From Time to Time (6 page)

Dave took his time answering, staring levelly' at Rube. "It's a storage space, what do you think it is? This is a moving and storage Company."

"And. . . what about the rest? The other floors.

"Three more just like this. And below that, temporary storage, stuff they're assembling into truckloads for long-distance hauls. You say you've been here before? But Rube was swinging away, back toward the elevator.

Out in the street, walking away fast, he found a cab at curbside on Sixth Avenue, opened the door, ready to say, "Library on Fifth, but instead gave his home address. A moment or so later, sitting back, trying to think about what he had seen and what he had not seen, Rube murmured, "Oscar . . ." He did it again, deliberately, "Oscar, waited for more, but there was no more, and he cursed silently, staring out at the street.

That evening, his gabardine suit hung in his bedroom closet to preserve its press, Rube sat facing the windows in the one upholstered chair of his furnished apartment. He was barefooted, wore a sleeveless underwear top and faded blue pajama pants. On his lap lay a clipboard, a pen clipped to the blank sheet. Not reading, not listening to or watching anything, eyes deliberately unfocused, and not consciously thinking, he sat in the faint wash of orange light reflected by the ceiling from the streetlamp below. He held a measured ounce of bourbon whiskey, with water, in a glass, occasionally sipping, staring out the window, waiting. His bare forearms and biceps looked powerful; first thing every morning he did push-ups, down on the floor only seconds after his alarm had rung.

Presently he said, "Dan . . ." and waited. "Dan . . . forth? Dan bury? He shook his head, said, "Don't force, and allowed eyes and mind to drift out of focus again.

He printed Oscar on his clipboard sheet. Then Dan-in elaborate doodle he strengthened the letters, added serifs and shading, then sat back again, staring at the rectangle of window. He sipped from his glass, set it back on the sill. "Dan - . . id? he said. "Dan - . . cer? Danboogleboogle? Danblahblahblah? Dandantheaccordionman? Okay, cut it out.

Across the street, he noted, the sky' above the roofline of the apartment l)uilding really was a sky, nd)t a whitish nothingness but a I)lue-blackness behind a thin scatter of stars. A light came on in a window of the building, then off. He stood up to walk absently through the three rooms, something he often did, often singing softly, usually an incompletely remembered fragment of the old popular music he understood. "A new room, he sang now, a blue room for two room. . ." He knew he was a lonely man but didn't mind. Oscar Rossoff.

Swiftly he walked into the living room to a small wooden table against one wall that he used as a desk, and from a ten-foot length of books on an unpainted pine shelf he'd attached to the wall over the desk, took down the Manhattan phone book. Rossoff, Michael S. . . . Nathan A. . . . Nicholas. . . 0. V. . . . Olive M. .

0mm. . . Oscar! He dialed the desk phone, and on the third ring a man's voice said, "Hello?

"Mr. Rossoff? Oscar Rossoff?

"Yes.

"My name is Prien, Mr. Rossoff. P-R-I-E-N, Ruben Prien. I am a major in the United States Army, and I've phoned because I once knew an Oscar Rossoff. In. . . New York. And I wonder if it's you. Do you remember me? Rube Prien?

"No-o, the man said slowly, politely reluctant to say it. Then, "Actually I'm not sure. Prien. Ruben Prien. It does sound not quite unfamiliar. He laughed at his own cautious phrasing.

"Maybe I do. Clue me in.

But all Rube Prien could do was refer to a nearly formless mental picture. "Well, the Oscar Rossoff I knew was . . . in his thirties, I'd say? Early thirties, but this was . . . a few years ago, I think. Suddenly he added, "Had dark hair and a trimmed mustache.

"Well, I don't have a mustache now, but I did. The trimming got to be a nuisance. And yes, I have dark hair, and I'm thirty- seven now. Rube Prien, Rube Prien. Sounds as though I ought to remember. Where was this?

The words spoke themselves: "At the Project, but he didn't know what he meant.

"What project? The voice on the phone had gone cold. "What is this? You're the second person who's phoned about the project.'

"Who was the other!?'

"Look, I want to know what's going-

"Please. Mr. Rossoff, please; I have got to know. Who was the other

Reluctantly: "McNaughton, he said his name was, John McNaughton. From Winfield, Vermont.

"Thank you, thank you very much, Rube said swiftly. "Won't keep you any longer, sorry to've troubled you, and he pressed the button to break the connection. Then released it, dialed information, got the area code for Vermont, and dialed long-distance information. "I am sorry, we have no listing for a John McNaughton. As though he could be seen, and as though he'd expected this, Rube nodded, took down the Manhattan phone book, and began leafing through the H's for Hertz Rent a Car.

CHAPTER 4

JUST PAST NINE O'CLOCK NEXT MORNING, he turned off the throughway onto an asphalt-paved county road. Ten more miles, then off onto a narrower, winding, weed-bordered road, once paved but potholed now, chunks of asphalt missing. The final eleven miles took over half an hour. Out of a last slow curve, and the road turned into concrete-paved Main Street, Winfield, Vermont.

Rube drove slowly through a block, head ducked to stare ahead through the windshield, then swung into an angled parking space. He got out, feeling in his pocket for meter change, but every meter flag in the block showed red, no other car parked; and on ahead for three blocks, only two cars, both pickups. Hell with it, he thought, probably don't even bother collecting anymore.

On the sidewalk he stood glancing both ways. Nothing moved in the entire five-block length of Main Street, no one in sight. The walk lay silent in the morning sun, his foreshortened shadow slanted toward the curb; he turned to walk on, hearing no sound but his own footsteps.

In the block ahead, a man in blue jeans, dark plaid shirt, and a yellow good-old-boy visored cap walked out from a storefront, and on across the walk. He was young, big, wore a thick Zapata mustache, was heavy and big-bellied. He climbed up into a red pickup with enormous tires, and when he slammed his door the tinny crash bounced between the storefront walls, the only sound in the street till he started his engine and drove off.

Rube walked on past a men's clothing store, one of its two display windows paved with work shoes, cowboy and pull-on boots. Past two bars into w'hich he could not see. Past storefronts boarded over with plywood sheets so weathered the outer layers were separating in narrow swollen bulges. Most of the buildings he passed were two stories, a few three. Some of the upper windows were labeled: a doctor, a lawyer, a chiropractor. Rounded bay windows hung out over the walk at some corners, their separate roofs steeply conical. He glanced down the side streets as he crossed them: houses, wooden and old. Many had porches elaborately ornamented at the eaves, but the ornamentation was often broken, pieces missing. None of the houses had been painted in a long time, and a few were covered over with green asphalt shingling. The front windows of one were curtained with a gray blanket and a sun-faded quilt. The lawns were gone, only chopped-down weeds and winter mud marks, often tracked by car wheels. Cars stood on a few of these former lawns, others on dirt or cinder driveways. All were old, big, American. All sun-faded, dented, some listing. A new high-wheeled pickup stood parked in the street, one set of wheels up over the curb.

On past a little stucco movie theater, its shallow poster-display cases empty, the glass broken, its marquee letters reading, Closed. At a corner, a sin all grocery store, door open. Just inside, a low showcase crowded with bottles: dozens of brands of whiskey, gin, vodka, brandy. All were half-pints, and the sliding glass doors of the case were padlocked. Rube walked in, nodding at the middle- aged clerk. "Do you have a city directory?

The man shook his head, eves amused. "Isn't any.

"Is there a city hall?

"Nope. No more. No city anvmo re, friend. We're just county now. Who you lookin' for?

"John McNaughton.

The man shook his head. "Nope.

Out on the street corner, Rube stood glancing aro)und again. Just ahead the street divided to angle right and left around a little square slightly higher than the street, its cut-stone curbing angled outward by frost, pieces missing. The square had been paved over, the asphalt now broken, patches of dirt showing, remnants of white-painted striping still visible, the ghosts of old parking spaces.

What now? Coffee. Just ahead, Larry's Place, and he walked on to it, looked in. It was open: aproned proprietor behind the counter, a counter customer hunched over his coffee. Rube went in, ordering coffee as he sat down at the counter, glancing at the other customer as the man turned to look at him. "Major! Major Prien! My God, how are you!

"Why, I'm fine, John, just fine, Rube said easily, but-did he really know this man?

Who smiled and said, "Not quite sure about me, are you, Major? He was big, broad-backed, maybe forty, wearing a threadbare brown suitcoat over a gray flannel shirt. Sliding his coffee cup on in advance, he moved to the stool beside Rube, saving, "Take a good look.

An old-fashioned face, Rube thought, thin, tight-skinned, permanently weathered. The way Americans used to look, with haircut to match, no sissy sideburns but economically clipped high on the sides, a real last-a-month whitewall. "You look like a World War One doughboy.

"Feel like one sometimes. Well? You know me?

"I don't know. Maybe. You look like a hick; are you?

"Depends. On occasion and within limits I can be a kind of rural Noel Coward. But yeah, by inclination I'm a hick. The haircut's no disguise, it's me.

"You're smart, though.

"Well, yes, though I wouldn't call for a new deal if I were dumb. Because it wouldn't matter; I'd go along just about the way' I do anyway. I'm a simple man, I like the simple life, so there's no real need to be smart. Kind of a waste, actually. I have to be smart enough to stay' simple and not get all dissatisfied. The way I'd be anyway if I were dumb. You follow me?

"I'm not sure. Maybe I'm not smart enough.

"And what are your hobbies and favorite sports, Major?

"Well, John, I like things to go my way. And I work at it harder and longer than most. What I don't like is anyone trying to jerk me around. So just tell me; I think maybe I know you, but I'm not sure: jog my memory.

"Remember Kay Veach? Thin, black-haired girl?

Rube shook his head.

"From the Project. I phoned her; lives in Wyoming. But she didn't remember me or the Project. How about Nate Dempster? Around thirty? Bald. Wore glasses. Rube shook his head again. "Also from the Project, and also didn't remember it or me. Oscar Rossoff?

"Oscar, yeah. I phoned him. He said you'd called. And gave me your name.

"Did he now? McNaughton smiled. "Oscar was a little unhappy with me. Couldn't quite remember me. Or the Project. Almost! But-no. Got mad when I pushed him about the Project.

"The Project, the Project. What the hell is the Project!

"Well. McNaughton tasted his coffee, made a face, setting it down. "You never quite get used to how bad this stuff really is. Picture a big building, Major Prien. Fills a whole city block. Made of brick, no windows. On the outside says, Beekey's Moving and Storage, phone number, stuff like that. But that's only a front: inside, the building is gutted. Every floor but the top one ripped out, and the top one turned into offices. Underneath, just a hollow shell of brick walls, a block square. And down on the floor-

"The Big Floor.

"Yeah! You're doing good! Down on the Big Floor, something like movie sets. Separated by walls. An Indian tepee on a stretch of prairie, walls painted to look like more. World War One trenches in another, a barbed-wire no-man's-land stretching away in front. An actual house in another. An exact replica of a house right here in Winfield, but the way it was in the twenties. And a man living in it: me. He sat grinning at Rube.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm all ears.

"Real Crow Indians living in the tepee; had to be taught the language, though. Guys in the trenches wearing 1917 U.S. Army uniforms. All of us getting the feel of how it was, you see. Before we moved out into the real thing. Indiai'is out onto an enormous stretch of real prairie. Doughboys in France in genuine World War One trenches rCStO)red. Because the Project, Major, was a search for a way to) move l)ack in time.

He sat waiting but Rube outwaited him, looking at him expressionlessly, and McNaughton smiled, leaning closer. "It was you, Major, who first told me all this, the first day I joined the Project. Standing up on the catwalk over the Big Floor; you could walk anywhere on the catwalks and look down on the sets. Big banks of lights up there to imitate day, night, cloudy, sunny, rain, anything. Machinery to control temperatures: winter on one set, heat wave on another. You and I stood up there looking down, me brand- new to the Project. You said that according to Einstein, time is like a narrow winding river. And we're all in a boat. All we can see around us is the present. But back in the bends behind us the past still exists. Can't see it, but it's there; really there, Einstein said. And meant it. Well, Dr. Danziger-

"What were his initials?

"E.E."

"Right! Right: E. E. Danziger.

"Major, let's get out of here, the guy's starting to listen. Pay him for-what does he call this stuff? Coffee, I think.

Outside they crossed the street to a lone bench in the little paved-over square. "Danziger said that if the past really exists and Einstein says it does-there ought to be a way to reach it. Took him two years but he got money for the Project. From the federal government.

"Where else?

"Well, who pays you?

Rube smiled.

"He got, must have been a few million. Built the Project, and, Major, they bought this town, the whole town. Couldn't have been many holdouts, because look at this garbage dump. Out here in the middle of nothing but played-out farmland going back to brush. Nobody here anymore but drunks, druggies, and dropouts. Can't make it anywhere else, come up here, get on welfare, and drink. Or raise marijuana on land don't belong to them. Misfits. No-goods.