Time Travel Omnibus, page 630
“I do?” She laughed. “That’s right; I do, later. Well, perhaps this is where I begin to acquire the taste. All right.”
He ordered the same. Both were silent while the drinks were brought. He started to raise his glass in a toast, but she didn’t wait.
“How much have you had, Larry? Of us?”
“I haven’t met you. Except now, of course. I had the last half of our first year and most of our second.” He showed her the envelope. “I have the dates here. And earlier I had a few weeks in the middle, in ‘85, when we were with Frank and Rhonda. I was pretty young; it really confused me at first.”
She nodded. “I should have known then. I’ve had that part too, and suddenly you seemed withdrawn, you wouldn’t talk. Then, gradually, you came out of it.”
“How much have you had, Elaine? I mean—how much do we have left, together? Not too long from now I get the last—” Good Lord! What was he saying? “Elaine—have you had, uh, your death yet?”
She nodded. “Yes. It wasn’t as bad as it probably seemed. I looked awful and smelled awful, toward the end, I know. And made noises from the pain. But that was just my body. Inside, except for seeing how all of you hurt for me, I was pretty much at peace; the pain was out there someplace where I hardly felt it.
“Poor Larry! I gave you a bad time, didn’t I?”
“I haven’t had that time yet. I’ll be having it pretty soon, though.”
“You’ll what? How can you know that?” Her face seemed to crumple. “Oh! We’re not the same, after all?”
He took her hand. “Yes, we are. It’s—I keep records, or I will. And I found them, written in the time just before now.” He showed her the lists from the envelope. “Here—you can see what I’ve had, up to here, and what I’ll be having up through the time that ended a couple of days ago.”
She recovered quickly and studied his life-records with obvious fascination. “But this is marvellous! I never thought of doing it; I don’t know why. It’s obvious, when you think about it. Stupid me!”
“Stupid me too, Elaine,” he said. He sipped his drink. The ice had melted; the taste was watery. “I didn’t think of it either, until I saw it on paper.”
“But that means you did it because you’d done it.” She grasped the circularity of the process instantly—which was more than he had done.
“Larry, do you mind if I mark on this—the chart here—a little bit? In pencil? I want to see how much we have left together.” Quickly she drew neat lines. “Both knowing; won’t that be—what’s a bigger word than ‘wonderful’ ?”
“Whatever it is, it fits.” Impatience gripped him. “Well, how does it look?”
“Better than I expected, but not as good as I’d like. Damn! I’ve met you and you haven’t met me. Then here, late in 1980, we overlap; we’ve both had a couple of months there. And you’ve had most of 1981 and a little of ‘85, and I’ve had nearly all of ‘85 and all of the last three years. Oh, dammit! See here? Out of our ten years, one or the other of us has already had nearly six. Not knowing. Not knowing, Larry!” She wiped her eyes and gulped from her glass.
“Yes, Elaine; I feel the same way. But what’s lived is lived; we can’t change it.”
“Can’t we?” She raised her face to him, shaking back the hair that had fallen forward. “What if—what if the next time you’ve had and I haven’t, I just tell you? Or the other way around? Why not, Larry? Why the hell not?”
He shook his head, not negating her but stalling. The idea had come to him too, and the implications rocked him. Not her, though—God, how he loved that bold mind! But he needed time to think.
“I’m not sure, Elaine. What would happen? We were there, you see, and we didn’t tell, either of us, our selves who remembered sitting here right now. Why didn’t we?” He was still holding her hand; he squeezed it once and let go. “Was it because of something we decided in the next few minutes? Or hours, or days? We’ve got to think, Elaine. We’ve got to think in ways no one’s ever had to think before.”
She smiled. “You’re sure of that? There are two of us. Maybe there are others.”
“Maybe. I’ve watched, and never—what are the odds against recognition? If I hadn’t been off-guard, you know, I’d never have given myself away.”
“But I’m so glad you did. Aren’t you?”
“Of course, Elaine. Christ, yes! I mean, even if it’s only the four years . . .”
“But maybe we could have more. The overlap—you see?—the parts we’ve both had, where neither of us knows about the other—there’s not much of it.”
“No, there isn’t.” He signalled the bartender, holding up a glass and extending two fingers of the hand that raised it. “Elaine, we don’t have to decide this right away. Put it on the back burner and let it simmer. Let’s talk about us. For instance, how old are you?”
She laughed. “I thought your memory was better than that. I’m two years and five days younger than you are.”
It was his turn to chuckle. “I don’t mean body-years. How old in consciousness-years?”
“Oh. I call them life-years. About twenty-four, I think, give or take a couple. And you?”
“Close to forty; I can’t be exact about it either.”
The bartender brought filled glasses, collected his money and went back to the bar, all silently.
“Getting old and cautious, are you, Larry? No, I don’t mean that. We learn to be cautious; we have to. It’s just that this—not to be alone with the way I live—I’ll take any risk. Any risk at all, Larry.” She sipped vermouth; the ice clinked as her hand shook slightly. “But yes, let’s talk about us.”
“You asked about my death,” she said. “Have you had yours? Or what’s the oldest you’ve been?”
“I had it, and I don’t know; I was senile. You’re all right on the inside, but you can’t keep track for very long. But I was damned old; I know that. Because I was seventy for a while once, and still in pretty good shape.”
“And I died at fifty-three. God damn it, Larry!”
“Elaine!” What could he say? “Sometimes quality counts more than quantity.”
She made a disgusted grimace and a half-snort. “Some quality! Do you remember any of my life history? Well, I’m with my first husband, Joe Marshall, and he’s just making a start on drinking himself to death. It takes him fifteen years, as I recall. Oh, I can’t complain about my childhood, or college, or even the first five years of the marriage, what I’ve had of it. But I’ve also had four of the next eight, before the divorce. In three times, separated and out of sequence. No, Larry. When it comes to quality, it’s all in the times with you. With you and our other two.”
“Those were good times for me too,” he said. “But you know something? I tried to feel alike to everybody, the way we were supposed to. And I was with all three of you before the time you and I were alone earlier, but I felt more yours than Rhonda’s, anyway.” He paused and drank. “I wonder if somehow the body gives feedback, under our conscious memory.”
Her mind looked at him from somewhere far behind her eyes. “I don’t know. Sometimes there are hunches . . . feelings . . .” She shook her head and smiled. “Larry, how is it with you now?”
“Mixed up, for one thing. I’ve probably told you, maybe in some time you’ve had and I haven’t, about my first two marriages—what I knew of them. Well, you can see here on this diagram—I woke up today between wives.”
“Today? You’re just beginning a time today?”
“Yes. Judy’s living with me; we get married in about six weeks.”
“Judy? She’s the lush, isn’t she?”
“Not now, and not two years from now. Maybe I’d had only the bad end of it when I told you about her—yes, that’s right. Someday I’ll find out what happened, I expect. I just hope it isn’t my fault. But it probably is . . .”
“You can’t afford to think like that. You didn’t ask to be born zigzag, any more than I did. If we can take it, why can’t they?”
“Can we take it, Elaine?”
“We’re doing it, aren’t we?” She looked at her watch. “Oh, I have to go! Joe—my husband—I’m an hour late! He’ll be drunk again if I don’t hurry.”
“Yes. All right. When can we see each other?”
“I don’t know yet, but we will. We have things to settle, you and I. You’re in the phone book?” He nodded. “I’ll call.”
She stood, and he with her. She started to move away, but he took her arm. “Just a minute, Elaine. It’s been a long time.” They kissed long, before they moved apart and walked out.
“I go this way,” she said. “It’s only a few blocks. Don’t come with me.”
He stood looking after her, at the grace of her walk. After a few steps, she turned. “I’ll call you tonight,” she said. “We can meet tomorrow, if I’m still here. Still now, I mean.”
“Well, you have to be, is all.” They smiled and waved; then he turned and walked to the parking lot.
When he unlocked his apartment door, he almost knocked Judy off the ladder; she nearly dropped the picture she was hanging. “Oh, it’s you!” she said. “Here, catch this.” Off-balance, she leaned to hand him the picture. Her hair was hanging loose, brushed smooth, and her robe was open. She descended, and closed the robe before she turned to face him.
“Have you had lunch, Larry? I waited awhile, but then I got hungry and had mine. I’ll do yours if you want, though why I should when you’re so late . . .”
He started to say he wasn’t hungry, then realised he was; he’d missed lunch. “Go ahead with what you’re doing, Judy; I’ll make a sandwich. My own fault; I got hung up.” From the refrigerator he took bread, meat to slice, pickles and a jar of mustard. “When we’re both done, let’s have a beer and chat some.”
She went back to her task, picture in one hand, hammer in the other and tacks silencing her mouth. Climbing a ladder, he thought, does a lot for a good round butt.
He knew what he wanted to talk about. A trip out of town, a fictitious assignment. A pre-honeymoon, by about ten years, with Elaine.
Keeping cover was one thing; he’d always had to do that. Lying was something else, he found, as he and Judy talked, sipping beer from bottles as though it were champagne from frosted goblets. The beer went well, after his sandwich.
“I’m not sure yet,” he said, “but I may need to cut out for the last of this week and the weekend.” He knew his slang had to be a little out of date, one way or the other, but always there was some leeway in speech patterns. “Let you know for sure, soon as I can.”
“Sure, Larry. I wish I could go with you, but you know I’m tied this weekend.”
“Sure.” He hadn’t known it, but it helped. “Next time, maybe.”
She was vital and desirable, Judy. Mobile mouth, bright hair, lithe body carrying no more than five excess pounds, all nicely hidden. No genius, but a good mind and compatible nature. And in bed, like a mink with its tail on fire. So why could he not cleave to her? Because she was of the other species, the one that lived along a single line and knew nothing else.
And was that the reason she would become a fat, surly drunk? He wished he knew, and that it didn’t have to happen.
Dinner wasn’t much to brag about. “Leftovers Supreme,” said Judy; her grin was wry. They were drinking coffee when the phone rang.
It was Elaine; he put her on ‘Hold’. “Business stuff,” he said to Judy. “I’ll take it in the other room so you can read your book.” Again it hurt to lie; Judy didn’t deserve lies.
On the bedroom extension: “Elaine?” The connection was noisy.
“Yes, Larry. I’ve been thinking.”
“So have I. We need more time.”
She laughed through the circuit noises. “Yes. We always do.”
“I mean, time to ourselves. To think, and talk together.” He paused, surprised to find himself embarrassed. “And to have each other, if you’d like that. I would.”
She was silent for a moment. “What’s the matter? Are you hard up? Has your lush gone dead?”
Anger! “You have no right to say that. You don’t know her. And why—?”
Her voice came softly, almost drowned in the crackling sounds. “All right, Larry, so I’m jealous. Sorry about that. Shouldn’t have said it. I’m a little drunk, boozing along with Kemo Sahib before he passed out a while ago. Leaving myself untouched, as usual. It does make me bitchy, when he spends all evening working up to nowhere. I wish I knew what he does with it.”
“I wish I knew a lot of things,” he said. “But never mind that. What do you say—Elaine, let’s just take off for a few days; the hell with everything. Okay?”
She waited longer than he liked. Then, “I can get away with it if you can.” Another pause. “And we can talk? Everything?”
“That’s what I was hoping.”
“All right, Larry. I’ll be in that same bar tomorrow, about noon. Or a little later; I’m not much for being on time. But there. With my suitcase.”
“Yes. Yes, Elaine. And goodnight.”
“Cautious Larry. It’s all right; I can wait for you to say the rest.” The phone went dead, dial tone blurting at his ear. He listened as though there were meaning in the noise, then hung up and went back to Judy.
She was reading, TV on but the sound off; he’d never understood that habit, either time he’d known her. It’s not so alone, was all she ever said.
“Like a beer or anything?” he said. “I think I’ll have one or two, look at the paper a little. And then crap out early.”
“With or without?”
“Huh?”
“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.”
