Memory (Hard Case Crime)

by Donald E. Westlake

  He subsided. He’d been thrashing, and now his left arm hurt. Slowly the pain went away, slowly his upset lessened, and he relaxed again.

  The doctor said, “Tell me about Edna.”

  “I took her to the movies sometimes.”

  “When you were in high school?”

  “No. In the town.”

  “Oh, in the town. You knew Edna in the town, when you were working in the tannery.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was she your girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she want to marry you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you want to marry her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  Cole frowned. The answers had been easy and obvious, yes and yes. He hadn’t had to think about them, and he hadn’t been surprised by them. But now he was surprised. He said, “Because I was coming to New York.”

  “Couldn’t Edna come to New York?”

  “I didn’t think of it that way.”

  “What way did you think of it?”

  “Just to get out of that town, and come back. Not that it meant anything.”

  “Didn’t you know you were in love with Edna?”

  “No.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “I don’t know. Right now, I guess.”

  “Well, well. You mean you didn’t know that before?”

  “No.”

  “Now that you know, are you going to ask her to marry you?”

  “I don’t know.” There was confusion in his mind, and a heavy grating shifting, like great blocks of granite grinding away under pressure.

  “Are you glad to know this now, that you love Edna?”

  “I don’t know. I guess so.” It seemed as though the ceiling was getting lower; he wasn’t at ease anymore; this wasn’t calm and pleasant anymore.

  “Were you trying to hide your feelings about Edna from yourself?”

  “No. I didn’t know about it.”

  “I see. Do you remember about the square of shiny metal now?”

  “Remember what?” Trailing strands of fright touched him, making him quiver.

  “What does the square of shiny metal mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why do you dream about it?”

  “It frightens me.”

  “Why does it frighten you?”

  “I don’t know. I wish they’d take it away.”

  “Who?”

  “The men!”

  “What men?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Is it your father, Paul? Is he the one with the square of shiny metal?”

  “No. No.”

  “Is it Edna’s father?”

  He was calm again now, these questions were meaningless. “No.”

  “Well, never mind. Would you like to work in the tannery again?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about your acting career?”

  He frowned, not understanding the question. “What?”

  “Do you still want to be an actor?”

  “Yes, sure.”

  “Which do you want most, the job in the tannery or to be an actor?”

  “It isn’t the same thing. I can’t answer that, it isn’t the same thing.”

  “Yes, of course. You’re right. Tell me, Paul, do you think your memory will come back?”

  Something cold blew across the side of his neck; there was somberness in his chest. “I don’t know,” he said. But then, because it didn’t matter really what he revealed, he said, “I don’t think so.”

  “Why don’t you think so?”

  It was an effort to breathe. He said, “Because good things don’t happen.”

  “Never, Paul?”

  “Sometimes they do.”

  “All right, Paul, I guess that’s enough for now. You’re going to take a nap now, and when you wake up we can talk some more.”

  “All right.”

  The doctor did something with the needle in Cole’s arm, and the green shutters closed all the way.

  27

  When he awoke, he was still on the leather cot, but now he was alone in the room. He sat up and stretched, feeling physically good, rested and relaxed. It was like waking from a summer afternoon nap under a tree; he even felt thirsty, the way you do when you take a nap outdoors in the summertime.

  He remembered everything the doctor had asked him, everything he had answered. A lot of foolishness about mothers and fathers, high school and all that. The doctor was trying to make him fit some sort of psychological cutout, that’s all it was. But he remembered his answers, too, and he knew he didn’t fit that cutout; the doctor must know that now, too. Still, it hadn’t occurred to him before that he might be having trouble with his memory because he wanted to forget his past, and he was glad to have the question raised and answered all at once. By the things he’d said, while under the influence of the truth serum, his memory problem was proved to be entirely physical. Not even in his subconscious was there any desire to hide from his past. He wanted his memory back, and he knew that even more surely now than he’d known it before.

  Then there were the other things, the questions that had bothered him when they were being asked, and that bothered him again now as he remembered them. The square of shiny metal, that filled his dreams and shadowed his days; even in his subconscious he didn’t know what it was. But it was important, that he knew; otherwise, why would it bother him so? It seemed at times as though that square of shiny metal was the last clue, the one missing piece of information that would unlock his memory for good and all. But what- ever it was, the knowledge about it wasn’t contained in his head, not anywhere that he could find it.

  Whatever you lose, you need what you lost to help you find what you lost. In the pattern in his head, it seemed that he had to know about the square of shiny metal in order to get his memory back, but he would have to get his memory back before he could know about the square of shiny metal. Except that he couldn’t really be sure that the square of shiny metal meant anything at all; it was just a feeling he had, tinged with fear and a sense of something looming over him.

  And there was one more question that had been raised. Edna.

  Was that why he couldn’t get her out of his head, why she had confused his mind that time when he was with Rita? Of everything he had seen and known and been occupied by in that town, only Edna remained with any clarity at all in his mind. Because he was in love with her?

  But that was nonsense, it had to be. She was awkward, nervous, shy, a frail and bony bundle of jitters, plainfaced and dull. She had no sophistication, and only what passes among the uncritical for an education. She was not beautiful, she was not smart, she was not strong, she had no connection with his past or his interests or any part of his world.

  He knew what it was. He felt guilty about her, because of the way he’d treated her there at the end. And he did feel a sort of protective tenderness toward her, as being someone possibly even less equipped to cope with reality than he was in his present state. And he supposed he still had some residue in him of the small cramped lust he had felt toward her in their few unsatisfactory sessions together. Guilt, and tenderness, and a trace of physical desire; he had mixed the ingredients inside his head, and somehow had convinced himself all unknowingly that the resultant mixture was love.

  Well, it wasn’t. It was guilt, and it was tenderness, and it was the dregs of lust, but it was not love. It was not love because it couldn’t be love. Where did love for Edna fit in with any of his desires and any of his potential? Nowhere. Nowhere.

  It would be absurd to think of marrying Edna. To begin with, he was in no condition to marry anyone now. And besides, what about after his memory came back? On the day his memory was full and strong again inside his head, he would look at Edna and she would be nothing to him but boredom and embarrassment; even guilt and tenderness and lust would be washed away.

  And the memory
would come back. Some of the doctor’s questions had tipped him over into a feeling of depression there toward the end, so when the doctor had asked him if he thought he would get his memory back he had said no, but that hadn’t been a true statement of his feelings, truth serum or no. That had been the voice of his depression, that was all, and his depression couldn’t be relied on to produce any sort of coherent or intelligent response to anything.

  Why shouldn’t his memory come back? Its loss was purely and entirely a physical matter, that he knew for sure now, and the doctor himself had admitted that in concussion cases there was no telling what might happen. The doctor couldn’t say for sure one way or the other whether his memory would come back or not; he couldn’t even guess.

  It was only partial amnesia, after all. It wasn’t as though his brain had been wiped clean, it hadn’t been. He recognized places from his past life, and people; he remembered incidents. There were still some threads of memory uncut, so there was no reason to believe he couldn’t pull those threads and eventually drag the rest of his memory out into the light as well.

  This was Friday. On Monday he would go to his first acting job since coming back to New York. That very fact in itself, the very motions of going through the actions of his profession, might be all he would need to give his memory that first strong jolt that would set it rolling and trundling down out of the darkness and into the light.

  The door opened, and he looked up, startled, to see the doctor peering in at him. The doctor said, “Ah, you’re awake. Come on in here.”

  “All right.” He got up from the cot and went over through the doorway into the office. The lights were on in here, and the world behind the window was dark. The doctor had gone over to his desk and seated himself there, watching Cole in waiting silence.

  Cole said, “Can I get a glass of water someplace?”

  “Through there, there’s a sink. You might want to throw some cold water on your face, too.”

  “I think I will.”

  He crossed the office diagonally to the other door, and went through into a small dim room full of glass-fronted cabinets. He switched on the light, and saw marked bottles in rows in the cabinets, and some machines on wheels, and a sink with a drinking glass standing on it between the faucets. He drank some water, scrubbed his face, and dried face and hands with paper towels from the dispenser above the sink. Then he went back to the office, and at the doctor’s gesture, sat down in front of the desk.

  “Well.” The doctor was smiling slightly, but his eyes were watchful. “Do you remember what we talked about?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think about it all?”

  “I don’t agree with all of it.”

  “Oh? What exactly don’t you agree with?”

  “About my memory not coming back, and about Edna. It’s just as good a chance my memory will come back as not, isn’t it?”

  The doctor spread his hands. “I would guess it’s a smaller chance,” he said, “but it would only be a guess. Based on the fact that your memory hasn’t started to improve at all as yet, and it’s been some time since the accident took place. I’ll grant you, that doesn’t mean your memory won’t improve at some future date, but my guess is it won’t.”

  “I’d rather guess the other way.”

  “By all means. I think you should. You mentioned the girl, Edna?”

  “Yes. I told you I was in love with her, but that isn’t right. I feel guilty about her, because of the way I walked out on her, and I guess I feel sorry for her, because she’s...because of what she’s like. She’s very nervous, and self-conscious.”

  “I see. Guilt and pity, not love.”

  “And, sex a little bit, too, I guess.”

  The doctor nodded. “And now,” he said, “about this matter of the square of shiny metal.”

  “I don’t know what that is. I dream about it sometimes, but I just don’t know what it is.”

  “It seemed to agitate you at the time. Do you feel agitated now?”

  “No,” Cole said truthfully. “I feel...relaxed.”

  The doctor smiled. He remained silent, watching Cole, but Cole was on to that trick, and said nothing. They both waited, watching one another, and at last the doctor sighed and roused himself, shifting position in his chair, looking away from Cole. “Well,” he said. “We seem to have gone as far as we can today. But I’ll want you to come back.”

  “All right.”

  “We want to watch for any change in your physical condition, any new symptoms of any kind, no matter how remote they may seem from our primary concern.”

  “All right.”

  The doctor glanced around his desk, turning his head this way and that, as though looking for something. “Well, now,” he said. “My nurse has gone for the day, so I’ll have to make out a receipt for you myself. Two office visits, sixteen dollars.”

  Cole brought out his checkbook. He made out a check, and traded it for a receipt. Then the doctor said, “I’ll want to see you again relatively soon. In two weeks, say. Let me get my appointment book.”

  Cole waited while the doctor went to the other office. He returned with a black-bound ledger, resettled himself at his desk, and began turning the pages. “Let me see. January thirty? Yes. Excellent. That’s a Friday again, two weeks from today. All right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “I’ll give you a note, so you won’t forget. Do you keep a diary?”

  “A diary? No.”

  “You should. Write in it the memorable things that happen to you each day, and jot down on the appropriate days such appointments as this one, so when that day comes around you’ll open the book, and there’s the reminder waiting for you.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Cole, pleased by it. “I never thought of that.”

  “It might help.” The doctor smiled. “At least keep you from missing appointments,” he said. He extended a card across the desk. “Here’s a reminder about our next. January thirtieth, three-thirty in the afternoon. If there’s any change in the meantime, of course, you’ll contact me at once. My number’s on the card there.” He got to his feet, smiling more broadly than before, and said, “I wish you the very best of luck, Paul, and I hope your optimism proves to be more prophetic than my gloom.”

  “Thank you.”

  Cole left, to find it was seven o’clock in the evening, and the air was, if anything, even colder and damper than when he’d come here this afternoon. He walked to the subway and rode it home, and stopped in at a bookstore on Sheridan Square to buy a diary. When he got home, his first entry in the diary was for next Monday, telling him about the acting job, and his second entry was on January thirtieth, reminding him of his next appointment with the doctor.

  28

  It would have been impossible for him to miss getting to his acting job. He had reminders everywhere; a note on the bedroom door, another on the wall over the desk, another on a wall in the bathroom, yet another on the hall door in the living room, all in addition to the reminder note in his diary and the fact that he’d asked his answering service to phone him at eight o’clock that morning, so he’d be sure to get up on time. And then, as though all of that weren’t enough, the telephone rang again at five minutes past nine, and it was Helen Arndt.

  “I’m glad I caught you before you left, sweetie,” she said, right away. “You remember about the job today, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sure. I left notes up.”

  “Good boy. There’s something I forgot to tell you last week, and it’s very important. Can you remember something very very important for just today?”

  “I think so,” he said. He couldn’t keep a trace of coldness out of his voice; her manner was too condescending.

  She said, “Here’s the story, honey. The way I got you this job without an audition is because of Herbie Lang. Does the name ring a bell?”

  “Herbie Lang? No, I’m sorry, I don’t think so.”

  “He hired you once before
, when you were on Silent Heart. You remember being on Silent Heart, baby? The soaper.”

  “I know I was on it,” he said, which he knew was begging the question—he knew he’d been on that show, from his tax forms and resume, but he didn’t remember being on it—but her maternal condescension was irritating him, he couldn’t help it.

  “Well, that’s where Herbie knows you from. So he knows your work, he knows you’re very very good, and you got the job without an audition. But the point, honey, the point is that I didn’t say anything about your little problem, do you follow me?”

  “He doesn’t know about my memory?”

  “Not a bit, honey. You don’t get jobs by announcing to one and all that your memory’s gone. I didn’t say anything about it, and you shouldn’t say anything about it either.”

  “All right. I won’t.” He hadn’t intended to, anyway, but for a different reason; it was too complicated to try to explain about his memory to everybody he saw.

  “But you don’t remember Herbie,” she said. “That, my boy, is a problem.”

  “I’ll probably remember him when I see him.”

  “Let’s not take a chance on it. I’ll describe him, and when you see him there, you make the first move. Go right on up to him and say how are you, Mr. Lang—you call him Mr. Lang, honey—and you thank him for the job, and let him take it from there. If he talks about the soaper, you can fake it, can’t you? You were in a trial scene, as I remember. I think you were a policeman guarding the defendant, something like that.”

  “All right.”

  “Now, here’s what he looks like. Short, shorter than you, of course, maybe five foot six or seven. Very young, in his twenties somewhere, but prematurely balding, you know the way? A receding hairline, a very very high forehead. It shines under those lights they have.”

  “All right.”

  “He wears glasses, with very black hornrims, and he has a round chubby sort of face, smiling to beat the band. Some people say he’s gay as a jay, and some people say he’s just uncommitted, and I say he ought to make up his mind pretty soon, he’s been married two years now. There. Do you think you’ll recognize him?”

  “I think so. Short, balding, young, black hornrim glasses, round face, always smiling. Herbie Lang, and I call him Mister Lang.”