Night Gallery 1 (16 page)

Lane stared at him and then looked over his shoulder at a calendar on the desk. It read "May, 1945."

Still no fear, but now confusion . . . . "The first

day?" he asked.

Pritikin chuckled. "Just wanted you to know I'm going to keep my eye on you, Randy. You're going to become our number-one salesman. Numero uno! Plastics are going to make it, my boy. Plastics are going to kill them. And we're right there on the ground floor!"

Lane became conscious of a phone ringing, and one of the women looked up at him after answering it. "Mr. Lane," she said, "phone call for you. It's your wife. Want to get it on your own phone?"

"My wife," Lane whispered. "My wife."

"Yes, sir," the secretary said, smiling.

"My wife," Lane said, much louder as he ran back to his own office. He grabbed the phone as if wanting to devour it. "Honey. Honey, it's Randy," he said, his heart pounding. His wife, Katie. Katie on the other end of the line. Katie back, and a part of his life. Katie—

There was no sound on the other end, and when Lane looked up, the fantasy, or whatever it was, had ended.

Miss Alcott stood at the open door. "Did you call me, Mr. Lane?"

"Call you?" Lane said in a hollow, empty voice.

"I thought I heard you call me."

Lane shook his head, looked briefly at the phone in his hand, then put it back on its cradle.

"Is there anything wrong?" Miss Alcott asked him.

Lane looked at the framed picture of his wife. He touched it tenderly. "No," he said. "No, there's nothing wrong." And as he said it, he knew there was something very wrong. Something infinitely wrong. Something uncorrectable. He was like a man falling down a hillside, scrabbling for a rock or an outgrowth or something to grab onto and stop his fall. And it was too late. Much too late. Katie, he thought, Katie, why in God's name after twenty years . . . why can't I stop mourning?

That night Randy Lane went back to Tim Riley's Bar. Very methodically he pulled off the wooden slats that had been replaced across the front door and moved into its interior. He carded with him a beer glass cadged from one of four bars he'd visited that night, and he stood in the middle of the room singing "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" and waiting . . . waiting for it to happen again.

A car pulled up outside. Two policemen got out and carried flashlights into the bar. They played them on Randy Lane, who blinked and smiled, then bowed.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said happily.

The cops looked at one another. "You better be the night watchman, buddy, or the equivalent," the first cop said to him.

Lane laughed. "Night watchman. Hell, I outrank all the night watchmen in the world. I am late a Sergeant, First Platoon, 'A' Company, 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 82nd Airborne Division. That's what
I
am. And I've just recently returned, V.E. Day now being behind us—"

The two cops looked at one another and grinned. Nothing insurmountable here. Just a happy drunk.

The first cop moved over to Lane and took him by the arm. "Why don't you come with us," the cop said, "and we'll celebrate the event? It isn't every day a war ends."

Lane smiled but stood his ground. "I'd like to accommodate you, officer. I really would. But the festivities take place
here
. Very shortly Tim Riley will accompany my old man on the piano while my old man sings 'It's a Long Way to Tipperary.' They will do it in unharmonious harmony . . . but what they lack in symmetry—they make up with gusto."

The cop increased the pressure on Lane's arm, and his voice took on a brittle don't-give-me-any-crap quality. "You better come with us, buddy, or—"

At this point McDonough walked into the bar. The second cop shone his flashlight on him, then lowered it when he saw the uniform.

"I'll take care of him," McDonough said. "I know him."

"You know him well enough to explain to him that he can get thirty days apiece for trespassing and being under the influence plus tack on ninety more for breaking and entering?" the first cop asked.

"I said I'd take care of him," McDonough said.

The two cops looked at one another, then moved out of the bar.

McDonough walked over to Lane, who chuckled and did a little jig, then winked at McDonough and threw his arm around him.

"McDonough, my lad—you're just in time."

McDonough gently removed Lane's arm. "I'm just in time to ride you home, Randy. I'm just goin' off duty, and I got my car parked less than a block away."'

Lane frowned. "Not gonna stay for the party?" He made a gesture encompassing the dark, empty room.

McDonough's voice was very gentle. "The party's over, Randy."

Lane stared at him. "Over?" He looked around the room again. "Where's everybody gone? Huh? Where's everybody gone?"

McDonough exhaled. "To their respective rewards," he said. "The party's been over for twenty-five years, Randy." He took his arm. "Come on. Let's go home."

Lane looked down at McDonough's hand, then carefully removed it. "Officer McDonough," he said, "this is where it is—right here."

"This is where what it?" McDonough asked.

Lane walked over to the long bar. "The best years of my life," he said over his shoulder." He put his glass down on the bar. "You may want to phone downtown for a psycho squad—or put out a call for reinforcements—but something's happening to me." He turned and peered through the darkness at McDonough. "I keep getting beckoned to by ghosts, Mr. McDonough. Every now and then it's 1945." He grinned. "How do you like them apples?" Then he held up his hand, shutting off McDonough's response. "And if you think that sounds nuts—try this one. I wish to God those ghosts would stick around. They're the best friends I've got. I feel a whole helluva lot more comfortable with them—than I do with all those warm, living flesh-and-blood bodies I ride up and down the elevators with!"

"Randy," McDonough said, "why don't you tell me about it in the car—"

Lane cut him off. "I'll tell you about it right here!" He took a step away from the bar. "I rate something better than I've got. Honest to God I do. Where does it say that every morning of a man's life he's got to Indian-wrestle with every young contender off the sidewalk who's got an itch to climb up a rung?"

He moved over to McDonough and cupped his hands around the policeman's face. "Hey, McDonough . . . McDonough," he whispered, "I've put in my time. Understand? I've paid my dues. I shouldn't have to get hustled to death in the daytime . . . and die of loneliness every night. That's not the dream. That's not what it's all about."

His voice broke, and his hands fell to his sides, and as he turned away, McDonough noticed that his cheeks were wet.

"Come on, Randy," he said, "I'll drive you home."

Lane nodded. "Sixty-seven Bennett Avenue."

McDonough shook his head. "That's not where 'you live."

"The hell it isn't."

"That's where you
lived.
Now you live in that highrise on Norton."

Lane turned to him. "The hell I do. I don't live
there.
I just wash my socks there. I just eat my TV dinners there. That's where I watch Clark Gable and Myrna Loy at midnight. And if I phone Bigelow 666432, I can get waterless cookery, my carpets cleaned or a digital-computerized date whose personality is identical to my own! My God," he said softly, "I live at 67 Bennett Avenue. Two-story white frame. Katie and I bought it six months after we were married."

McDonough studied him, and his voice carried with it an infinite gentleness. "It's empty now, Randy. They're tearing down all the houses on the block. Gonna be an apartment complex."

Lane moved towards the door. "So humor me, McDonough. Drive me there anyway."

McDonough nodded and followed him out onto the sidewalk.

Bennett Avenue was dark, the houses empty and boarded up. A big sign on the edge of the block announced that a construction company was going to turn it into some kind of a garden—a mecca for Senior Citizens.

McDonough parked his car in front of a faded white two-story house with a sagging porch and a yard covered with crab grass, flanked by a broken picket fence.

Lane put down the window and looked out at the "67" still visible over the front door.

"Well?" McDonough asked a little impatiently.

Lane grinned. "Don't build 'em like they used to." He opened up the car door and got out. "I'll walk from here."

McDonough looked nonplussed. "Walk? Look, Randy, I can—"

Lane turned to him. "I can walk from here, McDonough. I'm sober now."

McDonough studied him for another moment. "Okay. But don't go knockin' any doors down. You get a collar on you the next time—I won't be around to help." He put the car in low gear. "Good night, Randy. Get some sleep."

Lane nodded, shut the car door, and threw him a salute.

The police car pulled away from the curb, down the street, and disappeared around a corner.

Lane stood there for a moment, then turned and looked at the house. His eyes moved from window to window, and he heard the sound of voices—Katie's voice—his own—and laughter—and hellos and goodbyes—and all the jumbled language of the past—so sweet, so unbearably sweet.

He took a step over to the broken front gate, and Katie's voice hung over the still night air. "Supper's ready, Randy . . . Randy, will you wipe your shoes off? You're tracking mud all over the hall carpet . . . .

Good night, Randy, darling. . . . Randy, my love . . . .

Randy? . . . Randy?"

"Randy." Miss Alcott was standing by her car, staring across at him.

He turned very slowly to face her. The voices . . . the ghosts fled. "You lost?" he asked her.

"I thought you might be," she said nervously.

He shook his head. "Hell, no. This is where I live." Then he grinned. "Correction. This is where I
used
to live."

She took a deep breath. "I know it's presumptuous, but . . . when you didn't come back from lunch I got concerned. I remembered you mentioning Tim Riley's Bar. By the time I got there, the policeman was just putting you in his car. I . . . I followed—"

Lane was amused and touched. "You followed, huh? Because you were concerned. And Mr. Pritikin? That Sydney Greenstreet of the Plastics Business—was he concerned too?" There was a silence. "Go ahead, Miss Alcott, tell me."

"He was . . . upset."

"Upset." He nodded. "I've no doubt. And I'm sure our Mr. Doane put
his
oar in."

"With unholy glee," she said.

"And I'm sure he called Mr. Pritikin's attention to the fact that as of eleven A.M. I had left the premises."

Miss Alcott didn't answer him for a moment; then she nodded. Lane moved away from the picket fence over to her. "I'm on my way out, Janie. You are aware of that, aren't you?"

Again she nodded. Lane shrugged, then looked back toward the house. "Katie and I bought this six months after we were married. Katie was my wife."

Miss Alcott surveyed the faded ruin. "It must have been quite lovely."

"It sure as hell was. It was white with blue shutters and it had a blue tile roof and it had a big fireplace in the living room and it had two extra bedrooms upstairs that we were going to use for the kids." He said it all matter-of-factly. "We had a lot of plans for it."

He moved back over to the broken fence and looked across the crab grass toward the porch. "She died not too long afterward. And there went the plans . . . and everything else. Blue shutters," he added disjointedly. "Blue shutters and a blue tile roof."

"You must have loved her very much," Miss Alcott said softly.

Lane smiled. "To the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach." He stopped and turned to her. "Which is from Elizabeth Barrett Browning . . . Who is passé . . . and is no longer quoted except by lachrymose aging men."

"Have you had anything to eat?" Miss Alcott asked him.

Lane nodded. "I have had sufficient to drink, which more than compensates for what I haven't had to eat. But I thank you," he said smiling. "I thank you for caring. It's very much like you."

Jane Alcott had to shove down the impulse to reach out and touch this man's face . . . to fondle him . . . to hold him to her. "Randy," she said, this time conjuring up the first name with some difficulty, "do you think I've played Den Mother because I feel sorry for you?" She shook her head. "That's not what it's all about."

He studied her. "Did I ask you what it's all about?"

"I don't just care about you, Randy. I care for you. Not that it makes a damn—but I happen to be in—"

He had moved over to her and gently covered her mouth. "Enough," he said. "Enough already." Then he let his fingers run gently across her cheek. "I am obviously past prime," he said, "but I'm not built out of pig iron. So please don't make it tough for me, huh?"

There was the sudden rolling sound of distant thunder, and then sporadic lightning.

Miss Alcott pointed to her car. "You'll need a ride," she said. "It's going to rain."

Lane looked up at the dark sky and felt the first drops of rain. He started to follow her over to the car, then stopped as she got in, and looked back toward the house.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"It was raining that night too."

"What night?"

He was remembering. The memory of it came out in words, but spoken to no one in particular. "She'd had a miserable cold. Couldn't shake it. Wouldn't go to a doctor. And when I got home . . . there was a neighbor from next door. They'd tried to call me but I wasn't in."

He looked through the car window at Jane sitting .here. "Is that a kick?" he asked. "I'm peddling plastics—and my wife is dying."

She leaned across the front seat and opened up the window. "Mr. Lane . . . Randy . . . listen to me—"

The rain cascaded down on top of him. "That's the story of my life," he said. "I swear to God. A little too late for everything."

"Please get in," she begged him.

Lane turned and started toward the house. "Katie," he called. "Katie, I'm coming. Katie, stay there—I'm coming, Katie."

He stumbled near the front gate, then picked himself up, walked toward the sagging front porch and up the stairs. He reached for the doorknob, and the door gave, instantly.