Here I Stay (10 page)

"I don't know why I'm talking to you about it,"
she said. "You always take his part."

"You're talking to me because you have no one else to talk to," Martin said. "Don't suppose that I am under any illusions about that...Maybe it's just as well."

"What? I'm sorry, Martin, I was thinking of something else."

After a moment Martin's wry expression relaxed. He shook his head. "Never mind. I'm not taking Jim's side or opposing yours. He's got cabin fever, Andrea, and no wonder. Why won't you let him use the car?"

"You know why."

"No, I don't. He could drive with one foot—hell, a kid that age could probably manage with one arm and one leg."

"Don't you dare let him drive the Volkswagen!"

"He couldn't. It's not an automatic shift—remember? Besides, whether you believe it or not, I wouldn't deliberately flaunt your wishes, even if I think they're asinine."

"Oh, you're impossible," Andrea said rudely. "Just forget the whole thing."

Martin tried. The following evening he invited himself for supper, giving Andrea a choice between pizza, chicken, and super double cheeseburgers. When he and Jim went to pick up the food, Jim was looking more cheerful. After they had eaten, Martin said casually, "I picked up some seed catalogs the other day; didn't you say something about wanting to plant a few flowers, Jim?"

"You can't plant seeds in the fall, can you?"

"No, but it's the right time of year for planting bulbs." He opened the catalog to a picture of brilliantly tinted hyacinths and held it before Jim's indifferent face. "Pretty," he said hopefully.

"Tulips are nice," Andrea made her contribution.

"I hate tulips," Martin said, scowling. "They remind me of blowsy, overblown Toulouse Lautrec tarts. Especially the ragged types."

"These are pretty," Jim said, turning the page. "Daffodils. They last, don't they? For years."

Pleased at Jim's interest, Martin said, "Yes, they're surprisingly tough for such fragile-looking flowers. They will spread and bloom year after year, with little attention."

When the catalogs had been exhausted Jim turned on the TV, but this time Andrea didn't mind. He and Martin had made a date to shop for bulbs the following day, and the two of them joined in a vigorous critique of the views expressed on the public-affairs program they were watching.

When the program was over, Andrea rose to change channels. The trailer for the next feature had been shown, and she wasn't interested in any of the subjects to be covered—skydiving, a scheme to raise the wreck of a Spanish treasure galleon, and interviews with people who had "died and come back to life." As she reached for the dial, Jim said, "Leave it, will you? I want to see this."

"I'm passionately interested in skydiving myself," Martin said. "I've decided I need to take up an active sport."

Andrea returned to her mending. She was working on a box of linens she had found in the attic— pillowcases, dresser scarves, and doilies of beautiful time—yellowed linen, trimmed with homemade lace. Her guests had admired the ones she had put into use, and she had been persuaded to sell a dresser scarf for what seemed to her an astronomical sum.

She paid little attention to what was on the screen; watching people falling through space set her teeth on edge.

The next segment started with low thrilling music, a splash of rainbow light that expanded to fill the screen, and a lugubrious voice intoning, "Back from the dead! We bring you the most thrilling discovery of the century, perhaps of all time—the true stories of people who literally, physically died—and returned to tell us about it. Man's quest for immortality—have these people found the answer?"

The story had been filmed with an eye to viewer interest rather than scientific accuracy, and in that it succeeded. Even Andrea watched, neglecting her sewing. The stories were strikingly similar. As one embarrassed-looking electrician described it:

"Something kinda snapped, like a stretched wire breaking. Then I was hanging in the air looking down on the bed where I was lying. I was on the bed, and I was up there too; it was like the guy on the bed wasn't really me. I could see the doctor and the nurses standing around."

"Then I was moving—straight through the walls and down a long hall with bare white walls. It was like I was floating. Down at the end of the hall I could see a light, and hear something like music and peoples' voices. I couldn't wait to get there. The light got bigger and brighter—it was all colors of the rainbow. And then, just as I was almost there—I came back."

"Back to your body?" The interviewer's voice was hushed.

"Yeah. I was, like, pulled back into it—like it was a magnet and I had to go, whether I wanted to or
not."

"And did you want to go back, Mr. Brown?"

"No," Brown said. "Oh, no. It hurt. It hurt real bad."

His somber face was replaced by a row of girls dressed like beer bottles kicking up their legs and singing.

"Of all the setups," Andrea said, stabbing her needle into the fabric. "The interviewer really fed him those answers."

"No, he didn't," Jim said. "That's what it's like. Exactly."

A drop of bright blood fell from Andrea's finger to the fabric, where it spread and blurred.

After a moment Martin said, "That happened to you?"

"Uh-huh."

"You never told me, Jimmie," Andrea said.

"You'd have thought I was delirious or something."

The justice of the charge and the calm, uncomplaining voice in which he stated it, rendered her incapable of defending herself. Jim went on, "I didn't tell anybody. I couldn't stand—you know—having people pick over what I said, asking questions, looking skeptical—or laughing. Besides, I didn't know it had happened to other people. I've read about it
since."

"But not before?" Martin asked alertly. "Forgive me, Jim, I'm not doubting your word—"

"You're being scientific," Jim said, smiling. "I hadn't read anything about it then, no."

"But you might have seen references to the subject, and not remember that you'd seen them," Martin argued. "There have been articles in magazines and newspapers."

"That's always a good out," Jim said. "If I don't remember something, it's not because it never happened, it's because I've forgotten it happened."

"You have a point," Martin admitted. "But that's why the question will never be settled."

"It is for me," Jim said.

"But, Jimmie," Andrea exclaimed. "You had a fractured skull—brain damage—you were full of drugs—"

Martin interrupted her, deliberately raising his voice. "I'd like to believe it. Who wouldn't? What was it like, Jim?"

"Oh, it was pretty much like that last guy said. Only instead of floating down a hallway I was in the dark, moving, but not seeing anything until the light came. It was like a star at first, far away—so far...I didn't hear voices, but I knew someone was there waiting for me, someone I wanted to see." Jim lay back against the cushions. "I didn't want to come back either," he said.

Martin glanced at Andrea and looked quickly away. "Did it hurt, getting back into your body?"

"Oh, yeah, it hurt. I didn't seem to fit—it was like squeezing into a suit of armor that's too small and too hard." A shudder ran through him, though his expression remained calm. "The worst of it wasn't the pain. The light was so beautiful...It was pulling at me, but something else was pulling the other way. I felt like I was being ripped apart."

"Fascinating," Martin murmured.

Martin's manner, interested but detached, curious but receptive, had succeeded where Andrea knew she would have failed. It was important for Jim to talk about the most critical experience of his life; she realized she ought to be grateful to Martin
for helping him achieve this vital catharsis. She had never been able to bring herself to talk about those dreadful weeks; she had never told him of her battle to save him from the ultimate horror. It had never occurred to her that the dreaded, inevitable end might not be a horror, but a longed for goal. She felt burdened down with guilt, all the more painful because it was so unfair. Why should she feel guilty? Life was a reality, life after death a drug-induced illusion.

Jim noticed her depression. "Andy's bored," he said, with a smile. "She hates this kind of talk—right, sis? Change the subject. Skydiving, now—that might be just the sport for me. I'd have to compensate for this"—casually he touched his stump—"but I'll bet I could do it."

The sidelong glance he gave Andrea told her he was teasing her. She responded automatically, "You try that, bud, and I'll tear your ears off."

He didn't know. He believed it was the pull of the flesh of the body, that had brought him back, torn and reluctant. She was content to leave it at that—until a day came when he could give her the thanks she knew she deserved.

Gardening kept Jim busy for a few days. Andrea was glad he had found something to do, even when she learned that he was working, not on the long-neglected flower beds around the house, but in the graveyard. When the bulbs had all been planted and a spell of rainy weather kept Jim indoors, she braced herself for another siege of boredom. She had promised herself she wouldn't bother Martin again. He
was hard at work; the soft patter of his typewriter went on hour after hour.

This time Jim found his own occupation. He came clattering down the stairs one wet afternoon while Andrea was vacuuming the parlor and cursing Satan, whose black hairs were everywhere.

"Look what I found," he said, holding out a tattered magazine.

Andrea turned off the vacuum cleaner and examined his find.
"Life
magazine. Nineteen-forty-seven. That is old."

"There are stacks of them up in the attic, some even older."

"That's something you could do for me," Andrea said, snatching at what seemed a heavensent opening. "I never inventoried the attic or the third floor— I just grabbed the furniture I needed and left the rest."

"If I find anything we can hock, do I get a cut?" Jim asked.

"Jimmie, you know you can have all the money you want. It's half yours—we share and share alike."

"Yeah, I know, but..." Jim traced the design of the flowers in the carpet with the tip of his crutch. "I'd like to earn it. You know?"

"That job would certainly be worth money to me," Andrea said.

"Minimum wage," Jim said firmly. "I'll do that, sure. There's something else I thought I could help you with. Those rooms on the third floor—I could clear them out, drag some of the junk up to the attic, strip the walls and woodwork, and like that."

A dozen objections crowded into her mind. The attic stairs were steep and narrow, the furniture was too bulky for him to drag...He still refused to consider a prosthesis. He had flown into a rage the last time she mentioned the subject.

She saw that Jim was watching her, his body braced for rejection. "That's a wonderful idea," she said. "I want to renovate and rent those rooms eventually. You could save some expense by doing that."

His face shining, Jim gave her a quick peck on the cheek. He went flying back upstairs, moving with a speed and agility that made her hair stand on end even while she admired it. She knew she would worry about him, but it was worth it—anything was worth it to see him look so happy. And she would not ride herd on him. She wouldn't check on him every few minutes or warn him to be careful.

She stuck to this resolution even when the sound of heavy objects crashing to the floor shook the house, and Jim's curses echoed down two flights of stairs. The first time he dropped something Martin came barreling out of his room, glasses askew and eyes wide with alarm. "What the hell—"

Andrea stood at the foot of the third-floor stairs wringing her hands. "Don't let me go up there," she pleaded. "I swore I wouldn't."

"He's okay," Martin said, listening. "He couldn't cuss with such eloquence if he had done himself an injury." He started back to his room, pausing only long enough to add, "You're a hero, lady; stick to it."

In some ways the long silences that followed Jim's furniture moving efforts were harder on Andrea's nerves than the thuds and crashes. She did yield to the temptation of seeing what he was doing from time to time, telling herself that it was only natural she should take an interest. For several days he occupied himself cleaning and clearing out the larger
of the upstairs bedrooms; but one afternoon, when she went up carrying a glass of milk and a plate of cookies, he was nowhere to be found. She was about to call out when she saw that the door of the tower room was open.

There was no reason for the sudden fear that gripped her limbs. The tower room wasn't any more dangerous than the other rooms on the upper floors. But instead of calling his name she moved stealthily, tiptoeing on the stairs, and when she saw him standing safe and sound in front of the western window she felt an equally unaccountable easing of tension.

Quietly as she had approached, he had heard her. "Come over here," he said, not turning. "Look."