The Night Listener and Others (20 page)

As the night lengthened, his feet grew large, unwieldy, until they were thick slabs of meat, heavy stones that became no lighter when he flung back the sheet and lay naked, pooled in sweat. When morning came, they were immovable.

He waited, breathing deeply, for them to come back to life. Eventually they did, allowing him to walk unsteadily into the bathroom. By the time he breakfasted, they felt fine, though he did not forget what they had become in the night.

Two days later he was home in the Georgetown apartment he shared with his wife. She made them an excellent dinner, and afterward they went to bed and made love. Sometime before dawn, she was awakened by the sound of his ragged breathing. “What’s wrong?” she whispered, thinking of bad dreams and turning on the light to banish them.

Hutchinson lay on his back, shiny with sweat, his head pressed into the pillow, his jaw jutting ceilingward. “My foot’s asleep,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Does it hurt?” she asked him, wondering at the tears in his eyes, thinking how out of place they seemed there, then realizing that she had never seen him cry, not even at their daughter’s funeral.

The Heart’s Desire

“That’s yours?”

“It’s foolish, Peter. I have none.”

“No.
That’s
foolish. Everyone has one.”

“Not me.”

Michael Lindstrom, without a heart’s desire, smiled at his friend and sipped from a glass of white wine.

“Come on, Michael,” Peter said. “A moment somewhere? Somewhere along the way you lost, but still remember, bright as your youth. If I had one, you had one.”

“What
was
yours?”

Peter Riley’s face drifted for an instant. “It’ll sound…stupid. Undoubtedly. But it is
the
time. The
best
time. I was eleven.”

“Oh Jesus.”

“Hear me out. I was eleven. And I was on a baseball team.”

“Little League.”

“Nothing so grand. A park league. Summer at the town park. I was not a good player, but I liked it. I wanted to be good. And I practiced every evening, made my dad throw me balls and I’d hit them. Or try to. In those afternoon games I’d stand out in right field, nervous as hell when I was about to bat. Oh, I got hits. Maybe one out of five or six. Always a single, and usually because somebody bobbled a ball or made a bad throw. But one day—
the
day—I was at bat with a guy on first, one run behind, and two outs. It was the bottom of the seventh—we only played seven—and my whole team was muttering under their breaths, and some out loud. But that first pitch, the very first pitch—well, I belted it. I absolutely ripped that mother. That goddamn ball went back over the left fielder’s head, hit, and bounced, and went right into the creek. And by the time the kid fished it out, I was long home, and everyone was yelling and cheering and clapping and pounding my ass off they were so damn happy. It wasn’t a championship game or anything like that, but
I
won it. Me. That was the day. And there’s never been another to touch it for sweetness.”

“Not even when you lost your virginity?”

“I’m not even sure when that was. Technically.”

“And you’ve relived that home run.”

“Yeah. Several times.”

“Doesn’t it lose its novelty?”

“No. Each time there’s something new.”

“Come on. You can’t mean you actually experience it. I can’t believe that.”

“But I have. It’s time travel, Michael, honest to God.”

“I also can’t believe you’re calling it that.”

“Me and a hundred other people. And why not? You can’t go back physically. That’s science fiction. Mentally is the only conceivable way. Your own memory, your subconscious has it all in there. Every tiny detail. And Wagner knows how to make you remember.”

“And how much have you paid Wagner all told for that privilege?”

“It’s not inexpensive.”

“No. That type of thing never is. Sell all you have and follow me.”

“Don’t make it sound like a religion.”

“I wanted to make it sound like an obsession. Or an addiction.”

“It’s harmless. Helpful if anything.”

“Does Jennifer think it’s harmless?”

“Jennifer’s been very supportive of it. Of me.”

“Financially as well?”

“I can
handle
the cost, Michael.”

“Doesn’t she get a bit jealous? Of your running away from her back to the town park?”

Peter paused a moment too long. “No. I’m…refreshed when I come back from the experience. Renewed. I’m a better husband for it.”

“And how long before all that freshness and renewal wear off and things get shabby again?”

Peter laughed. “Michael,” he said quickly. “I just can’t describe it. It’s something you have to experience. I mean, everything is there, the smell of kids, the feel of the sun on your t-shirt, the infield dirt under your Keds—
Keds
, for Christ’s sake—the old, taped bat in your hands—
everything
. The sensation is
total
.”

“You sound like you did when you tried to talk me into doing acid in college. Then, if you’ll recall the precious sensations, I had to hold you all night while you cried and told me to watch out for the blue willies. What the hell
were
the blue willies?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Well, I’m sure Dr. Wagner could remind you.”

Michael’s wife came up to them. “All right, what are you two up to?” She put an arm around each one, kissing them both soundly.

“Michael is giving me hell again, Maggie,” Peter said.

“Oh, your treatment…”

“It’s not a treatment,” Peter protested.

“Sure it is,” said Michael. “Fight reality with a checkup and a check. A big one.”

“Michael, it
is
reality.”

“No, Peter.
This
is reality. Here and now. That
was
reality.”

Peter turned to Maggie.

“Don’t get me in this argument,” she said.

Peter nodded. “I never
could
talk him into anything, could I? Where’s Jennifer?”

“Upstairs,” said Maggie. “I think she was going to be sick.”

Peter tried to smile. “We all have our ways of escaping from reality, huh? But what’s yours, Michael?” Peter turned and disappeared into the crowd.

“You shouldn’t be so hard on him,” Maggie said, taking her arm from Michael’s shoulder.

“I can’t approve of what he’s doing.”

“He seems to be getting something out of it.”

“Oh yes. An alcoholic wife.”

“Michael…”

“They’re lies. He’s lying to himself, Maggie. He’s found one moment of triumph that’s become the core of his life, filled with seeds, and he goes back time after time to get one more.”

“It’s his choice. What can you do?”

“I could expose it.”

“Why?”

“It would sell, for one thing. And the other thing is that it makes me angry to see my friend throwing away his money and his life to dreams.”

There was that and more, enough to make Michael Lindstrom decide to do an exposé on temporal revisualization, to make him call Dr. Paul Wagner’s Park Avenue office for an appointment, to make him lie when he met the doctor, expressing admiration for his work and acknowledging Wagner’s compliments toward Michael’s own writing with a grace and gratitude he could not feel. He told Wagner that he wished to do a first-person article on the procedure, and asked for Wagner’s cooperation.

Wagner gave a smile of practiced sincerity. “There’s no pledge of secrecy, Mr. Lindstrom. I’ll be happy to have you as a patient, and you can tell as much or as little as you like. Do you…have a certain time in mind that you wish to revisit?”

Michael chuckled. “You make it sound so simple. ‘Step into my time machine and let’s go.’”

“Hardly that. But it is quite simple, really. When you know how.”

“How?”

“Drugs—harmless, government-approved drugs—and hypnosis. It’s in your mind, Mr. Lindstrom. It’s really all in there.”

“This sounds awfully sixtyish—Timothy Leary stuff.”

Wagner shrugged. “Styles change. The mind doesn’t.”

“It’s just very hard to believe,” said Michael with a penitent’s smile, “that it’s all still there…in as much detail as I’ve heard about.”

“It’s there,” Wagner said plainly. “Things you didn’t even know you’d seen. You’ll scarcely believe it. But you’ll be there. And so will everything else. Just as it was.”

“I assume it’s very expensive.”

“And I assume your publisher will pay for it, so that needn’t worry you.”

Michael smiled wryly, thinking it best not to appear too innocent, too trusting. “You doctors.”

“Or doctors’
wives
,” Wagner said, his smile showing his teeth for the first time. They looked white, and bright, and young, like the rest of him. “Now. Suppose you tell me.”

Michael pursed his lips, looked at Wagner, looked down at his hands in his lap, and back up again. “A woman,” he lied. “A woman I once knew.”

“A lover?”

“Must you know that?”

“I should.”

“No. Not a lover. Though I loved her. And I think she loved me. I was young, in college. It was before I met my wife. It was our second, maybe third date, I can’t remember. But we were walking on the beach. With no one else around. We must have walked for miles without seeing a soul. And we didn’t say a word. Not all the way. Then, when the beach ended…”

“Ended?”

“Isn’t that strange,” said Michael, “but that’s how I remember it. It just ended. A cliff, a sea-wall, I don’t know.”

“You will,” Wagner said quietly. “What happened next?”

“I held her. I kissed her. Nothing more. And we walked back. And that day I felt happier, more at peace with myself than I’ve been before or since.”

“What happened? Between the two of you?”

“She died. Three weeks later. Swimming alone on that same beach. Drowned. A young boy saw her go down. They never found her body.”

Wagner nodded slowly. “What was her name?”

“Anne.”
Beautiful Annabel Lee. In her tomb by the side of the sea
. Michael laughed inside at the lie, the false Anne, the seaside and walk he had never known. “And that,” he said aloud, “is the moment I want to reclaim.”

“One thing, Mr. Lindstrom,” said Wagner with a frown. “What brought you here? Your desire to see and be with this girl again? Or your desire for a story.”

“Both. Combined business and pleasure trip.”

Wagner looked at him for so long that Michael grew uncomfortable. Finally he spoke. “Ready then?”

“Now?”

“It doesn’t take long. A matter of minutes.”

“That’s not much for the money.”

“It will seem far longer, I promise. But first I’ll have to ask you to sign this,” and he handed Michael a piece of paper and a pen from a desk drawer. “It simply releases me from any legal actions stemming from a psychological complaint. I remain liable, however, for any adverse physical reaction.” Michael read it and signed.

Wagner stood and walked to a metal cabinet that contrasted starkly with the tasteful opulence of the room’s other furnishings. He returned to Michael’s side bearing a tray on which lay an unmarked vial, a syringe, an alcohol swab, and a Band-Aid. “Do you mind needles?” Michael shook his head, shrugged off his jacket, and rolled up his right sleeve. Wagner inserted the syringe in the vial and drew out a cc of thick, milky fluid.

“What is that?” Michael asked.

“Ah. My secret,” Wagner replied, wiping the skin over Michael’s biceps with the swab. “Safer than aspirin as far as side effects. This’ll sting a bit.”

The needle slid into Michael’s arm, and he looked away. “There,” said Wagner. “All there is to it. You’ll begin to feel drowsy in a minute or so.”

“Do I lie down?” asked Michael, looking in vain for a couch.

“No. Sitting is fine. You won’t be aware of your body. Now just relax.”

Within seconds, Michael felt a lethargy steal over him, as when he would fall asleep on trains. He closed his eyes. He didn’t hear Wagner speaking, could not remember later if Wagner had said anything at all.

The beach appeared slowly, but with such a sense of reality that he felt as if he were awakening from a dream. It was real, it was true, and the wet sand was cool where his bare feet pressed it down. Wind, blowing from a gray sky, ruffled the sleeves of his jacket and played with his hair. The smell of the sea was fresh and strong, and the hand he was holding was warm.

He turned—not his dream-self, he thought, but
he
—and looked at her, and knew that he had never seen her before, but knew that she was here, was real, and that no one would ever be able to take her place. She gazed back at him with deep, thoughtful eyes that had owned him always, then turned her face out to the sea so that the breeze took her hair and made it shimmer like a curtain of obsidian rain.

Had he wanted to speak, he could not have. His knowledge would have choked him. But his voice and thoughts, those of fifty-year-old Michael Lindstrom, were imprisoned within the young body, with whose flesh he saw, and touched, and heard. His consciousness rode above, like a hawk over a storm, observed all, felt, but could not express the feeling. They walked on through the cool day, over the wet sand, and from time to time he would look at her, kiss her cheek or her lips, and when he looked ahead, or down at the sand, he prayed to himself to turn his head, to look at her again, to never look away, never leave her alone, because then she would not vanish, not leave him, not be claimed by the sea.

It was a cliff at the end of the beach. That which he had not remembered, which had never existed, was there now, tall and gray, its lower flanks gleaming with salt spray. He and Anne (
Anne
) watched the waves caress the rock, moved to where beach and sea and cliff all met, then sat in the sand and held each other. Michael shivered as the chill crept over his buttocks and touched the base of his spine. He hugged Anne tighter, thinking,
tighter still never let go never
, and he wanted to crush her to him, make them inseparable for always, but his young arms would not obey old desires.