The Reincarnation of Peter Proud

by Max Ehrlich

  “Man, who are you? What in shit are you doin’ here? You the fuzz or somethin’?”

  “No.” The black man was glaring at him. He felt the man was on the verge of opening the door and yanking him out. The other two men sauntered forward now. They stared at him coldly. Other blacks, passing by, stopped to watch what was going on. He was aware of their hostility too. “All I want to know is …”

  “You don’t want to know nothin’, whitey. An’ I ain’t about to tell you nothin’. This ain’t no place for honkies to be. Come around here askin’ questions. Don’t put me on you’re not the fuzz. Man, I can smell chicken shit like you a mile away. Now, get your ass out of here if you don’t want to get hurt …”

  Someone was pounding on the back window. He heard the clank of a rock as it hit the car. The crowd began to press in on the car. He was a stranger on their turf, and a white one, too. He started the car and drove off. He knew he was close now.

  He found the real estate office three blocks farther down, on Bridge Avenue.

  It was a one-woman office. She was about sixty, fat and wheezy.

  “No. 28 Almont? Yes, I know the house. We’ve bought and sold it once or twice over the years. We’ve done the same with almost every house along Almont, Bryant, and Baldwin. Happens when you’ve been in business in the neighborhood for—well, a good forty years.” She shrugged. “Of course the neighborhood’s changed. You can see that for yourself. We don’t do much in that area anymore …”

  “I wonder if you could give me some information about the place?”

  She stared at him incredulously. “You’re interested in buying it?”

  “No. It’s something else. Would you happen to know who lived there back in the thirties, or maybe in the early forties?”

  “Not offhand. That’s going pretty far back.”

  “I know.”

  “We do have a sales record of a lot of houses in the neighborhood, going way back. Owners, mortgage arrangements, and so on. If we had any transaction on 28 Almont, and I think we did, it’d be there. She peered at him suspiciously. “You the FBI? A private investigator or something?”

  “No. It’s just a personal matter. I’m trying to find out who lived there about that time. If you’d look it up, I’d appreciate it.”

  She hesitated a moment. Then: “It might take a minute or two.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  She went into a room in the rear of the office area. He heard a file drawer opening. He sat down and waited. It was close in the office, and very warm. He felt the perspiration ooze through the shirt under his jacket. He sat there staring through the window at the traffic moving along Bridge Avenue. It seemed to him that he waited in that red leatherette chair forever. Actually, it was only two minutes.

  She came out carrying a file. She seated herself at the desk, shuffled through the file, and took out a paper. Her eyesight was poor, and she brought the paper close to her eyes.

  “Let’s see. 1952 to 1955. An Italian family lived there then. Rovelli. All this was before that neighborhood went black, of course. And before them, a family named O’Malley. 1948 to 1952. Right. We bought it for the O’Malleys. I remember it now. Bought it from a man named Chapin.”

  “Chapin?”

  “Ralph R. Chapin, it says here. Seller. Owner of record. Occupied the house for a long time. Lived in it all through the thirties, early forties. That’s the area you’re interested in, I guess.”

  “Would you happen to know anything else about the Chapin family?”

  She stared at him. “Such as what?”

  “I don’t know. Who the other members of the family were …”

  “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have the faintest idea …” Then, suddenly, she snapped her fingers. Her eyes widened. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. I do remember now. There was a son….”

  “You remember his name?”

  “Jeff. That was it. Jeff Chapin. It’s short for Jeffrey, I guess.”

  “Jeffrey Chapin.”

  “Yes. Only reason I’d remember it in a million years was because he came from this neighborhood and got his name in all the papers. But if he’s the one you’re looking for, you’d better forget it.”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s long dead. He was drowned swimming in Lake Nipmuck.”

  After a long time Peter heard himself say, “Do you remember the year this happened?”

  “No. I couldn’t even come close. But as I said, it was in all the papers.”

  The Riverside Daily News was housed in a modernistic building, all glass and stainless steel. It was only five blocks from his hotel.

  The sign in the lobby read: Morgue and Library. Third Floor.

  The morgue was a large windowless room. Shelf after shelf carried bound volumes of the News, labeled by the volume, month, and year. The librarian was an elderly man, thin and anemic looking. He sat at an old beat-up desk, its edges scarred with the burns of a thousand cigarette butts. The desk was covered with newspapers and clippings. Both the man and the desk fit the place.

  “What did you say the name was?”

  “Jeff Chapin. Jeffrey, probably.”

  “And the date?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The year?”

  “I don’t know that, either. He died sometime back in the forties. Drowned at Lake Nipmuck. I know the story was carried in the News at that time.”

  “You said the forties?”

  “That’s right, the forties.” He paused. “Is there any way you might be able to find it?”

  “Well, sir, you don’t give me much to go on. We might and we might not. Depends whether he was well known around town. You know, a prominent person. A lot depends on the space and coverage he got. If the deceased was a nobody, I’d say you’d have no chance. You could go through ten years of daily newspapers, but you wouldn’t like that very much. On the other hand, if the deceased had some kind of public name, we might have him in our obit file.”

  “Obit file?”

  “Obituary file. We keep a list of people who died, year by year. Issue and date. Just in case any of our reporters need it for research or back reference. If you’ve got a little time, I could check that out.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  The librarian turned to a shelf on the wall just behind the desk. It was lined with a series of battered reference notebooks. He picked out one marked “1940–1950.” The pages were tabbed, year by year. He opened the notebook. Peter could see the names of the deceased listed in alphabetical order.

  “Jeffrey Chapin. Jeffrey Chapin …”

  The librarian ran his finger quickly down the page. Nothing for 1940. He turned the page again. Nothing for 1941. Nor 1942. 1943. 1944. 1945 …

  1946.

  “Got it,” said the librarian suddenly. “You’re in luck.”

  “Yes?”

  The librarian pointed to the notation. “See? Jeffrey Chapin. Issue, September 27, 1946. Page one.”

  “How do I get the issue?”

  “Follow me.”

  He led Peter through row after row of stacks, each crammed with the tall clothbound volumes. Finally he stopped.

  “Here we are. September 1946.”

  He took down the volume. It was heavy. He wheezed as he carried it to a battered table around which were a number of chairs. He dropped the volume onto the table. “You’ll find his obit in here. Put it back when you’re through with it. Okay?”

  Peter nodded. The librarian shuffled off. It was dark in the room. He turned on the desk lamp on the table.

  He sat there staring at the big clothbound volume crammed with newspapers. For a while he could not bring himself to open it. He was afraid to open it. Finally, with trembling fingers, he opened the cover and turned to the issue of September 27. Page one.

  The paper was yellowed with time, the print a little faded. Then he saw the story. And there was a picture to go with it.

  BODY OF JEFFREY CHAPIN RECOVERED FROM
LAKE NIPMUCK

  Wife Reported Accidental Drowning on Night of September 25.

  The body of Jeffrey (Jeff) Chapin, 32, was recovered from Lake Nipmuck early this morning. Police had been dragging the lake for two days.

  According to Marcia Chapin, wife of the deceased, her husband had set out to swim the lake at night. She admitted that he had been intoxicated, and she tried to dissuade him but without success. Later, she attempted to follow him in a boat but was unable to find him. Alarmed, she called the police.

  According to Mrs. Chapin, he was a very strong swimmer and had swum the lake many times. It is probable that Mr. Chapin caught a cramp in the chilly water. Late this afternoon, the Medical Examiner issued a verdict of “accidental drowning.”

  Mr. Chapin was a lifelong resident of Riverside. He was the son of R. C. Chapin and for most of his earlier life lived in the Bridge Avenue district, at 28 Almont Street. He was proud of the fact that he was one-sixteenth Pequot Indian. In his earlier years, he was an outstanding high school athlete, especially in tennis, and later he qualified for a number of tennis tournaments in New England and the eastern seaboard. For some years he was tennis professional at the Green Hills Country Club. He served in the Marines, suffered a hip wound in the Pacific, and was honorably discharged in 1943. Later he married Marcia Curtis, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. William E. Curtis of Mulberry Street. Mr. Curtis is the president of the Puritan Bank and Trust. Subsequently, Mr. Chapin took a position at the bank as a teller, and at the time of his death was assistant cashier.

  Mr. Chapin leaves one child, a three-month-old infant daughter, Ann. Funeral services will be held Tuesday morning at the First Church of Christ, and burial will be at the Hillside Cemetery.

  Peter studied the photograph. The face smiled up at him. It was faded and a little blurred, but even so it seemed alive.

  It was a handsome face, virile, rugged. Dark eyes, black hair cut in the short haircut popular in the forties. The nose a little hawk-like. The hint of high cheekbones. Good jaw. He wore a tennis sweater. But it was the half-smile playing around the rather thin mouth that fascinated Peter. There was something mocking about it. Amused. Even a little cruel. It seemed to be saying: Once, I was you, And now, you are me.

  For a long time he studied the face of the man he had been. Then he took a nail file from his wallet and carefully cut out the article. He folded the clipping and stuffed it into his wallet. He felt a little guilty at this small vandalism. But then, he thought, they’ll never miss it.

  He closed the heavy volume and put it back on the shelf. He walked down the narrow alleys between the shelves until he emerged near the door. As he started to go out he heard the voice.

  “One moment, sir.”

  He turned. Through a blur he saw the librarian sitting at the desk.

  Peter hadn’t even noticed him. The man looked a little annoyed. Of course—at the very least, he had expected some kind of thanks. The old man pointed to a register on his desk.

  “You’ll have to sign here.”

  “Sign?”

  “Your name. All visitors who use the morgue have to sign in.”

  Peter went back to the desk. The librarian handed him a pen. He signed his name and started to walk out again.

  “Hey, mister!” He turned. The old man was staring at him. “This some kind of joke or something?”

  “What?”

  “You better come back and sign again.”

  The name he had just signed was: Jeffrey Chapin.

  He crossed it out and wrote “Peter Proud” over it. Then he mumbled his thanks to the librarian and went out.

  Taking the elevator down, he walked through the busy lobby and onto the street. He got into the car. He checked his city map, and then headed up Main Street.

  He knew exactly where he had to go.

  I have been here before,

  But when or how I cannot tell;

  I know the grass beyond the door,

  The sweet keen smell,

  The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

  You have been mine before—

  How long ago I may not know;

  But just when at that swallow’s soar

  Your neck turned so,

  Some veil did fall—I knew it all of yore.

  —DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

  Chapter 22

  Hillside Cemetery was located about a mile beyond the city limits.

  The approach to it was up a long hill. When he reached the crest, Peter could see the entire spread of the cemetery below him. It was big, much bigger than he had expected, and surrounded by a high stone fence. He could see the rows upon rows of headstones, the statues, the small marble tombs, the angels with outstretched arms and wings. Now they seemed like a silent white army, standing at attention on a lush green parade ground.

  It seemed strange that his other body should be buried somewhere down there.

  The sky had darkened, and now and then there was the ominous roll of thunder. Lean black clouds raced along under a backdrop of gray, bending low and running hard, like stealthy guerrillas. The wind had freshened; it whispered a wet word—rain. Peter looked at his wristwatch. It was a few minutes after six. Soon it would be getting dark. He had to hurry.

  He drove to the main entrance. Two iron gates, now locked, blocked the entry road into the graveyard. The door to the cemetery office next to the gates was locked. He began to pound on the door. Nobody answered. The office was closed for the day.

  He came around to the side and looked into the window. He could see, through the Venetian blinds, a couple of desks, and a big map of the cemetery on the wall. Somewhere inside, he knew, there would be some record of each grave, and who was lying in it.

  For a moment he contemplated breaking the window and crawling in. But the traffic moving up and down this road caused him to think better of it. He went to the gates; they were barred from the inside. The rear half of the cemetery office protruded into the graveyard, and there was a back door there. Someone from the office must open the gates from the inside each morning.

  A peal of thunder startled him. He stood there indecisively. He could come back tomorrow, of course. But he knew he could not wait. His grave was somewhere inside. He wanted to see it now.

  He studied the wall. He could see that it was too high for him to climb over. He got into the car and drove it across the grass, parking it parallel to the wall. Then he got out and clambered up on top of the hood. It was easy for him now to grasp the top of the wall, swing over, and drop to the other side.

  He stopped and stared at the gravestones ahead of him. There seemed to be a thousand of them stretching over the horizon to infinity. Square stones, rectangular stones, some massive, some slender, and some small, for little children.

  He began to walk past one row of stones and then another, looking for his grave. He had absolutely no idea where it was. All he could do was keep looking through this maze, looking at every stone in this damned graveyard till he found it.

  The thunder continued to rumble, but the rain held off. The wind whipped up higher, spinning dead leaves in front of him in little vortices. He walked up one row, and down another. Then up the next row, and down the one after that….

  Where the hell was it, anyway?

  He became angry, frustrated. He must have looked at hundreds of gravestones. His eyes ached from peering at the inscriptions as he walked by. He had to check every one; otherwise, he might miss it. After a while he estimated that he had covered perhaps a quarter of the cemetery.

  He thought he felt a drop of rain. It was getting late now. The lead-gray sky and the oncoming night conspired to wreathe the graveyard in an eerie twilight. It was getting very hard to see. In fifteen minutes it would be too dark….

  Then he saw it. It was a square stone. Massive. Made of polished granite. The inscription was simple:

  JEFFREY CHAPIN

  LOVING HUSBAND AND FATHER

  1914–1946

  He walked ove
r and caressed the stone with his hand. He ran his fingers over the graven letters.

  Jeffrey Chapin. Loving husband and father.

  His head seemed to explode. He had to bite his tongue to keep from screaming. Nearby, he saw an open grave. It had been newly dug, prepared for the next day. The grave diggers had left their shovels sticking in the fresh mound of sand.

  For a moment he had a crazy impulse. He wanted to grab one of the shovels and, like some ghoul, dig down deep, into his own grave. He wanted to reach the casket and open the cover.

  And look at himself.

  He did not know how long he had been standing there. It was dark now. A raindrop hit him in the face, then another. His pores oozed sweat. He could barely make out some of the gravestones around him. He thought of all the rotting bodies below them. Bodies like his, whose souls had left long ago to find some other house. All these stones, he thought, suitably inscribed. They seemed such a waste. They marked nothing but the organic or chemical remains of the dear departed.

  Reason came to him again. He was an idiot, standing around the cemetery like this in the darkness. He stumbled back to the narrow cemetery drive, walked to the gates, opened them, and got into the car. His next move now was very clear.

  As he drove, he thought of himself and Jeffrey Chapin. Their karmic resemblance was remarkable. Bits and pieces of the puzzle became clear now. There was the matter of the strange and painful attacks he would sometimes get in his hip. He knew the answer to that now. And the Prison Dream. Of course it hadn’t been a prison at all. It had been a teller’s cage at the Puritan Bank. Now the cage was separated from the public area by a glass partition. But at one time it must have been protected by bars or some kind of iron grill. The fact that he dreamed he was counting money spoke for itself.

  He knew now that, as Jeffrey Chapin, he had died on September 25, 1946. As Peter Proud, he had been born on October 10 of that same year. It had been a quick reincarnation. And, of course, there was the Baby Dream. In his previous incarnation he had been the father of a three-month-old baby daughter, Ann. He and his daughter would be about the same age now. Or, to be accurate, his daughter, if alive, would be three months older than he was.