Corbin looked away. “Maybe. I have no reason to think so.”
“The truth is you don't really know. Or do you?”
He shook his head.
“This could have been happening all your life.”
“I've done things,” Corbin said slowly, “and wondered why I've done them. But I think everybody has.”
“True enough and we'll get into that later. But these complete takeovers of yours. They too could have happened all your life, could they not? Have you ever experienced blackouts or memory lapses?”
“No,” Corbin lied.
“Never?”
”I was fine before I came to New York,” he lied again.
“Before we go much further,” Harry Sturdevant suggested.to Jonathan, “I'd like access to my library and files. My home is only a ten-minute walk.”
“What's happening to me?” Corbin asked. “Am I going insane?”
“No.”
“Am I haunted?”
“Don't be silly.”
“What does that leave, Doctor? That I've lived before?’’
“In a manner of speaking, yes. Yes, Jonathan. You have.”
Eight
It is him,” the old man repeated. He looked small and frail as he sagged into a high-backed chair behind a large Sheraton desk in his suite of rooms. His hat lay on the desk before him. He had not removed his coat. “It's him and he knows” Tilden Beckwith II clutched his collar against his throat.
“He knows nothing, sir.`` The man Lesko knew as Mr. Dancer stood erect before the desk, his hands folded neatly at the small of his back. “The detective is another matter. I have underestimated him.” Lawrence Ballanchine stepped to the desk console and picked up the telephone. He punched in the two digits of a coded number from the console's memory.
“What are you doing?” Beckwith slapped a hand over the cradle, breaking the connection before it was made.
“Ending this, I hope.”
“Wait a minute. Wait. We must think this out. We must put our heads together.”
“Sir.” The small neat man sighed. “There is really very little to think about. You've just told me that Corbin has accurately retraced the path your grandmother took on the night she was murdered. The man is obviously acting upon information of some kind. It's only a matter of time until his knowledge is sufficient to become actionable. Especially if he recognized you.”
“He didn't, you know. I was quite discreet. Quite clever.”
“You may, in fact, have done the firm a great service, Mr. Beckwith.” However witlessly, Ballanchine thought to himself. “Still, you took an unacceptable risk. Your connection with Corbin has surely been established by the detective. As has mine.”
‘Then this Lesko, don't you see, is the only link,” Beckwith said eagerly. “Fix that, break the link, and the rest of the chain will fall away. Corbin and the others will wither on the vine, so to speak.”
“Sir”—Ballanchine rolled his eyes inwardly—“do you wish to spend the remainder of your life wondering whether you'll turn a corner and be face to face with Jonathan Corbin or would you rather live out your days in the peace and comfort you so richly—Others? What others?”
The old man shook his head stupidly.
“Sir, there is Corbin and there is the Leamas woman. Are there others?”
“Only ... no.”
“Did you see them in the company of someone else today?”
“They just had tea ... at the Plaza ... with an older gentleman like myself. A doctor, I think.”
“How would you know that, sir?”
”I saw them. I watched them.”
“No, sir. I meant about the other man being a doctor.”
“I've seen him before. At charitable functions and the like. I forget his name.” Beckwith made a dismissive gesture with his fingers. “He's forever talking about swimmers and gymnasts and the like.”
“But they joined this doctor at the conclusion of their walk from the Osborne building? For a prearranged meeting?”
”I suppose. But that needn't mean anything.”
“The last surviving Corbin re-creates your grandmother's last hour on earth. By whatever means, he has stumbled upon the origins of an arrangement that affects a great many lives, not least his own. Can you really imagine that as four o'clock came, he could have put aside all that is obviously vexing him to sit down for a polite afternoon tea?”
”I don't know. I...” Ballanchine picked up the phone.
Harry Sturdevant's home, also his office, took up the first and second floors of a Greek Revival town house on Sixty-ninth Street off Fifth Avenue, ten short blocks north of the Plaza. It had been built during the decade following the Civil War by a lieutenant of steel magnate Henry Clay Frick. Frick's own mansion, now an art museum, was not far away. The town house had been inherited by Sturdevant's deceased wife, Mary, and in turn passed on to him. The two upper floors had been extensively remodeled and leased to, from the top, a director of the Metropolitan Opera and a stockbroker. The basement apartment, thoroughly soundproofed, was occupied by a wide receiver for the New York Jets.
Sturdevant chose to walk to his house with Corbin and his niece for several reasons. Not least, he wanted those ten minutes to collect his thoughts and justify the utterly unscientific and unprofessional suggestions he would soon offer this troubled young man. Second, Jonathan's relative equanimity would not last much longer, assuming, of course, that it was only the propranolol that was keeping him steady. But he also hoped, privately, that a walk through wintry New York at night might evoke another of the several apparent possessions his niece had already witnessed.
Corbin tensed at the prospect but he offered no resistance. Gwen had already taken his hand, which she released only to slip on her coat, and did not again let it go. Walking down the Plaza's front steps, Corbin breathed audible relief at the sight of a moon that was nearly full. No more snow would fall this evening. By the time they'd crossed the open expanse of the Grand Army Plaza, Corbin had relaxed further. At the promenade entrance to the Central Park Mall, where the carriages of the wealthy had paraded a century before and where courting young couples were permitted to stroll unchaperoned, Sturdevant thought he saw a hesitation in Corbin’s step and the trace of a smile on his lips. He had about made up his mind to dismiss it as the work of wishful thinking when he saw Corbin's shoulder jerk downward, as if Gwen had tugged sharply at his hand. He saw that once again as they passed the shadowy outlines of the old Central Park Arsenal, and more clearly as the Frick museum came into view. That time Gwen also reached across him and took away the umbrella he carried. Sturdevant was becoming annoyed with his niece. Each time Corbin showed signs of drifting off she would snap him back as if he were on a leash, and she would keep up a running chatter that was studiously irrelevant. He tried scowling her into silence, but Gwen Leamas cheerfully avoided his eyes.
Something did happen, he was sure, a few moments after the three turned onto Sixty-ninth Street. In large part, the block on which Sturdevant lived looked much as it had a century before. There were now automobiles, of course, and the graceful gas lamps were gone, and all but the shallowest stoops and sidewalk gardens had been removed. Still, Corbin would guide Gwen past each building entrance in an unnecessary arc, pausing on one occasion as if to allow the passage of a pedestrian coming down steps that weren't there. As they arrived at Sturdevant’s street-level door, the doctor wondered what would happen if he were to warn Corbin that the steps, which also weren't there, were icy, but he chose to avoid the appearance of toying with the man.
Sturdevant touched a soundless buzzer and was answered at once by a woman's tinny voice coming from a speaker box. The sound caused Corbin to straighten and blink rapidly. The door soon opened and the three were greeted by Sturdevant’s housekeeper, a large, pleasant-looking black woman who hugged Gwen Leamas and was then introduced to Corbin as Mrs. Starling. Corbin, the doctor thought, seemed more than a little startled. Did she seem som
ehow familiar to him, he wondered, or could it be that the man within him was unaccustomed to being introduced to servants. He made a mental note to explore both roads.
Sturdevant’s office, more of a study actually, was as Corbin would have imagined it. Three of the ten-foot-high walls were lined with built-in bookshelves. Corbin had always felt one could tell much about a person by the books he reads, although less by the books he displays. Sturdevant seemed to read everything from current fiction to classics, some in their original languages, historical texts with particular emphasis on Renaissance Europe, a full wall of books covering every conceivable sport from ballooning to yachting, and another full wall containing medical and psychological texts, most dealing with the stresses of competitive sport. Among his well-worn reference works were a current copy of Who's Who and a small bound copy of the Social Register. Between groupings of books there were autographed baseballs, an ancient lacquered soccer ball, an even older football from the Harvard-Yale game of 1924, and a score of pewter sailing trophies. The fourth wall displayed at least two dozen photographs and framed letters covering a time span of more than sixty years. Sturdevant, little changed except for the color of his hair and the strategically tailored cuts of his suits, had posed with seven different U.S. presidents. There he was, smiling, chatting, or shaking hands with an unbroken line of chief executives from Gerald Ford back to Franklin Roosevelt, then skipping to Woodrow Wilson, then once again back to Teddy Roosevelt. Sturdevant could not have been more than fifteen in that one. Also in the fading photograph was a man Corbin took to be Sturdevant’s father. With Teddy Roosevelt. Teddy. What was it about Teddy Roosevelt? Standing there, Corbin found it hard to think of Teddy Roosevelt as president. Not objectionable. Not at all. Just hard.
There were also autographed photos of a number of Olympic legends whom Corbin recognized at once. Jesse Owens, shy, almost apologetic. An aging Jim Thorpe. A skinny young Cassius Clay, and several sepia team pictures, all Harvard, all presumably including Harry Sturdevant. In front of these sat Sturdevant’ s leather-topped desk, which was equally awash with memorabilia. Sturdevant stepped to the desk and picked up a small pile of letters and message slips, which he leafed through disinterestedly.
“Please sit down. Be comfortable. I'll be back in just a minute.” He gestured toward a grouping of tufted chairs opposite his desk, then walked from the room, closing the door behind him.
“No Jimmy Carter or Ronald Reagan.” Corbin swept a hand over the array of presidential photographs.
“Uncle Harry hasn't forgiven either one for mucking up the last two Olympics,” Gwen told him. “There's also a snap in his files of him with Adolf Hitler at the 1936 games. He hasn't forgiven Hitler either. Are you all right, Jonathan?”
“I'm fine, sweetheart. Really.”
“You started to get lost again on the street, didn't you?”
“No.” He seemed surprised. “Not at all.”
“You were walking around things that weren't there again.”
“Not that I remember.” He shook his head. He'd stepped aside when the guy in the fur hat came down the steps but that was all. The only oddness he could recall was when he met what's-her-name, the housekeeper. Nothing else.
“Miss Gwen and her gentleman will be staying for dinner, Dr. Sturdevant?” Cora Starling looked up as he entered the kitchen.
”A light dinner in an hour or so, Cora. I think I'm also going to ask them to spend the night. I hope you don't mind at such short notice.”
“Not that I mind, Doctor. I had some nice Dover sole for you, but there's not near enough for three. How about soup and sandwiches?”
“That would be fine, Cora. Whatever is the least trouble.”
“Bacon, lettuce, and tomato is close to bein' a salad. It'll set the best at bedtime and not stir up bad dreams.”
Sturdevant nodded. “That happens to be a very apt suggestion, Cora. Any particular reason for saying it?’'
“That Corbin fella looked like he had a thing or two messin' his head. Seems calmer though than some you've brought in here.”
“He's been given something.”
“Uh-huh. Seemed like.”
“Cora,” Sturdevant asked, “what did you think of Mr. Corbin when you were introduced? Did anything at all strike you about him?”
“Seemed nice enough.” There was a touch of hesitation. “Miss Gwen knows him better than me.”
“Cora, you have superb instincts about people. I'd like to know what you thought.”
“He looked at me funny.” Cora squinted one eye, signaling that she was offering an impression, not a confident opinion. “First I thought he doesn't care for black folks, but that wasn't it. Then maybe that he was snooty, but that wasn't it either. I think he was surprised you introduced us. Then he gave me this long look like he was tryin' to remember something.”
“He thinks he's lived before, Cora. More accurately, he thinks he's carrying around another man's memories.”
“From way back?”
“About a hundred years.”
“Back when white people looked through black folks like they wasn't there?”
“Any servant, Cora. He wouldn't have expected to be introduced to any servant. I suspect his long stare came when he had that feeling and then tried to imagine why. You might also have reminded him of someone from a past life.”
Cora nodded. “It's in the eyes. They know each other from the eyes.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It's what my granny said. She believed that stuff about some folks livin' before. She said they knew each other from the eyes. The stirrin' is what she called it.”
“She thought people who had past lives could recognize each other at a glance?’'
“Not so much recognized. Mostly they'd see the eyes and get a stirrin'. You'd look at someone you don't know, like in a store or across a bus, and you might feel deep-down good about that person. Or deep-down bad. Sometimes even afraid. And they'd be lookin' back like they knew you too but they couldn't figure where from.”
“It's not simply a matter of seeing a face that reminds you of another?’'
”I suppose.”
“Is it or isn't it?”
“Some of them books of yours call that denial. Denial is when you shut out the heart and listen to the head. It's what keeps folks ignorant, my granny said.” .
“Your granny, you say.” Sturdevant smiled.
”I better fry up some bacon.”
Sturdevant knocked before entering.
“Mrs. Starling will be along in a minute with some sherry.” He chose a seat for himself at the small round coffee table opposite his desk and, with a gesture of his hands, invited Corbin and Gwen to sit. Sturdevant placed Gwen's notebook, his own notes added, on the table before him. ”A few more questions while we're waiting.”
“I'd really like to get on with it, Dr. Sturdevant,” Corbin told him. “You said something about my living before.”
“Actually, you said it. I said it was something like that.”
“Genetic memory, ancestral memory. Whatever it is, I'd like to at least know what we're talking about.”
”I have been stalling, haven't I?”
“Uncle Harry,” Gwen assured him, “whatever this is, Jonathan's hardly the type to run screaming from the room.”
“It's not that.” He made a wave of dismissal. “I've simply been searching for a place to begin. I'm something of a student of the phenomenon I'm about to describe but I'm hardly an expert. I'm, not sure anyone is. There are several other caveats I'm inclined to lay before you by way of preface, professional ethics and competence among them, but I think you get the idea.”
“You're afraid I'll say you're crazier than I am.”
“Well put, Jonathan.'' There was a rap at the door. “Reprieved.” He smiled.
Cora Starling set down a tray containing a decanted bottle of Malmsey and a small assortment of cheeses.
“Lovely, Cora. Thank you
.”
“Would any of you like me to dry out your shoes while you're sitting?” She was looking at Corbin.
“Jonathan?” Sturdevant asked.
“I'm fine. Thank you.” He knew that he'd been staring. And he knew that his behavior had approached rudeness when he first met her as well. “Thank you, Mrs. Starling.” He forced a friendly smile.
”I thought her name was Lucy,” Corbin said after the large black woman had left.
“Did I say that?”
”I guess not.”
“It's Cora Starling. Been with me for thirty years.”
“It's nothing. My mistake.”
“Speaking of women's names, does the name Bridey Murphy mean anything to you?”
“Uh-huh. There was a book.” Corbin glanced toward the shelves, suspecting that a copy of it was in there someplace. “About reincarnation. A woman thought she'd lived before as a nineteenth-century Irish girl named Bridey Murphy.”
“You're largely correct.” Sure enough, Sturdevant turned in his chair and reached for a volume whose leaves contained a half-dozen paper bookmarks. “As you see, I've been refreshing my memory since speaking to Gwen this morning.”
Time Out of Mind Page 16