It was nearly eleven-thirty when he turned off the engine, parked in front of the wood frame house in which he had grown up. There were no lights on inside, but by the glow of the porch lamp he could see that the house’s paint was departing in long, ragged strips. A cloud of insects—gnats, mosquitoes, and the occasional bulk of a moth—circled in the halo of yellow.
Hall climbed out of the car to find that the street was as quiet as it had ever been. Only his footsteps on the walk and the chirrup-chirrup of crickets broke the silence. The doorbell button moved under his finger, but there was no sound inside the house, so Hall opened the screen door to knock.
After a dozen heavy blows with his fist, Hall stepped back to look at the front of the house. A light now showed at the window marking his parents’ bedroom, and he followed his mother’s progress to the front door by the other lights that came on, one by one.
Finally he heard a rustling on the other side of the door, and realized he had not thought of what he would say, how he would explain his presence. Before he could consider the question, though, the front door was yanked open to the limit of the security chain, and a woman’s face, old and marked by suspicion, peered out through the gap.
“Mom—hi. How are you doing?” Hall said, smiling self-consciously.
Anger crossed the woman’s face. “You disgusting drunk!” she screeched. “I’m not your mother. Go away now, and leave a woman to sleep. Go, or I’ll call the police.”
For punctuation, she slammed the door shut with surprising strength.
“Thank God I’ve found you,” Chris Wood said, his voice showing his relief.
Hall stepped away from the motel door reluctantly and let his friend in. “I wish you hadn’t.”
“That’s very well for you,” Wood said, sitting on the edge of the bed, “but I’ve used almost all my vacation time to do it. Elaine is very worried about you. I am too, only I’m a little more confused than she is.”
“She didn’t need to worry,” Hall said, closing the door. “I’m all right.”
“You might have called her and let her know.”
Hall moved to the window and held the curtains apart with his hands so that he could look out. “I was afraid to.”
“She’s eager to have you back. She’s not angry.”
“You don’t understand,” Hall said, turning to face him. “I was afraid she wouldn’t be there—or that she would be, and wouldn’t know me.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Do you know where I went the night I ran out?”
“No. If I’d known that, I’d have found you sooner.”
“I drove to Cross Creek to see my mother. And she didn’t know who I was.”
“Come on, Rick. You’re not making any sense.”
“She denied that I was her son! She slammed the door on me, and after I got it open again, she slammed it a second time.”
“Could she have been angry? You’d have gotten there late, wouldn’t you—”
“No, no! She was right—I’m not her son.”
“She’s getting on in years, isn’t she—”
“You’re not listening to me!” Hall shouted. “She’d never known me!”
“I wish you’d listen to yourself,” Wood said gently. “You’re standing there screaming some very strange things at your old friend.”
Hall sighed, and sat down in the nearest chair. “I thought all those things you’re trying to say,” he said softly. “I thought them in about the first ten seconds, and then I couldn’t. I got her to open the door again, Lord knows how. There’s been a photograph—” Hall took a deep breath “—hanging above Mom’s couch for almost ten years. A picture of the four of us, taken when Diane was graduating from high school.”
“Diane’s the oldest, right?”
Hall nodded. “The picture is still hanging there, but I’m not in it anymore. There’s no blank space—nothing’s been cut out—Diane and Kris are just standing a little closer together.
“Now do you understand? Now do you know why I was afraid to call Elaine or go home? Can you imagine what it would feel like to go home to your wife and have her deny that you are what you think you are? That would be too much, Chris. I’d crack.”
“She’s there, and she isn’t going to deny you. She wants you.”
Hall did not seem to hear. “I’ve never believed in God, Chris. Maybe—maybe He’s finally decided He resents that. No, I don’t really believe that. I’m trying to be rational. But the things that have been happening—they just aren’t.”
“You mean the college records—and the registration . . .”
“The restaurant, not being invited to the reunion, my mom—all of them. They have to be related.”
Wood loosened his tie. “How?”
Hall stood up and went to the window again, as if watching for something. “I feel like I’m being followed—like someone is tracking me down the paths I’ve taken through life and systematically tearing them up behind me. And getting closer to where I am, all the time. It’s as if I’ve done something terrible, and to punish me they are erasing the traces that I ever existed.”
“Rick, please come sit down.”
Hall reluctantly complied, “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” he asked tiredly.
Wood chose his words carefully. “I want you to listen to me for a couple of minutes. I’m going to offer you another explanation for the things that you’ve experienced. And you’ve got to try to accept it, and believe it, because if you can’t—if you can’t, Rick, then you’re going to have to admit that you’ve already cracked. There has been a series of unfortunate, but totally explainable occurrences that for some reason, overwork perhaps, has hit you in a very strange way. I’m going to take every single incident and explain it. If I miss any, you tell me.
“The invitation to the reunion—lost in the mail, with a million other pieces of mail this year. The restaurant—does a fire need explanation? You’re not the only customers or the only couple that had a picture on those walls.
“The check—would that be the first error ever coming from the man-machine interface? Your mother—the sudden onset of senility. I’m sorry, but it happens. The phone calls—the fact that you hadn’t called in years is explanation enough.
“The junk mail—they all buy the same list, and add and remove names all the time. You’re off because you don’t buy, Elaine’s on because she does. The registration—the law has been changed so that joint ownership is automatic, and your wife’s name was first, so that’s the only one they printed.
“The transcript—eight thousand people in your graduating class? That means they lost zero point triple-zero one percent of their records. The loss of your birth registration—do you think the flood that destroyed the regional office had you in mind when it swept the filing cabinets and microfiche away?
“The picture in your mother’s home—that damning picture. Was that the only picture taken that day? Did they perhaps take one ‘just with the girls’?”
“There were a lot of pictures,” Hall said slowly.
“Is it impossible that something happened to the picture that’s been there for ten years, so that she had to put up another?”
“Or I might have just not seen things clearly,” Hall said. “That night—I could have seen anything I wanted to.”
“Did I leave anything out?”
“Stark and Son, my first job. They couldn’t find them to use as a reference.”
“And?”
“I had the wrong address.” He rested his head on his folded hands. “I had myself thinking, ‘My God, they’ve moved the building.’ ” He looked up and sighed. “I want to go home to Elaine.”
For a few days, anchored by overtime and bolstered by Elaine’s affection, Hall gave every sign of having stabilized. But inside he was still unsettled, fighting to understand his own foolishness. Chris had shown him how he had misread events, but not why.
Presently, however, he be
came aware of a hollowness, a space left by friends lost and not replaced. My own doing, Hall thought. One group left in Cross Creek—another scattered by college graduation. Too much work to keep the friendships alive. But all I have here are acquaintances and coworkers—except for Elaine, no real friends. Even Chris is more Elaine’s friend than mine.
Having fixed the blame on himself, Hall could do nothing else but to try to atone. He waited for a night when Elaine turned in early with a magazine. Old cold trails, he told himself as he opened the address book. But how much can we have changed? Still—start small.
After eight rings, the phone was answered.
“Greider residence,” said the voice.
“This is Rick—Rick Hall, Mr. Greider,” Hall said happily. “I’ve been trying to call you for a couple of weeks, but no one’s been home.”
“I’ve been quite busy cleaning out my things at the school. Who did you say you were again?”
“Richard Hall—chemistry, six years ago. Remember? Our lab group didn’t get an experiment right until May, and you threw a party.”
Greider didn’t answer right away. “Young man, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you. I had a Kristen Hall, two years ago.”
“That’s my sister.”
“Hmm. You say you attended Cross Creek six years ago?”
“That was my senior year. Then I went to MSU, in design.”
“I’m really very sorry, but I don’t seem to be able to remember you very clearly.”
“I’m surprised; I came over to your house several times that year. Do you still have the little file cards on us?”
“No. I’m retiring this year, and I got rid of those. I do apologize, Mr. Hall, but there have been so many students over so many years . . .”
“I understand.”
“Is there something I can do for you?”
“No, I just wanted to say hello.”
It was a small failure, but substantial enough to blunt his enthusiasm. He sat quietly for a moment and flipped through the address book. There were names to which he could not even attach faces. Perhaps it has been too long.
The yearbooks were on the top shelf, and Hall had to drag a chair over to the bookcase and stand on it to reach them. They were well coated with dust; it had been some time since he had looked at them.
Hall permitted himself a few nasty thoughts at Greider’s picture in the faculty section, and then turned to the pictures of the clubs. He looked for his face among the dozen below the label, “Art Club,” but failed to find it. But that’s right—he had missed three days with the flu, and most of the photos had been taken those days. He had thought he had been listed below it as “Missing from photo: R. Hall,” but there was no such notation. He must have been wrong.
Turning to the seniors section, he paused several times to admire the young beauty of the girls he had dated, frozen by silver chemistry and printer’s ink. Then he turned the page, and his own face smiled up from the page at him—cheerfully seventeen, the irrepressible lock of hair over his right ear sticking out.
Hall reached for his drink, resting on a coaster on the table beside him, but his hand never closed on it; he stared, incredulous, at the page, the muscles in his left hand standing out as he gripped the yearbook tightly.
The page had rippled, like water disturbed by a pebble, and when it had cleared, his picture was gone.
“Chris?”
“More trouble?”
“Can you help me find him again?”
“When did he leave?”
“No more than an hour ago.”
“Why not call the police this time, Elaine? I don’t like to have to say it, but we don’t know whether he might be dangerous—if not to others, then to himself.”
“No. He’s my responsibility; I’m his wife.”
“He’s his own responsibility, and right now, he can’t handle it.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that if we get him back, he needs more than a little extra attention this time. He needs more help than even you can give him.”
“Professional help.”
“The county mental health agency could decide what was best for him.”
“What if he doesn’t agree with them?”
“Your testimony in court would take care of that.”
“I couldn’t,” Elaine said. “Not even now. I’ve got to love him back to health.”
“That’s my condition for going out after him—that you promise to do whatever’s necessary for him to get better. And if you say no, I’m going to have to call the police myself.”
“Oh, Chris . . .” She sounded tired. “Find him. I promise.”
All Wood had to go on was what his friend had done the first time—head for Cross Creek. There were too many places Hall could have gone, and too few people searching. For the first time, Wood wished he had given in and bought a citizen’s band radio. But he hadn’t, and he could find little enthusiasm as he pulled onto the North-South Freeway.
Not expecting to find Hall anywhere but on the road or in Cross Creek, Wood nearly drove past the unlit car on the shoulder. But as he neared it, he caught a glimpse of the many bumper stickers adorning the back of the car, and recognized it as Hall’s. He pulled onto the shoulder himself and stepped out of the car into a night well lit by a gibbous moon.
The car was empty, and Wood started up the grassy hill to the row of trees above. A short trail led through the clump of trees and to a clearing, in the middle of which Hall sat cross-legged. Wood approached him cautiously.
“I understand,” Hall said clearly.
“Richard?” Wood said tentatively.
Hall turned his head. “Hello, Chris.”
“Richard, I want you to come back with me.”
“I was nearly ready to go, even if you hadn’t come here.”
“What are you doing?”
“I was listening.”
“Listening?”
“Yes—to the world.”
“Meditating.”
“If you wish.” Hall rose and brushed the bits of grass and dirt from his jeans. He seemed exceptionally calm.
“What did you hear?”
“Nothing—nothing from outside. From inside, a great deal.”
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Perfectly. Are you ready to go?”
They walked down the slope, and Wood steered Hall away from his car. “Leave it here, we’ll get it later. Please, ride with me.”
Hall smiled understandingly. “You’re afraid I might run off again.”
“Yes.” Wood admitted. “Shouldn’t I be?”
“No. Not anymore. Of course I’ll come with you, if that’s what you prefer.”
“I do.”
“Can you explain it to me?”
Wood found Hall’s almost beatific calm disturbing, but hesitated to say anything, for fear of setting Hall off once more. Finally he could not resist any longer. “You seem very different.”
“It’s just that I understand what’s happening now.”
“No.” Hall twisted on the seat so that he was facing Wood. “How can you see from the outside what I can barely grasp from the inside? I wish I could make you understand. You and Elaine both. I want you to be able to accept it. You have the closest ties to me, so it should happen to you last.”
“All right, Richard. You don’t have to go on.”
“I would if I knew what to say—that I’m slipping into the cracks between moments—that a mistake is being edited out of the cosmos—”
“Please stop. It’s hard for me to listen to you talk like this.”
“It’ll be harder when I’m gone and you don’t understand. There isn’t much time left. They’re very close to me now.”
“We’ll protect you,” Wood said, near tears. “We’ll get you all the help you need.”
“I don’t need any help.” They were nearing the city; traffic was building up and structures outnumbered tre
es along the highway. “I’m not afraid, Chris. When I’m gone, everything will be in the place that it was intended for it. At least that’s how I feel. I’ve made my peace.”
Wood took his eye off the road. “Dammit, stop!” he blurted. “You’re sick but you’re going to get better. Just grab on to that thought, all right?”
“That car is stopping,” Hall said in measured tones.
Wood glanced back at the road. “Idiot drivers,” he said, braking and honking the horn. He looked in the side mirror, saw that the next lane was clear, and swung the car out of danger with a twitch on the steering wheel. The screech of tearing metal said that the car behind them had not done as well.
To his credit, Wood did not cause an accident himself when he saw that his passenger was gone.
The apartment door opened only moments after he knocked.
“I’m sorry, Elaine,” Wood said. “I had him, and I lost him. I was distracted by traffic, and he must have taken that moment to jump out. I couldn’t look for him very long, because he was on foot and I had a car back on the highway.”
“Find him? Find who? What are you talking about?” she said, kissing him perfunctorily.
The kiss had the emotional impact of a heavyweight’s best punch. “Richard, of course.” When she showed no recognition or understanding, he added, “Your husband.”
“You have a strange sense of humor sometimes,” she said stiffly. The phone rang. “Come in and sit; I’ll be ready in a few moments.”
Wood stared as she disappeared into the kitchen, the folds of her long dress swishing with her precise steps. Then he looked at the rest of the room, seeking some clue that would relieve him of his confusion.
Almost immediately his eye fell on the picture that hung by the front closet. It had been a huge print of Richard and Elaine’s wedding picture. Had been. Had been. Now there was a graduation photo of Elaine, and beside it in a second frame, her college diploma. Why had she changed it? No—how had she done it—the diploma she had never earned, because she had married Richard.
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