Seconds

by David Ely

  He simply did not know how to get rid of her, or how to curb his tongue, and he thought he might have gone on chatting away indefinitely had not the sound of retching a few seats ahead drawn the stewardess to her duties.

  Rebirth! Wilson hunched down in his seat. He would have to do better than this, he decided. He must get himself in hand. He could hardly enjoy his hard-won independence if he was going to be upset by the sight of his own face and the most ordinary demands of social intercourse with strangers. Whatever the drawbacks of his former life had been, he had achieved a certain self-possession in the course of it, and it was most distressing to find that resource missing, even temporarily.

  Yes, he had had composure then, and . . . But he could not think of any other outstanding personal quality that he had possessed, and as a matter of fact, for some reason his past now seemed terribly remote, as if it had been the life of some undistinguished person he had read about idly in a book a month ago, and mostly forgotten. Even his experiences at the company were not vivid in his mind. As he lay restlessly back in his seat, the features and personalities of Mr. Joliffe, Mr. Ruby, and the rest resisted his efforts at detailed recollection. Things were jumbled. That enormous room full of middle-aged clerks . . . had he seen a familiar face there—or was he confusing this with some incident earlier on that first day, before he had gone out on his fateful lunch hour?

  And his own face, his old face—would he forget that, too? He took his wallet from his pocket, and was opening it to take out the photograph of himself and his wife which had been taken three years earlier, during a summer on the Cape, before he realized that the wallet was a new one, and that, naturally, the company would have placed his old one in the clothing of the cadaver that had been found in the hotel room.

  This wallet contained no pictures; only money, and a few identification and credit cards. He examined one of the latter. According to its date, it had been issued to Mr. Antiochus Wilson four years ago and was appropriately worn around the edges. He marveled at this additional testimony to the artistry of the company’s Documents Division. It was amazing. Everything, it seemed, had been thought of; happiness, too, would surely be provided.

  Shortly after his plane landed, Wilson was subjected to an experience which destroyed the degree of serenity he had attained during the last portion of his flight.

  After having entered the airport terminal and claimed his suitcase, he consulted a map, which indicated that his studio-residence was within thirty miles of the city; he thereupon decided that he might justifiably make the trip by taxicab, as he seemed to have plenty of money, and he was starting for the main entrance to find the cabstand when he was hailed from behind.

  “Tony! Tony Wilson!”

  Alarmed, he hurried on. Again the voice called out; he lengthened his stride. The voice was pursuing him—no doubt of that. It was baying his name, gaining on him. Near the entranceway he paused, confused by the sudden sunlight, and when he felt the handclap on his shoulder, he gave up and slowly turned around.

  “Tony—you old rascal!”

  He confronted a large red-faced man dressed in Texan style with low leather boots and a ten-gallon hat, who seized his hand and pumped it vigorously.

  “Good to see you back, Tony! Damned good! If I didn’t have to make my plane, I’d make you buy me a drink right now, by God!” The man gave Wilson’s hand a final wrench, punched him good-humoredly on the shoulder, and glanced at his wristwatch. “Nope—I just ain’t got the time, Tony!” He backed off a few paces, still shaking with geniality, raised one meaty hand in a mock salute, and cried: “You be good, now, and leave them girl models alone, hey?” Then he turned and plowed away toward the bank of ticket counters.

  Wilson went outside and with a trembling arm signaled for a taxi. The implications of the large man’s greeting were too alarming to bear examination. He tried to ignore them, but they pressed up insistently into his mind all during his ride. He was further disheartened when he thought of returning to the airport and flying to some other city, for it occurred to him that he would be powerless to do so. He had no resources except the cash in his wallet. He had no notion of how to get in touch with the company back East, either, and even if he could, he was not at the moment certain that his financial arrangement permitted him to draw on his funds at will. He wiped his palms with his handkerchief, patted his clammy forehead, and stared out at the sun-swept countryside, gay with flowering shrubs and shaggy, comical palm trees.

  Surely he had been the victim of a ridiculous coincidence. There must be a thousand Tony Wilsons in California. Ten thousand, possibly. And yet that beefy creature had spoken of models—girl models, which implied painting, surely—and how many of these Tony Wilsons would not only bear some resemblance to him but also be painters? He took a deep gulp of air. How many? It didn’t matter. There would be at least one other—there must be, for the overriding reason that Antiochus Wilson had not come into public existence—literally and physically—until that very morning. Thus, there could be no ambiguity.

  Nevertheless, his apprehensions refused to be quieted by such reflections, and he was still decidedly shaky when the taxi arrived at its destination. He got out, paid the driver, overtipped him, lifted his suitcase, put it down again, fumbled for his handkerchief, squared his shoulders, let them slump back, turned anxiously to watch the departing cab swing back onto the highway, and stood fidgeting in the driveway for some moments before he was able to muster the courage to approach the house.

  Under different circumstances, he would have found the place most attractive. It was a modest ranch-style structure, with a portion of its roof made of glass, indicating a studio beneath, and it sat on a gentle rise that overlooked the ocean, which lay at some distance. Here and there were other homes, but none was close, and altogether it was a comfortable prospect that implied an income which would of necessity also be comfortable.

  He approached the house warily, watching the windows for faces, wondering with every step if something unexpected and unpleasant would not come rushing out at him. All was quiet, however, as if the place were vacant, but still he quivered uneasily as he stood on the doormat, feeling in his pocket for a key he did not have. Finally he reached tentatively for the doorknob, but before he touched it, the door was swung open by someone inside.

  “Welcome home, Mr. Wilson.”

  The speaker was a slight man with a grave expression on his face; he was dressed in a suit dark enough to be black, and in fact, with his air of somber alertness, he resembled a mortician’s assistant maintaining a discreet composure for the sake of the bereaved, while at the same time covertly sniffing for the taint of physical corruption.

  He took Wilson’s bag and ushered him inside.

  “I trust that your trip was not too fatiguing, sir.”

  “Um, yes. I mean, no, thank you.” Wilson entered the living room furtively, still expecting something frightful to spring out at him from behind the chairs and sofas, or to rise from the conversation pit where, it seemed, a small fountain was bubbling.

  “My name is John, sir,” continued the black-suited man, politely. “I am assigned to you, sir, to help you through your initial period of adjustment.” He cleared his throat with an air of modesty. “Not that you will require much assistance, Mr. Wilson, but there will undoubtedly be various questions in your mind which I will be able to clear up—to the extent of my authority, sir.”

  Wilson stared at the little man, who seemed obviously to be cast in the role of a personal servant.

  “I think,” he said slowly, “I’d like to wash up and have a drink—John.”

  The little man bowed slightly. “Very good, Mr. Wilson. Your room is right this way, sir. I’ve laid out a change of clothing for you on your bed, if you care to refresh yourself, and then perhaps when you’ve had your drink, I can satisfy any points on which you may be curious, sir.”

  Reassured by the man’s manner of deference and competence, Wilson proceeded more composedly t
o his room, content for the moment to postpone all questions until he had quite recovered from his state of agitation. But already he felt much better, and his spirits were further lightened by the sight of his bedroom, which was large and tastefully furnished, and whose windows commanded a good view of the countryside and the ocean beyond. By the time he had taken a shower and changed into the slacks and jacket which John had laid on the bed, he was actually whistling and examining himself with a touch of pride in a full-length mirror. Not a bad-looking fellow, Antiochus Wilson. Lean as a leopard, and with the stamp of real character in that rugged, masculine face, which, the longer he studied it, seemed to suggest that here was a man who might have performed feats of courage and daring—as a soldier of fortune, perhaps—and who, if bronzed by the California sun and attired in evening clothes, could be considered downright handsome. In this more confident frame of mind, he left the room and made a brief inspection of the house.

  The studio, which adjoined his bedroom, was appropriately furnished with unfinished paintings, which were hung on the walls, or stacked in corners, and empty frames, blank canvases, and jars of paints, all casually arranged in a condition neither disorderly nor artificially precise. In the center of the room was a large easel where a charcoal sketch of a nude woman was tacked, and propped at the base of the easel was a little watercolor of ocean surf breaking wildly against some rocks. Wilson was somewhat comforted by these last two items, for they were more amateurish than the other works displayed, and he thought, too, that with some practice he might do as well himself; indeed, it occurred to him that possibly the sketch and the watercolor had been so prominently placed specifically for his encouragement.

  The living room, where John was mixing a small pitcher of Martinis, was dominated by two walls of glass transparent only to those standing inside; a huge fireplace was squared off on a third wall, and directly across from it, beyond the conversation pit, were hung several paintings of rather eerie landscapes, which carried the initials “A.W.” in one corner. A door near the fireplace opened into what Wilson assumed was the domain of his servant—a pantry, kitchen, and tiny bedroom—to which he gave only cursory attention before he returned to accept the drink John had prepared, and eased himself into a chair before the fireplace.

  “I had a curious experience at the airport, John,” he remarked at length, deciding to proceed with the interrogation of his servant, but in a circuitous manner.

  “What was that, sir?”

  “I was accosted by a large man dressed somewhat like a Texan. He seemed to know me; that is, he called me by name, although I was fairly certain I’d never met him.” Wilson glanced questioningly at his servant who, however, remained impassive. “I suppose it was a mistake on his part,” he added. “Don’t you imagine so, John?”

  “So it would seem, sir.”

  Wilson was not completely satisfied with this response, but resolved to abandon the subject for matters of more immediate concern.

  “Tell me, John, are you familiar with the state of my finances?”

  “Your accounts, sir? Yes, of course. Let me get the books for you.”

  Here Wilson’s inquiry was more successful, for John produced a set of bank statements which indicated a checking balance that had lately been reinforced by a handsome deposit. John intimated that similar ample sums would be forthcoming every six weeks. Wilson was relieved to find that the company’s pension was so generous, for in the confusion attendant on his sojourn at the company’s headquarters, he had neglected to assure himself specifically on this point. It was a most efficient arrangement, and moreover, he learned that he was freed from the details of managing his new household, for it seemed that John was taking care of all routine expenses by means of a separate account established along the lines of a modest budget.

  However, in the course of their discussion, Wilson was struck by the fact that his servant never openly mentioned the company, nor even once referred to anything that would indicate that Antiochus Wilson was other than what he appeared to be: a well-to-do bachelor in his late thirties who pursued a moderately successful artistic career. The company’s pension payments, for example, John guardedly identified as “proceeds of stock investments,” and as for the supply of new paintings which Wilson would need to maintain his standing as an artist, John merely noted that these were to be received by post every two months, without suggesting that anyone except Wilson himself had actually produced them.

  Wilson, relaxed by the effects of his drink, became ironically amused by John’s evident desire to preserve the fiction of his new identity, but at the same time he judged that it would be imprudent for him to ignore it himself. In the first place, he was Antiochus Wilson, after all, and he should discipline his own mind to accept the fact, and then, further, he felt a certain reluctance to place himself on an intimate footing with a servant by initiating a discussion of personal matters. Nevertheless, he could not help speculating as to what an open and frank discussion would reveal, particularly about John, this sober little man who would, apparently, remain a part of his new life for quite a while. Presumably John had been trained by the company and dispatched to California to rent the house and make all of the other preliminary arrangements. And undoubtedly there were many just like him, schooled to act more or less as Sancho Panzas to the other quixotic gentlemen being reborn in such numbers on the surgical tables of the company. Wilson wondered whether John would stay with him merely long enough to see him properly launched, and then, being replaced by an ordinary valet, leave on reassignment to serve some more recently reborn client. In any event, Wilson decided, John’s calling was a unique specialization even in a remarkably complex modern world.

  He accepted the remaining contents of the Martini pitcher, and as he sipped from his glass, he became positively genial. His servant impressed him as being a fine, clever fellow, and his present situation was beginning to take on a most appealing aspect. He gazed with approval through the glass wall, which disclosed the grand sweep of countryside and thin blue strip of ocean.

  “What kind of people live around here, John?” he asked at length.

  “Professional people, sir, and some in business, and there are some who write, I believe.”

  “No artists, I hope,” said Wilson, with a mock conspiratorial wink at his servant, but John treated the question with his customary gravity.

  “I think you are the only one, Mr. Wilson,” he said, and then, after a pause, he added: “Perhaps you’d like to give a small cocktail party for the immediate neighbors, sir.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that.” Wilson frowned into his glass. The prospect of meeting a crowd of new faces when he was not yet accustomed to his own was none too attractive. “I think it’s a bit early to think about a party, John. I’d better get myself used to things first, don’t you think? Later on, maybe.”

  “As you wish, Mr. Wilson. In any case,” John went on, deferentially, “I thought you might want a little diversion after your trip, sir, and with that thought in mind I arranged for a model to call this afternoon for you to sketch. I hope this meets with your approval.”

  “Oh. Well, yes—I suppose so.” Wilson yawned and set down his glass. “Will I have time for a nap?”

  “You will, sir. I will awaken you at four o’clock with a tray. The model will be here at four-thirty. Her name is Sara Jane, sir.”

  “Good enough, John.”

  Wilson was in fact quite tired, but his nap was a fitful one. Several times he rose and stood smoking cigarettes by the window, staring out toward the ocean. It looked terribly empty. So did the clumps of trees and brush and the wind-swept knolls of the intervening landscape. He saw not a single bird or rabbit anywhere, nor any other living thing, and he imagined that the ocean likewise was devoid of life. Even the few residences within view, perched on the knolls, had a vacant appearance. He took some comfort in this, for it helped allay his fears that his neighbors would come to call unbidden, before he was ready to face them, but
at the same time he was uneasily impressed by the emptiness of the entire scene from his window. It seemed to have no more validity than the fanciful canvases in the living room that were initialed “A.W.”

  When he returned to his bed to doze, his apprehensions were further heightened, for he was plagued by fantasies of a nightmarish character. Once he imagined himself in the process of demonstrating his artistic skills in public before a group of skeptical critics wearing tan cloth jackets like those of the clerks in the company’s office; they jeered at his ineptitude, which was indeed appalling, for he could not manage to put his brush on the canvas, even when he began lunging desperately at it, but missed every time, greatly to his humiliation.

  Thus, when John knocked and entered carrying a tray of food, Wilson awoke in a glum mood, disagreeably impressed by his situation. The company had given him a guarantee of personal freedom, it was true, but he was feeling very far removed from the exercise of his new liberty; moreover, he suspected that he would probably find it necessary to go through a further adjustment that might be fully as disturbing as the one he had recently concluded.

  The arrival of Sara Jane, who seemed to be hardly more than a high school girl, did not ease his mind, either, for she began immediately to remove her clothing. He was horrified. Of course, that’s what models did, but a man of his position and reputation could hardly stand idly by under such circumstances.

  “Here now,” he called out, dodging behind his easel. “Don’t, um—”

  “What’s that?”

  “Won’t you be too—too chilly like that?”

  “Heck, no. I’m used to it.” She had already hung her jacket on a wire hanger in the closet and had zipped down her skirt. “Anyhow, you need a life model, don’t you?”

  “Well, I suppose . . .” Nervously he tested a stick of charcoal against a fresh sheet of paper tacked on the easel. He peered around the edge of the frame, feeling as though he must stop this indecent performance at once, yet not having the slightest idea of how to do so.