Orbit 11 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Damon Night

  He doesn’t look at me as He turns up cards, but He lets me glimpse each one before tossing it into the pile at His feet.

  “Ace of spades,” I say. A showy flick of the wrist and the card drifts, hits a couple of air currents which buoy it momentarily, joins the floor pile. A susurrus of admiration whistles from the heavenly kibitzers, a chorus of hardy cloven-footed old men and nubile young maidens who, when not susurring, sing snatches of “The E-RI-E is a-rising and the gin is a-getting low, and I scarcely think we’ll get a drink till we get to Buffalo-o-o.”

  God fingers the middle of the deck and slips out another card. Same old still-life, same grease blotches. Using His thumb (bulging calluses, jagged manicure, knuckle lines like trenches) as a pivot, He flips the card over, presses it toward me trapped between His index and middle fingers.

  “Ace of spades,” I say. Wrist-flick, wristbone snap. Card follows spiral flight pattern down to pile. Maiden breasts rise and fall with a determined sigh of approval. The old men applaud.

  God deals one from the bottom and shoves it at me.

  “Ace of spades.” He throws it away arrogantly. A blast of wind sways the overhead lamp which flashes first on a far wall, then back onto the chorus. The maidens have let their robes fall open—but carefully. Lines and shadows tantalize.

  God snatches another card while I’m not looking, while my eyes trace lines and shadows to logical conclusions. I look at the card.

  “Ace of spades.” The card performs a double flip and half gainer before settling onto the pile. God looks neither at the cards nor at me. Maidens and gasping old men spread their loving arms way out in space.

  The new card rests in God’s palm.

  “Ace of spades.” I grab the card away from Him before He can fling it. Maidens and old men shriek like parents. The back of the card leaves a greasy feeling on my thumb. I crumple up the card and toss it over my shoulder.

  God’s hand sweeps across the top of the deck. He shows me both sides of the hand—no card in evidence. He wriggles the hand and, miraculously, a card springs from his finger-tips (deep whorls like rat mazes). The crowd synchronizes its relieved sigh. God holds out the card, now curved slightly in an arch between thumb and fingers.

  “Ace of spades.” And—pop—it flicks out of his fingers and falls to the floor with such directness it seems guided in by a secret pilot hidden within the vase of flowers. I give the lamp a small push. Its light flickers for a second across the murmuring chorus. I look to see if any robes have fallen open further. My afterimage is lines and shadows, lines and shadows.

  God deals out four cards, face down, turns them over one by one.

  “Ace of spades,” I say. “Ace of spades. Ace of spades. Ace of spades.”

  He gathers the four cards together.

  “Wait!” I shout. His hand stops.

  “What are you proving?” I ask. “What is the game? Life? Tragedy? Something about religion itself?”

  “Play, stranger,” God says. Maidens and old men stay grimly quiet.

  “Why the ace of spades?” I say. “To symbolize death? Failure? A Negro Luftwaffe commander? What are your symbols?”

  “No symbols, stranger,” He says. “Just call the cards. That’s the game. Just call the cards.”

  * * * *

  Shelley, the love of my life, hummed all the way from Corry on Route 6 into Union City, digging whatever it was she saw in brown-tipped grass and stubby hills. Feeling irritable from a long morning’s driving, I glanced over at her to be soothed by a look. One comforting smile or gesture from her was better sedation than hundreds of miracle barbiturates packed into a capsule.

  Shelley was a good-looking woman or creature or whatever she was. In the car she always sat primly, her fashion-model hands clasped delicately together. I often thought that, if we crashed, when the shock of impact had subsided and the pieces of broken things had all fallen and the steering wheel could be pushed out of my stomach, I’d look up to see her sitting just as primly as ever, her hands unmoved, her pretty mouth slowly forming her well-you-did-it-again-and-I-love-you-for-it smile.

  I debated regularly with myself on the question—What was Shelley’s greater beauty? The emotional-instinctual side of me championed the Physical Beauty. Soft blond hair that became golden in certain lights. Dark blue eyes which sent an infinite variety of affectionate signals. Perfect nose and lips and ears and chin and neck and collarbone. A body that gave you something classic to look at from any viewpoint.

  My intellectual side loved her for her so-called Inner Beauty which projected itself at all times. She always seemed ready to smile or laugh, but never cruelly or harmfully. In bed her powers of divination were astounding. When I needed a gentle seduction, she seduced. When I needed a villainous rape, she became the sweet helpless maiden. When I needed a fierce romp, I found her crouching amidst the covers like a tigress. She knew all the right skills, all the right suggestions, all the words to my favorite love songs.

  The main reason I looked at Shelley so often was the self-congratulatory delight I felt in knowing she was mine. Everything else I did in life that was wrong, which was most of it, seemed unimportant because I had her. Who was a failure? Not me. I had the world by the tail in one hand and by the short hairs in the other, and I could toss it anywhere.

  All that stupid hubris—I should have known better.

  * * * *

  In Union City I made a wrong turn and soon realized that I was lost. We pulled into a gas station, a dirtywhite smudged building fronted by tilting pumps.

  I preferred not to talk to strangers. I didn’t hate people, I just had difficulty associating with them in any way. In simple social situations, like asking gas station attendants for directions, I stammered, substituted ridiculous words for the word I meant, asked the wrong questions, got the wrong answers, completely misunderstood the clearest statements. Because of this idiosyncrasy, Shelley had become my emissary to the general public. She charmed people handily with her easy smile, shiny eyes, soft voice. Cheerfully she performed tasks for me that would have turned my nerves into boiling jello. She did battle with the telephone company, held my creditors at bay, and asked strangers for directions.

  I got out of the car with her to stretch my paralyzed legs. An attendant made his way toward us through the clutter of hosing spread across the cracked concrete.

  “Why, Shirley girl,” he said, “ain’t seen you since the hotel burned down. Where you been keeping yourself?”

  Shelley glanced at me. She seemed scared. But all she got from me was a helpless gesture.

  “The guys said you cut out of town, Shirl,” the attendant said.

  “I’m not Shirley.”

  “What? This a joke? You kidding?”

  He appealed to me with a look. I had a helpless gesture for him, too.

  “You’ve mistaken me for someone else,” Shelley said, her voice icy.

  “You’re not Shirley Graham who used to—”

  “No. I. Am. Not,” Shelley said, low-voiced but hitting every word with a sledgehammer.

  “Ma’am, you look exactly like Shirley Graham. Spitting image. Same face, same hair, same voice even—”

  “My God, can’t you get off it?” Shelley exploded. Her hands were trembling.

  The attendant apologized.

  Since I’d never seen Shelley so agitated before, I watched the incident in several roles:

  Concerned husband, grabbing a hand to steady her.

  Student of human nature, attempting to interpret the radical change in the behavior he’s just observed.

  Debonair madcap, filing away the moment until later when it can be extracted for a good joke.

  Sensualist, thinking of all the sexy dividends such fury might furnish.

  Coward, glad that it wasn’t his embarrassing moment.

  * * * *

  As we returned to the car, someone shouted at us from across the narrow main street.

  “Hey, Shirley!”

  Shel
ley jumped into the car, rolled up her window, and locked her door. The caller ran across the street to me. He was a fleshy nice guy type, the kind you meet regularly stocking shelves in supermarkets.

  “Hey, what’s the matter with Shirley? She never snubbed me before.”

  I tried to explain that Shelley definitely was not Shirley. During the conversation Shelley knocked frequently on the window and gestured nervously for me to get into the car. With exaggerated reluctance, the guy finally believed me.

  “Mister,” he said, pointing a chubby finger toward Shelley, “if that ain’t Shirley, she’s her split-egg twin.”

  “I’ve gathered there’s a striking resemblance but—”

  “Jim, quit talking to him,” Shelley interrupted angrily. She had rolled down the window. “Get in the car, get us out of here.”

  Shelley had never raised her voice to me before. I can’t even remember a time when she used the imperative mood three times in a row.

  As we passed Union City’s last rusting gas pump and headed for open country, Shelley sat stiffly. Her usually placid hands moved all over her body, straightening her skirt, brushing back her hair, scrubbing her forehead, hunting for buttons to toy with. Her abrupt change in temperament confused me and I was perturbed by her tension. Yet, sorry to say, there was a miniature Sherlock Holmes just waking up in my brain, just breathing off the smudges on his magnifying glass, just donning his stalker’s cap.

  Slick icebreaker that I am, I attempted to alleviate the nervous silence.

  “Well, Shirley,” I said, “you almost blew our cover dat time, kid.”

  She looked at me, eyes fearful, mouth trembling. “Stop it, Jim. Not even in fun, please.”

  I think she needed faith from me at that moment, or at least silence. But I, discomfited by the unexpected flaw in my universe, made the wrong choice. I rebuckled my armor, sure that truth was purity, that the soul should be cleansed of deceit, and proceeded to slay the maiden instead of the dragon.

  “Shelley, I don’t understand why you got so upset.”

  “Drop it, Jim. Please.”

  “No, it’s inconceivable to me that a simple case of mistaken identity—”

  “But that’s it, don’t you see? Just mistaken identity, that’s all. All.”

  “Shelley, I want to help but I simply don’t understand.”

  “I’m sorry but. . . but. . . okay, that’s it. Who ever said understanding was a gift? Just forget it.”

  “Forget what?”

  “Please, Jim, I can’t keep this up.”

  Stopped at a traffic light in Waterford (a town I don’t remember at all), I began a new tack. “Honey, you’ve indicated clearly enough that there’s a buried meaning to what superficially seems an everyday incident. I mean, hell, people are mistaken for other people all the time. It’s not even unique for you. Last year, when we were in Denver, some waiter told me you looked exactly like some friend of his—”

  “Waiter?” she said. The frightened look came back into her eyes. “Where in Denver? When?”

  The light changed and we happily left Waterford, off on the road to Erie.

  “Just a waiter. I don’t even remember which restaurant. The one with the red velvet walls, I think.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t remember why. I don’t even remember that I didn’t tell you.”

  “You didn’t. You should have.”

  “I forgot, that’s all. What are you anyway, jealous that your beauty’s not unique?”

  “Oh, Jim—”

  I looked over and saw that she was crying. (But of course I’d never let anything as sentimental as tears stand between me and Truth.)

  “Jim, let’s please just catalog this as our first and only quarrel, and you tell me like always all the touristy AAA-endorsed fun we can have in Erie.”

  “Shelley, there’s this—”

  “I’ve run out of synonyms for shut up, Jim. Please, let’s find a motel along this godforsaken road, and we can cool off with airconditioning, and watch soap operas all afternoon in color, and—if you’re sweet—I’ll let you put your thing in my thing and we’ll see if something develops.”

  She composed her face in a parody of the usual enticing smile. Around a curve we came upon a construction gang tearing up the road.

  “Your offer is generous,” I said, as we came to a stop. “But I don’t appreciate the casual use of seduction only as a ploy to divert me.”

  She gave a little cry and looked away, watched a truck dump some dirt.

  “You know I’m stubborn,” I continued, “that I follow every task I assume to its conclusion. Sorry, but it’s a part of my nature. Why don’t you settle with me and clear the air? And then we go to the motel.”

  She sighed in despair, conveying with a gesture her decision to abdicate from the argument. The flagman waved us on. We managed a few silent miles.

  “I’m snowed by the whole thing,” I resumed. “So you have twins in a couple of places, so what? So you’re not the only edition of your model in this—”

  “Model? What do you mean, model?”

  I could have sworn the timbre of her voice was one step away from hysteria.

  “Model,” I said. “Type. Your beautiful, gorgeous type. Did you think when they made you they broke the mold?”

  She gasped and her eyes widened in terror. We hit a long stretch of highway. In the distance I could see another road gang.

  “Shelley, I’ve never seen you like this. Just because I mention you have duplicates around the—”

  “Jim, please!” The intensity of her voice sent shock waves through me.

  “Jim,” she said more softly, “I can’t go on with this.”

  “I don’t really dig your overreactions. I feel like I’ve uncovered some sort of conspiracy of lookalikes that—”

  “I’ve got to get out. I’ve got to get out.”

  “What is it, Shelley? Is there some real connection between you and this Shirley Graham?” Up ahead the man with the red flag began waving it in the stop signal. I began to decelerate.

  “I’ve got to get out. I’ve got to get out.”

  I stopped the car where the red flag pointed. Shelley flung open her door and left the car. I got out almost as fast as she did. Not looking where she was going, she collided with the flagman, who was passing our car to signal the next vehicle.

  “Why don’t you—” he said, then smiled. “Mother of God, why it’s Shirley Graham. I haven’t—”

  Shelley let out a long and painful scream. I still feel its echo.

  Racing around the car, I reached for her arm but slipped on soft gravel and fell. The flagman helped me up, saying, “What the hell’s going on? If you’re planning to hurt Shirley, I’ll—”

  I cursed him and went after- Shelley. She was headed toward the woods. With each agonizing step I saw that she was pulling away from me. I’d never known she could run so swiftly. I’d never seen her run before.

  She ran into the woods. That was the last I saw of her.

  * * * *

  The flagman called the sheriffs office. A posse—or whatever they call it in Pennsylvania—searched the area. All the police in the county and surrounding counties were alerted. Roadblocks were set up. All-points bulletins. Floods of questions. Sirens. Reporters.

  I turned over all twigs, studied the undersides of leaves. Methodically I reviewed what had happened since we had arrived in Union City. Nothing made sense. I could not grasp how a couple of coincidences and a silly argument could make Shelley run off like that. I cursed myself for being at fault and for not knowing why I was at fault. Once I leaned against a tree and laughed, which somewhat disconcerted my fellow searchers.

  Our past life together provided no clues. Her origins were a mystery, but then I had never asked her about them. We had met under the finest romantic conditions, tested our compatibility by living together for a year, married, and enjoyed idyllic satisfaction in the seven years before Uni
on City.

  The flagman—his name was Bill something or other—stayed close by me throughout the search. Sometimes we talked. He had known Shirley fairly well. He said she was an exceptional female, that something truly glowed from her which made people feel real good and contented in her company.