by Anthology
“Me.”
“Oh. With.”
“Good. Yes, I’d like a beer with you, Larry.”
That part was good. Instead of reading, they talked. After a while, he told her about his ‘assignment’—not what or where, but when. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning, not too early, and be back Monday. Maybe Sunday night.”
“Yes. Well, with luck I’ll be too busy to miss you properly.”
He began to laugh, but stopped. For he didn’t expect to be missing Judy.
He finished his beer and went to the refrigerator. “Another, honey?”
“No, but you go ahead and have one while I shower.” He did, then showered also.
Later, plunging together and close to all of it, he found his mind was with Elaine. Fantasy in sex was nothing new, but this reality deserved better. He almost failed to climax then; when he did, it was minor, a mere release. But he had good luck with Judy-the-unpredictable; she made it big and asked no questions. He was glad of that much.
Elaine, suitcase and all, arrived as the bartender set drinks on the table. “Am I late, Larry?” He shook his head; they kissed briefly.
“Where do you want to go?” he asked. “Anyplace special?”
“Yes, I think so, if you like the idea. If you don’t think it’s too far.” She sipped the chilled vermouth. “There are some lakeside cabins a little north of Fond Du Lac. I was there once, with the great white bottle-hunter.”
“Oh? Memories?”
She made a face. “He hated it; I loved it.”
“Do you remember the name of the place? Maybe we should call first.”
She shook her head. “It’s past the season. School’s started; all the little sunburns are back in their classrooms.”
“Okay. I’ll take the chance if you will.”
They left their drinks unfinished.
The cabin was at the north end of the row, adjoining a grove of maples. The inside was unfinished, the studding exposed, but the bed was comfortable and the plumbing worked. They sunned beside the lake, swam a little, and dined on Colonel Sanders’ fried chicken. Correct dinner attire was a towel to sit on.
“Tomorrow we’ll go out and eat fancy,” he said, “but tonight we’re at home.”
“Yes, Larry. Just don’t lick your fingers, or I’ll swat you.”
Indian summer cooled in twilight; they had waited for the heat to slacken. Now, he thought, comes our time together. It did, and not much later, again.
Then they sat side by side on the bed. He brought a wooden chair to hold cigarettes, ashtray and two bottles of cold beer. For a time they talked little, busy smoking, sipping beer, touching each other and smiling. It’s just the way it was, he thought.
He touched the breast, small and delicately curved, that was nearest him.
“I was never much in that department, was I?” she said.
“Beauty comes in all sizes, Elaine.”
“Yes, but you know, I felt so one-down, with Frank and Rhonda. She was so damned superbly—uh, endowed, it just killed me.” She was smiling, but she stopped. “It did, you know. Literally.”
He was running his hand through her hair, bringing it over to brush slowly across his cheek and then letting it fall, over and over. “I don’t understand.”
“Larry, I knew I had a lump. For more than a year, before you found out and made me see a doctor—what was his name? Greenlee.”
“But why—?”
“I didn’t have much, and I was afraid of losing what I had. So I tried to think it wasn’t serious. And the worst—I don’t know if I should even tell you . . .”
“Come on, Elaine. You and I can’t afford secrets.”
She butted her cigarette with firm straight thrusts. “All right. Greenlee told me, after the examination, that if I’d gone to him earlier I could have gotten by with a simple mastectomy at worst, and not too much of a scar. But I couldn’t take the idea, Larry. So I put it off, and ended up with that ghastly double radical, all the muscles, all that goddamned radiation and—you know—and even that was too late.” Her eyes were crying but she made no sound.
“Jesus, Elaine!” He had to hold her, because there was nothing else he could do. And besides, he had to hold her.
Finally he spoke. “You just made up my mind for me; you know that?”
“About what?”
“What you said. Next time we’re together we tell each other, even though we didn’t. If we can; I’m not sure. But if we can—look; the record says I’m with you again, right after this time and then a few months back in college. And first thing, I’m going to try to tell you. About how we’re the same, and then about the cancer too.”
“But I’ve lived that, Larry. And died of it.”
He was up and pacing. He laughed shortly, without humour, and went to the refrigerator. He set two fresh beers on the chair and sat again.
“I’ve never tried to change anything before, Elaine. I guess I thought it couldn’t be done. Or I was too busy keeping cover to think of making waves. I don’t mean I followed any script; I didn’t have one. But I went along with how things were, and it all seemed to fit. Not now, though.” He gripped her shoulder and turned her to face him. “I don’t want you to die as you did.”
He was really too tired for sex, he thought. But he found he wasn’t.
They planned to stay until Monday, but Sunday came grey, cold with wind and rain. So for breakfast, about ten o’clock, Larry scrambled all the remaining eggs, enough for four people. They had more toast than they could manage, and gave the rest to a hungry brood of half-grown mallards.
In the cabin, luggage packed. “I hate to leave, Larry.”
“I know. Me too.” He grinned. “We could stop at a motel for seconds if you like.”
She shook her head. “No. It wouldn’t be the way it is here.” So they didn’t. Except for a mid-afternoon snack break, he drove non-stop, and pulled up to let her off at her apartment house.
“It can’t be as good, Elaine, but we’ve got to see each other anyway. I’m only here through November ninth.”
“I don’t know how long I am, of course. But, yes—I have to see you.”
After the kiss she walked inside without looking back. He drove home, trying to put his mind in gear for Judy.
But Judy wasn’t there, and neither were her possessions.
The letter was on the kitchen table.
I’m sorry Larry but I’m bugging out. I don’t know what’s wrong but I know something is, you aren’t the same. It’s not just you going off this weekend, I need people to be the same. I love you, you know that Larry, but you changed on me. The day you went to the bank you came up different. I need you to be the same to me, I need that. So I’m bugging out now. Don’t worry, I’ll call off all the wedding present stuff, you won’t be bothered with it. I do love you when you were the same and I’ll miss you a lot.
Judy
Well. She didn’t say where she was going; it could be anywhere. The hell with unpacking; get a beer, sit down and think it out.
Two cigarettes later, the memory came—the time she told him about this.
“Remember when I ran out on you, Larry? I was really spooked; I don’t know why, now. And I never knew how you found me. You didn’t even know I had a cousin Rena Purvis.” He laughed and memorised the name, as he did all things concerning his future in someone else’s past.
Rena Purvis’ number was in the book. He dialled the first three digits, then thought a moment and hung up. He dialled Elaine instead.
A man’s voice answered. “H’lo? Who’that?” Kemo Sahib had a good start.
How to play it? “Mr. Marshall? Mr. Garth here. I have the report Mrs. Marshall requested early last week.”
“S’okay. I’take it, fella.”
“I’m sorry—Mrs. Marshall’s instructions . . . would you put her on the line, please?”
“I said I’take it. Or leave it. Take it or leave it. Get it?”
“Perhaps Mr
s. Marshall could call me back? Mr. Garth?”
The slurred voice harshened. “Saaay—you’ the bastard she was off with, right?”
The hell with it. “The very bastard, Joe; the very same. Your own stupid fault, Joe—waste not, want not. Now are you going to put Elaine on the phone, or am I going to come over there and show you just how much of a bastard I can be if I put my mind to it?”
It took Marshall three slams to get his phone safely on the hook; the crashes hurt Larry’s ears. That was dumb of me, he thought—or was it? Should he get over there in a hurry? No. Whatever else Elaine felt about her husband, she wasn’t afraid of him . . . and the slob had sounded completely ineffectual. So, give it a few minutes . . .
It took twenty; then his phone rang. “Hello. Elaine?”
“Yes, Larry. Joe . . .”
“Any trouble? I can be there fast.”
“Noise trouble, is all. As usual. He’s settled down; he’s telling his troubles to his glass teddy-bear. What in the world did you say to him?”
“Sorry. I tried to play it nice, but he wouldn’t. So I laid the truth on him. Maybe I shouldn’t have?”
“No, that’s all right. I’d already told him, and that he and I are through. We were talking about changing things, Larry? I’m doing it. I don’t know if it will work; I lived through four years with him after this, so probably I get stupid and relent. But for now, I’ve had it.” She paused. “But you’re the one who called. What is it?”
He told her, reading Judy’s letter aloud. “. . . and then I didn’t call her. And maybe I shouldn’t go bring her back, even though I did. Because I think I made her a lush, not being the same, not being able to be the same. What do you think?”
“I think you’re not through talking yet, and I’m not done listening.”
It wasn’t easy, but he had to laugh. “Yes, Elaine. Will you come live here?”
“Where else?”
“Tomorrow?”
“I haven’t unpacked my suitcase.”
“Shall I come get you?”
“No. I’ll take a cab.”
“All right. You have the address?”
“Yes. And number 204, right?”
“I’ll leave the door unlocked. Hell, I’ll leave it open!”
Time, stolen from a programmed future, was sweet. Despite everything, he felt occasional guilt about Judy. But she didn’t call, and neither did he. Joe Marshall called several times, more or less coherently. Larry always answered, gently, “Forget it, Joe.” Elaine simply hung up at first recognition.
All too soon, like Judgement Day, came November ninth. They made a ceremony of it, with dinner in the apartment from none other than Colonel Sanders. Larry did not lick his fingers. Later, in bed, they did everything slowly, to make it last until . . . whenever.
He woke. Elaine’s face was close above his; her smile was wistful. “Hello, Larry. Do you know?”
To see, he had to push her soft hair aside; the ceiling was grey-green. “I know. But what’s the date?”
“November tenth, 1970.” Her voice was level, cautious.
He whooped. He kissed her with fierce joy, with elation; he kissed her out of breath. “Elaine! We changed it! I didn’t skip!” Tears flowed down her cheeks, around her laughing mouth.
For the second part of their celebration he scrambled eggs in wine; it was messy, he thought, but festive.
“How much can we count on, Larry?”
“I don’t know; we can’t know.” He held up the envelope with its carefully detailed records. “But this is useless now.”
“Yes. Don’t throw it away yet. I want to see where you’ve been, and talk about it together.”
“All right. We can sort it out later.”
It was a new life; he set out to live as though it would be endless. They couldn’t marry, but Elaine filed for divorce. Joe Marshall filed a countersuit. It didn’t matter; no law could force her to live away from Larry Garth.
New Year’s Eve they drove to Chicago for dinner and night’s lodging at the Blackhawk. The occasion was a thorough success.
The ceiling was silver, with fleeting iridescent sparkles. He came awake slowly, feeling minor aches one by one. Whatever this was, it was no part of college. For one thing, he hadn’t often slept double there, and now a warm body pressed against him.
He turned to see. Only a brief spill of hair, salt-and-pepper, closely cut, showed between covers and pillows. He drew the cover away.
She would age well, he thought. Then Elaine opened her grey eyes.
He had to say it fast. “I’m new here, Elaine. Straight from 1970. Nothing in between.”
“Nothing? Oh, Larry, there’s so much. And I’ve had only a little of it myself. Back and forth—and it’s all so different.”
“From . . . before, you mean?” His fingers ruffled her hair, then smoothed it.
“Yes.” Her eyes widened. “Why, you don’t know yet, do you? Of course not; you can’t.”
“Know what, Elaine?”
“How much have you had after 1970? How many years?”
“How much have I used up? I don’t know—twelve years? Fifteen, maybe? Why?”
“Because it’s not used up; it’s all new!” Her hand gripped his wrist tightly, to the edge of pain. “Larry, I came here from ‘75—from a time I’d had before, married to Joe. But this time I was with you. This time we’re together all the way.”
He couldn’t speak and his laugh was shaky, but his mind flashed. I’ll have to die again, he thought—or will I? And then: We’ve gained ten years together; could we make it twenty? I’ve never had the actual wedding to Darlene! What if . . .
But he said only, “There’s a lot to tell, isn’t there?” And so much he wanted to ask, when there was time for that.
“Yes.” She turned her face upward, wriggled her head and neck hard into the pillow, then smiled. “I saw Judy once, in ‘74. She married a lawyer and had twins. And she wasn’t a lush.”
“I’m glad.”
“I know. You were there when I told you then too.”
He laughed. “What lives we lead, Elaine. What lives . . .”
Then he remembered. “But you. Are you—?” The bulky comforter hid her contours. Two breasts, one, or none? He told himself it didn’t matter. She was alive, wasn’t she?
“Oh, I’m fine, really,” she said. “It worked. Of course the scar was horrid at first. To me—you never seemed to mind. But it’s faded now; you can hardly see it.”
“How long—?”
“It’s been five years.” She must have seen the question in his face; she shook her head. “No; I don’t know how long I live—or you. This is the oldest I’ve been. And I haven’t known a you who’s been older.”
“Elaine? How old are we now?”
She smiled, and then her mouth went soft and full. She pushed the cover back and turned to face him squarely. He looked and saw that she had lost nothing of herself, save for the tribute to the years. Part of him that had been prepared to comfort and reassure her took a deep breath and relaxed.
“How old?” she said. “Old enough to know better, I suppose, but I hope we don’t.”
“Does it matter? We’ll have time enough to be young.”
One of them reached out, and the other responded.
I’M SCARED
Jack Finney
I’m very badly scared, not so much for myself I m a grayhaired man of sixty-six, after all—but for you and everyone else who has not yet lived out his life. For I believe that certain dangerous things have recently begun to happen in the world. They are noticed here and there, idly discussed, then dismissed and forgotten. Yet I am convinced that unless these occurrences are recognized for what they are, the world will be plunged into a nightmare. Judge for yourself.
One evening last winter I came home from a chess club to which I belong. I’m a widower; I live alone in a small but comfortable three-room apartment overlooking lower Fifth Avenue. It was still fairly earl
y, and I switched on a lamp beside my leather easy chair, picked up a murder mystery I’d been reading, and turned on the radio; I did not, I’m sorry to say, notice which station it was tuned to.
The tubes warmed, and the music of an accordion—faint at first, then louder—came from the loud-speaker. Since it was good music for reading, I adjusted the volume control and began to read.
Now, I want to be absolutely factual and accurate about this, and I do not claim that I paid close attention to the radio. But I do know that presently the music stopped, and an audience applauded. Then a man s voice, chuckling and pleased with the applause, said, “All right, all right,” but the applause continued for several more seconds. During that time the voice once more chuckled appreciatively, then firmly repeated, “All right,” and the applause died down. “That was Alec Somebody-or-other,” the radio voice said, and I went back to my book.
But I soon became aware of this middle-aged voice again; perhaps a change of tone as he turned to a new subject caught my attention. “And now, Miss Ruth Greeley,” he was saying, “of Trenton, New Jersey. Miss Greeley is a pianist; that right?
A girl’s voice, timid and barely audible, said, That’s right, Major Bowes.” The man’s voice—and now I recognized his familiar singsong delivery—said, “And what are you going to play?” The girl replied, “La Paloma.” The man repeated it after her, as an announcement: “La Paloma.” There was a pause, then an introductory chord sounded from a piano, and I resumed my reading.
As the girl played, I was half aware that her style was mechanical, her rhythm defective; perhaps she was nervous. Then my attention was fully aroused once more by a gong which sounded suddenly. For a few notes more the girl continued to play falteringly, not sure what to do. The gong sounded jarringly again, the playing abruptly stopped, and there was a restless murmur from the audience. “All right, all right,” said the now familiar voice, and I realized I’d been expecting this, knowing it would say just that. The audience quieted, and the voice began, “Now—”
The radio went dead. For the smallest fraction of a second no sound issued from it but its own mechanical hum. Then a completely different program came from the loudspeaker; the recorded voice of Andy Williams singing, “You Butterfly,” a favorite of mine. So I returned once more to my reading, wondering vaguely what had happened to the other program, but not actually thinking about it until I finished my book and began to get ready for bed.