room. Her long black hair was pulled into a thick, oiled bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a crisp white uniform and an efficient pair of orthopedic-looking shoes. “I’m not your nurse, but I can get her for you. What do you want?”

  “Make him go away.” Will pointed at Tobias, who smiled apologetically.

  The nurse tapped her foot. “We all set here?”

  Tobias nodded stiffly. “I’ll be back when he’s in a better mood.”

  “Fine.” She hurried off.

  “Don’t come back,” Will told his partner. “Ever.”

  Tobias shrugged. “It’s entirely up to you.” He limped out into the hallway, leaning heavily on his cane, and joined the foot traffic. Soon he was gone.

  *

  The first thing Will did when he got back to Boston was to visit the cemetery where his wife was buried. He took an unpaved access road past chipped fieldstones and heavy marble slabs that had shifted off their foundations. He trudged up a gentle incline toward the place where Charlotte’s grave stood in stark silhouette against the sky. Curving elegant script spelled out her name. A pair of ballet slippers was etched into the pink and gray granite, and he traced the cold stone with his fingertips. He tried not to cry. He held out the bottle of wine he’d purchased for the occasion and said, “Brought you something. It’s that burgundy you like.”

  Thick curls of fog evaporated around the base of the slab, creating the impression of a soft, damp loneliness. He plopped down in the snow, uncorked the bottle and poured two glasses—one for him and one for her. He draped his arms around his legs and drew them close. Inadequately dressed for this weather in a thin winter coat, T-shirt and khaki pants, he clinked the glasses together and said, “Down the hatch.” He finished them off in quick succession, and then drank from the bottle.

  Rusty hinges creaked. Old feelings surfaced. He drank until the bottle was empty. It was getting toward dusk when he looked across the rows of gravestones, neat as the sentences, and said, “I miss you, Charlotte.” Tears welled in his eyes. “I miss you so much.” He made a fist and knocked on his skull. It made a hollow sound.

  Now a figure came limping out of the fog—the last person in the world he wanted to see. Tobias wore a camel’s hair coat over a linen two-button custom suit. “You’re shivering,” he said when he reached the gravesite, breathing hard and leaning heavily against his wooden cane.

  He wiped the tears off his face, every last trace. Tobias had caught him in the act of speaking softly to himself, as if there were somebody else there with him.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Fuck off,” Will said.

  Standing in a clot of snow, his partner studied the gravestone. “Charlotte wouldn’t want you to give up.”

  “Oh, how manipulative is that?” Will cried in protest. “What the hell do you want?”

  “What do I want?” Tobias knelt in the snow. His mouth was tense, but he kept on smiling. He slipped his hand into his coat pocket, took out a joint and a pewter lighter, and said, “You remember our conversation in the hospital?”

  Will squinted up at the naked trees creaking in the wind. The sun had set in a blaze of crimson. His thoughts were scattered. His body was shaking.

  Tobias held out the joint. “Age before beauty.”

  With a strangled sound, Will knocked it out of his hand.

  His partner treated the outburst like a mild disturbance. He glanced at the horizon, his intelligent eyes momentarily glowing crimson. “So you do remember our conversation.”

  “Every word.”

  He held his head at a contemptuous angle. “And?”

  “The answers elude me.”

  “Ah,” Tobias said.

  Will’s eyes brimmed with stinging tears. “It came to me with blinding insight right before we crashed. But it’s gone now. Totally wiped out.”

  “Can’t you put yourself back on the plane?”

  “All I know is… I was writing it down on a paper napkin.”

  “And?”

  “Charlotte put her soda can on the napkin, and it got ruined. Right before we crashed.”

  “Focus on the napkin. What did it say?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Think.”

  “I have been thinking, Tobias. I can’t remember a damn thing.”

  His partner stood up and watched him with a strange tenderness bordering on pity. “Then I’m sorry, but you’ll never get her back.”

  Will squinted. “What did you just say to me?”

  “You’ll never get her back.”

  “Are you insane?” His heart rate accelerated. Suddenly he was on his feet. Overwhelmed with rage. “You think we can reverse this? How? By going back in time?”

  Tobias gave him a tormented look. “That would make us rather powerful, wouldn’t it?”

  “We aren’t photons, Tobias. We aren’t quarks. We’re human beings. Flesh and blood.” He felt more alive than he had in days. He was filled with a buzzing electric fury. He stood in a defensive posture, feet planted firmly on the ground. He held up his fists, ready for a fight. “I can’t remember. What more do you want from me?”

  His friend inspected him carefully. “It’s not a time machine. It’s better than that. More intricate. More interesting. Vastly more nonsensical. But that’s quantum physics for you, isn’t it? Nobody knows anything. The ball is in your court now.”

  Will stared at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I think you know what it means.”

  He lunged forward and swung out his right fist, narrowly missing Tobias’ head. The shorter man slid to the right, not so much intimidated as surprised. Will launched another strike at his head, but Tobias blocked the blow with his cane.

  The two men circled one another cautiously, fog swirling around their ankles. Will took another swing, and Tobias darted deftly out of the way and parried with astonishing quickness. He swung his cane and caught Will hard on the shoulder. The blow stung, but there wasn’t enough momentum to knock him down.

  Will swung his fists wildly, lost his balance, and Tobias moved in to attack. Will twisted left, and then right, trying to avoid the counter-blows. He remembered his father’s advice—everybody has a weakness. Tobias wasn’t indomitable. Will was six inches taller. He found a reserve of energy, grabbed onto the wooden cane and rotated it sharply to the left, knocking his partner to his knees.

  A serious blow to the side of the head stunned the shorter man senseless. Tobias raised his arms to protect his head and deflect the body blows. He crouched in a sign of submission. Spine bent forward, head held down. His cane was abandoned in the snow.

  A guide-wire snapped inside Will. He reared back and produced a roundhouse kick that knocked his partner against the edge of a marble slab and rendered him unconscious.

  Will stood motionless with surprise. “Get up!”

  Tobias didn’t move. His face was covered in blood. Will knelt on the ground and tried to wake him. Tobias looked dead. There was a pool of blood in the snow. The roots of his hair were streaked with red.

  Will’s veins filled with freezing water. He tried not to panic. He looked around to see if anyone had seen them. Night had fallen. The only movement in the cemetery was a lone figure, far away. He studied the chilly scene in the moonlight, everything the color of a gas flame. Filled with fright, he turned and ran.

  *

  The Lon-Gen Foundation was located in an industrial area of Cambridge full of ugly buildings, bus stops and neighborhood marketas. The late-night traffic rushed past, drivers zipping around one other in itchy zigzags. Will pulled into the parking lot under the full moon. It was a very dry cold, the kind that hurt your lungs
when you inhaled. He used his keys to enter the building and took the elevator to the second floor.

  The lab was empty. He walked past the vacant workstations, microscopes and chalkboards. They were just beginning to understand the mad, crazy dreams of quantum mechanics. Will sat at his workstation, feeling grimy and exhausted. They would find him. He would have to turn himself in—he’d just murdered his only friend. He opened his lab books and skimmed through his old notes. He’d been searching for a magic bullet, but there were too many factors to consider. He closed his notebooks, picked up a piece of blank typing paper, inserted it in the typewriter and typed out a confession.

  When he was done, he ripped out the page and tucked it in his pocket. The building throbbed with the sound of silence. He walked over to the chalkboard, erased the equation he’d been struggling with, turned out the lights and locked the door behind him.

  Outside in the parking lot, a lone figure stood beside Will’s car, his blood-streaked face washed in moonlight. Will’s stomach turned. His legs felt gelatinous. “Tobias?” How was it possible? “I thought you were dead.”

  His partner shrugged. There was blood matted on his scalp and face. “I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”

  “Jesus, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Never felt better. Friends?”

  Will nodded reluctantly. He held out his hand.

  Tobias stormed forward, hoisting his cane, and smacked Will forcefully across the stomach. He bent double with pain. Tobias stood over him, breathing hard. “Now we’re even,” he said hoarsely.

  Will caught his breath. “I thought I’d killed you.”

  “No such luck.”

  “I typed out my confession.”

  Tobias held out his hand. “Let me see.”

  He reached into his pocket. It began to snow. The snow was like silence falling from the sky. Like little pieces of quiet piling up. As he held out the confession to his partner, a few snowflakes landed on his palm. “Wait,” he gasped. “I remember something.”

  “What?”

  He watched the snow crystals melt on his palm. “Everything.”

  *

  Three Months Later—March 27, 1966, Cambridge, Massachusetts

  Estelle Mandelbaum poured herself another glass of wine and stared at her husband’s untouched plate of chicken cacciatore. Late again. He worked ridiculous hours at the office, and tonight he’d forgotten to call. Usually he called. For the past three months, ever since the plane crash had taken Charlotte Ballard, Tobias had been overworked, distracted and largely absent. She wasn’t happy about it. She didn’t know what to do about it.

  She sighed and gazed out the window. It was snowing again. Estelle was sick of the snow. When would spring come? What was keeping it? When would it be April already? When would the snow stop falling and the flowers start blooming and the world come to life again? These were her questions.

  The wind blew hard against the house, peaking and dying away, leaving an edgy silence. Now the front door opened and closed, and she listened to her husband scrape his boots against the welcome mat. She heard his familiar gait in the front hallway, his limping footsteps and the tap of his cane. He paused in the foyer to take off his coat and scarf, and then he continued down the hallway toward the dining room. Estelle fixed her hair and put on a bored look before he appeared at the doorway, smiling tiredly at her.

  “Well, hello there, young lady.”

  “Hello yourself,” she said petulantly.

  He was slightly jowly and grayer than when they’d first met, but just as charming and funny as ever. She recalled the excitement she used to feel just being near him; the closeness of him, his warmth, an electric thrill shooting through her. Now they were—what? Comfortable? Contented? What a curse.

  “Remember how it used to be, Estelle?” Tobias said.

  She sat motionless with her chin raised. The room grew still.

  He walked over to the table and sat down beside her. He hooked his cane over the back of a chair and nudged a few strands of hair out of her eyes with his thumb. He studied her face. “Where did I go wrong?”

  The wind came roaring back, swelling and hissing through cracks in the house. These Boston winters were long and unpredictable. She shook her head slowly. She’d been trying not to revisit the past. The decisions they’d made, the emotions they’d felt. She’d been trying very hard not to sift through the layers of blame—whose sperm wasn’t working? Whose eggs were defective?

  “Thanks for calling to say you’d be late,” she said with a smirk.

  “Sorry. I forgot.”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  “Forget it.” He stroked her arm, and she let his warm fingers play with her delicate, cold, blue-veined left hand. He turned it over like a leaf. “Let’s get naked,” he suggested.

  She laughed. “Sorry, buddy. Not in the cards.”

  “Come on. Admit it. You’re still in love with me.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You never change, do you?”

  “You want change? Go stand in front of a traffic light.”

  “Ha. I’ve heard that one before.”

  “Okay, but admit that you love me. You’re nuts about me. Admit it.”

  She laughed. “Not tonight, buster.”

  “What’s not to love? Is it my breath? I have no plaque or tarter on my teeth, see?” He grinned, showing her his long, narrow, white teeth.

  She laughed. He was funny tonight. Just like his old self.

  “Ah. See?” he said with a wink. “I’m handsome as ever.”

  “Hmph.”

  “Let’s go upstairs. No? Why not?” he said. “Give me one good reason.”

  “We exhaust me,” she confessed.

  “Ditto, kiddo.” He leaned forward and sniffed her hair. “Mm. You smell like vanilla.”

  “You’re a pest,” she said with an ambiguous mixture of affection and annoyance.

  “Estelle, Estelle.” He let her go. He sat back in his seat and folded his arms. He was a handsome man in her eyes. Good-looking and smart. And yes, she wanted him. “What if I told you something? Something you wouldn’t believe?” he said softly.

  “So tell me.”

  “Please. I’m serious. Can we be serious for a moment?”

  “Okay,” she said more thoughtfully.

  “What if I said you could have any wish you wanted? Any wish at all? What would it be?”

  “A wish?” Estelle frowned. “That is a strange question.”

  “Humor me.”

  Outside, the wind made a comeback. It roared around the house, and she thought about how old it was—the wind. It had blown for millions of years.

  He leaned forward. “If you could have anything in the world, okay?” She could smell the sweat on his skin and feel the pulse of his body. “What would you wish for?”

  “Oh Toby,” she said mournfully. “I’d want to have a baby, of course!”

  “Just one?”

  “Two babies! A boy and a girl. That’s my fondest desire, since you ask, sweetheart. But we can’t talk about this now.” She shook her head sadly.

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? Because it would tear me apart.”

  He tugged gloomily on his left ear.

  “You always do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Tug on your ear when you get upset.”

  He gave her a shrug of grudging concession. “I’ve got a proposition for you. I’ll never bring up the subject again. Just tell me this once, Estelle.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Are you absolutely positive about your answer? Your wish? One wish is all you get.”

  She drew away from him. She thought it was cruel of him to be talking this way, but she couldn’t help herself. Her wish was crystal clear. “I want two children, Toby. A boy and a girl.”

  He grinned and bit his lower
lip. “Sounds nice.”

  “A little devil and a little angel! That’s what I want!”

  “Okay. Good.”

  And suddenly she was crying. Sobbing.

  He smiled indulgently and took her hand. “Okay. That’s it then.”

  “Why are you asking me these things? Shouldn’t we be moving on?”

  “I won’t ever mention it again. Are you okay?”

  “Okay? I’ll never be okay.” He was looking at her funny. “What? Why are you being like this, Toby? Acting so strange.”

  He sighed and finished off her wine. “Let’s go to bed.”

  She touched his forehead with the tips of her fingers, as if he’d spiked a fever. “You can’t go around asking people what they want, Toby. It’s too painful.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  She smiled sadly and framed his face with her hands.

  “Never mind,” he told her. “The issue is moot.”

  She traced her fingers down his cheeks. “Moot?”

  “You deserve to be happy.”

  “What a crock.” She laughed.

  He leaned forward and kissed her. “Time for bed,” he whispered.

  *

  December 23, 1965—Boston, Massachusetts

  Will Ballard checked his watch and glanced out the window at the falling snow. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and the lab was empty. He pushed away from his workstation, removed his rubber gloves and washed his hands in the sink. He hung up his lab coat, put on his parka, went outside, unlocked the car and drove into Boston.

  He found a parking spot on Commonwealth Avenue and walked to the university campus where his wife taught advanced psychology. He sat on a gray stonewall in front of the student union and watched the snow drifting down from the sky. Large ornate flakes whirled through the air. He held up his hand to catch a few. He tilted his head to taste the melting flakes, then shivered and checked his watch. He glanced up and down the sidewalk, looking for her.

  Five minutes later, she came strolling out of Randall Hall with a student. Will ducked his head. His breath froze in his lungs. The couple appeared to be exchanging wry cynical comments, and his wife seemed blissfully happy.