A Stir of Echoes

A Stir of Echoes Page 13

I LEANED BACK, MY HANDS TREMBLING ON MY LAP.

"I guess you're wondering why I asked," I said, trying to keep the excitement from my voice.

"Well, I-" She seemed a little frightened of me.

"I found a small photograph in one of the cupboards over at the house," I said, "and I was just wondering if it was our previous tenant."

"Ok."I think she believed me. At any rate, the aura of suspiciousness seemed to fade from her mind. I finished my coffee, managing to talk about the neighbourhood in general terms. Then, as I got up, Elizabeth asked about her comb.

"Oh... good lord," I said, "do we still have it?"

She smiled. "It doesn't matter."

"I'll go get it right now."

"Oh, no, I can-"

"No, by God, I'm going to get it right now," I said.

"You've waited long enough." I opened the door. "I'll be right back."

"All right then."

As the door closed behind me, all the excitement flooded out; my fists clamped shut, breath shook in me. It was Helen Driscoll! That may have not proved life after death but it proved something just as exciting to me; that Helen Driscoll still wanted to be in that house and that, from a distance of three thousand miles, was transmitting that desire so strongly that I was actually seeing her in the living room. I wished that Anne were back so I could tell her; so she could see what it was and stop worrying about my sanity. I no longer resented her attitude; it was natural under the circumstances. But those circumstances were far beyond what she imagined. For a few moments I had the premonition that she might not believe me. Then I realized that she must. Elizabeth was my witness. I'd never seen Helen Driscoll in my life.

Yet I'd asked about that dress and been right.

I was thinking about that as I came into the kitchen. The comb was on the window sill over the sink. I walked over and picked it up.

"Uh!"

My cry was short and breathless; the cry of a man who has touched something alive when he least expects it.

For, as my hand had closed over the comb, I'd felt a sudden, jagged tingle in my fingers; as if I'd touched an open wire. I'd recoiled and the comb had dropped into the sink.

I stood there shivering, staring down dumbly at the comb. I don't know what expression I had on my face but it must have been one of awed stupefaction. Stupefied was how I felt; and awed by dread that had been too quick to identify, yet too powerful to miss.

I reached down gingerly, then drew back my ringers as if the comb were something lethal. I swallowed dryly and kept staring at it, all thoughts of Helen Driscoll vanished. A new element had entered my mind, brushing everything away but itself.

I stood there about two minutes, staring, my mind stumbling over itself in an attempt to wrench reason from the situation. It couldn't. Imagine coming from your house one morning on the way to work, turning a corner and finding yourself confronted by a seven-headed dragon. Imagine your attempt to rationalize, to adjust, even to understand basically what it was you were looking at and realize at the same time that it was still you, going to work on an ordinary morning.

There are no established channels of acceptance in the mind for a sudden appearance of the bizarre. Which was why I stared and couldn't move; why I reached down to touch the comb at least a dozen times, then didn't touch. Why my mind seemed wooden and incapable.

Finally, I got a knife out of the cupboard drawer and reached down into the sink. I nudged the comb with it. Nothing. I touched it again. I felt nothing. I squinted at the comb and couldn't understand. Then I put down the knife and picked up the comb again.

It was not so violent this time but it was still there. As I stood, stricken with helpless alarm, the room seemed to blacken and a coldness pressed at me.

Death. The concept was unmistakable.

I dropped the comb again and stood there shivering, looking down at it as it lay on the linoleum, looking quite harmless.

I couldn't stop trembling. Once again I was terribly aware of the uncertainty, the uncontrollability of my perception. It came always when I was far from expecting it. I recalled the experiment psychologists use to drive dogs insane. Whenever the dog least expects it-usually as it is bending over its bowl to eat-they strike a great pipe and the high, vibrating tones unnerve the dog. By the time this act has been repeated a few dozen times, the dog has gone mad and has degenerated into a twitching, slavering hulk of its former self, incapable of the slightest reasoning.

I felt this now; with the terrible added dimension that I could see it happening. I knew that, every once in a while, when I was not prepared for it, when I was emotionally off balance, these things would occur-jarring me badly. If it went on long enough, I too could be reduced to a pitiful creature of twitchings and apprehensions.

In a while, I put the comb in an envelope and took it back to Elizabeth. It wasn't until I came into the kitchen and handed it to her that the awful connection occurred to me. When the word Death had branded itself so unmistakably on my mind- it was her comb in my hand. The day was an agony.

My exultation at having discovered who the woman was had been short-lived. I sat in the living room most of the day, waiting for something else to happen. That it didn't helped not at all. It isn't the shocks which can undo a man so much as not knowing when the shocks are coming.

By late afternoon, I was nerve racked. A child's shout in the street made my muscles go spastic. The sound of a car horn made me jolt with a sucked-in gasp. The rattle of a breeze-stirred blind made me turn my head so quickly that needles of pain exploded in my neck. And, when the phone rang about five, the cup of coffee I was drinking jerked out of my hand as though endowed with sudden life and rolled across the living room rug, spewing its brown contents.

I stood, trembling, and answered the phone. It was Anne. She told me that the funeral was over and she was going back to her father's house now to see some relatives. She'd start home about eight. I said fine.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, "I'm fine."

After I'd hung up, I gave up coffee and started on beer, hoping to relax the rubber-band tautness of my nerves. Anne was right, I thought as I picked up the pieces of broken cup and wiped up the coffee. She was right; I should go see Alan Porter. I probably will, too, I thought. Some time in the next week. Although, it occurred to me, how could he help? I knew by then that I wasn't insane but undirectedly receptive. What could he do to ameliorate that? I was a wireless set open to all bands, my controller gone. No sure hand rested on the knobs, no observing eye saw when messages were coming in and warned me ahead of time. It was all blind; and, because blind, terrifying.

As a matter of fact I got halfway through dialing Alan's home number before I hung up. No, I thought, he can't do anything. He deals with mental aberration. This is not what he deals with. For some reason-whether it was the weather or me-what had been a hot day turned into a chilly evening. As it started to get dark, I put on a sweater but it did no good. Finally I decided to light a fire. I got some pressed logs from a kitchen cupboard and put them on the grate, then cut off enough shavings to ignite them. It was about eight, I guess, when I lit the fire. Outside, it was just getting dark, the sun-reddened clouds beginning to purple in the sky.

I sat on the sofa, staring at the low flames and thinking about Elizabeth. I tried to tell myself that it had been imagination, but that sort of defence was no longer of any use. I knew it wasn't imagination. Too many things had come true for me to doubt. I was afraid of this rude, misshapen power in me but I couldn't refute its existence.

But Elizabeth... poor, quiet Elizabeth. How could I just sit here thinking what I did? I knew then the curse of the prophet, the agony of the seen. How, I thought, could someone like Nostradamus stand the crushing horror of believing that he knew, step by awful step, the centuries ahead?

But how could she die? I wondered that.

The answer came almost simultaneous with the question. In childbirth. She was thin, with a narrow pelvis. And she'd never had a child. For all I knew, there was a history of unsuccessful pregnancies in her family.

I bit my lip and felt miserable thinking about it. What was it Anne had said? All she wants is a baby. It was so terribly true. It was what kept her going. I was sure of that. It was what made her able to stand all of Frank's cruel abuses; his tantrums and neglect.

And she would die, having never known her child.

I sat in that small, quiet living room, staring at the fire through a gelatinous haze of tears, crying for Elizabeth and for myself because we both needed help and there was no one to help. Then, as I sat there, the fire began to fade and the room to darken. I got up and went over to prod the logs. I knelt before the fireplace and pulled the drawstrings for the chain screen. It whispered apart and I reached for the poker.

Again!

This time it was a cry of agony that tore back my lips. The poker flew from my hand and bounced darkly across the rug.

"No!" I remember sobbing, "No, no, no, no!" I felt almost deranged with fury and horror. I wanted to crawl into a shell and be rid of the world which was a forest of traps. Everywhere I turned there was menace, everything I touched could be imbued with a terrible life.

It was a long time before I could even stand. I huddled close to the floor, my head almost between my legs, my body shaking endlessly, a foaming nausea in my stomach. I kept gasping and gagging as if I were going to throw up. Even that would have been a relieving completion. As it was there was only time stopped and me frozen with it, alone and helpless and sick.

Finally, after hours, it seemed, it passed. I struggled shakily to my feet and lurched to the sofa. I fell down on it and turned on one lamp, another lamp. The fire had gone out. I stared at it a moment, then my eyes moved, as if drawn, to the poker. It was made of iron, painted black. A machine or man had twisted its end into a right angle. There was a coil-like handle on it. And that was all it was-a simple, functional object, without menace to the eye. Yet, to me, that poker possessed all the elements of nightmare-and I could no more have touched it again than I could have flown. I was in the kitchen when Anne got home.

I'd been there for two hours, afraid to enter the living room even though I'd turned on every lamp. I'd sat there drinking beer and staring fixedly at the same pages of the Sunday comics, getting not one gleam of meaning from it, much less humour.

When she came in, I gasped involuntarily, my head flung up. I must have looked terrified. Unfortunately, she saw that expression before it was replaced by one of welcome. She felt too, I'm certain, the tremble of me as I put my arms around her and kissed her.

"Hello, sweetheart," she said, gently.

"I'm glad you're back," I said; and my voice too; it gave me away it laboured so. I took in a long, wavering breath and smiled at her.

"Where's Richard?" I asked.

She gestured toward the door with her head.

"Asleep in the back seat," she said. "I didn't want to lift him. My condition, you know."

"Of course." I smiled nervously. "I'll go get him."

"All right."

I was almost glad to get away from her eyes. I went outside and opened the back door of the Ford. Richard was warm and pink-cheeked, only his face visible under the blanket. For a moment I stood there looking at him, feeling a rush of love for him. I bent over and kissed his cheek. He sighed and his small hand stirred on the blanket.

"Oh, God, I love you, baby," I remember whispering to him. As if I were a doomed man taking a final look at his adored son.

As I went back into the house, carrying him, I saw Anne standing near the fireplace, the poker in her hands. She looked up at me. Her smile was strained.

"What happened?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

I swallowed. "I-had a fire," I said. "I dropped the poker and-didn't bother picking it up. Oh, and that spot is some coffee I spilled."

"Oh." She put the poker back in the rack as I started out of the room. I felt the nervous distrust in her mind as in her voice.

When I came back in she was sitting on the sofa. She smiled at me and patted the cushion next to her.

"Come sit by mama," she said.

I felt myself tense. I knew exactly what she felt and knew I couldn't tell her anything about Helen Driscoll or Elizabeth or Elsie or the poker or anything.

I sat down beside her; and, even though I felt the wall between us, it was still comforting to have her back; her love, her warmth, her restoring normality.

"Tell me about the..." I started, hoping to avoid discussion about myself.

"It was the usual thing," she said. I saw now that she'd been crying a lot. The flesh around her eyes was puffy. I put my arm around her neck and she leaned against me. For a moment our roles were reversed; I became the comforter.

"Was it terrible?" I asked.

She swallowed. "Pretty bad," she said. "Especially afterward. All the relatives together. Some people are so-so damned jolly after funerals."

"I know," I told her, "I know. It's a reaction."

We sat in silence a moment.

"How's your father?" I asked then.

"He's all right. He's... going to stay with my Uncle John for a month or so. They're going on a fishing trip in a few weeks, I think."

"Oh. That'll be... nice," I said. The word, like our conversation, was weak and avoiding the issue. Silence again. I didn't attempt to break it. I knew that, sooner or later, I'd have to discuss it with her.

"Tom," she said, finally.

"Yes?"

I felt what she was going through; the dread, the fear of angering me, of hurting me with the wrong words. I realized that I had to help her.

"You're worried about my sanity, aren't you?" I said.

She started in my arms. I heard her swallow.

"That's... putting it rather-harshly," she said.

"Why put it politely?" I asked. I pressed my lips together in self-anger as I realized that already I was speaking coldly to her.

"Tom, I-"

"It's all right," I said. "I knew you felt this way last night. I guess I've been stewing a little. But I'm not angry now. I... suppose it was inevitable you should feel this way."

For a moment I thought of using Helen Driscoll as evidence in my behalf but then realized it was too thin a verification. I decided that bringing her up now would only make things worse.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked. "Before you tell me, though, I want to let you know that I haven't the remotest doubt of my sanity. I know this is-supposedly-one of the sure signs of madness but-well, that's it. As far as I'm concerned I'm as sane as you are. I have-an ability which got started somehow. I-"

I stopped, knowing that if I went on I would begin to cite examples; in which case what had happened that day and the day before would slip out. I didn't want it to-not when she felt as she did.

"Well, you don't leave me much to say," she said. I could tell how unhappy she was with her situation.

"I don't know what I can say," I said.

I heard her swallow.

"Tom..." She drew in a quick breath. "Tom, when I came in tonight you looked at me as if-"

"I know, I know," I broke in. "I've been nervous, that's all. Maybe overwork."

"No, it's more than that," she said. "The dreams, what happened the other night with the sitter, the-the poker tonight. I don't know why you didn't pick it up but... it wasn't just because you didn't want to."

"Of course it was," I said. I'm not a good liar.

She seemed to hesitate.

"Will-you do something for me?" she asked.

"What?"

"Promise me you'll do it."

"Honey, I have to know what it-"

"All right, all right," she interrupted. "Will you write to your family and-"

"-and ask them if there are any nuts in the family?"

I tried to sound amused but succeeded only in sounding pettish.

"Tom, don't put it that way. I didn't start all this. Can't you understand? I'm carrying our child and it's hard enough as it is. I-I just can't take all this. Not without some attempt to understand."

"All right," I said. "All right. I'm sorry."

"You... did tell me about your father once," she said, "how he used to-you know, do... parlour tricks."

I looked at her in surprise.

"That's all they were," I said, "parlour tricks."

My answer, though, was purely automatic. Suddenly I was thinking that maybe it had a connection; a very definite connection.

While we sat there, I thought about how my father used to go out of the living room and ask one of us to pick out a name and phone number in the directory, any name, any number, anywhere in the whole, thick book. We'd do this and shut the book. Father would come in and open the directory and find the very name that had been chosen. It always used to be amusing and mystifying to us but, because father had been so casual about it, we'd never assumed for a second that it was anything more than a trick. Now I wondered. And the word heredity was not the least word in my thoughts.

"Will you write to them?" Anne asked, breaking into my reflection.

"Oh. Yes... all right. I'll write them. Maybe I had a grandfather who was a medium or something, huh?"

"Tom, don't joke about it."

I patted her shoulder. "All right."

Later, while I was brushing my teeth, I heard Anne in the kitchen washing up the dishes. When she came into the bedroom she said, "Did you take back Elizabeth's comb?" I sat down on the bed and bent over my shoes so she wouldn't see the expression on my face.

"Yes," I said, "this morning."

"Oh, good," said my wife.