Time Out of Mind (73 page)
Authors: John R. Maxim
Tags: #Horror, #General, #Psychological, #Suspense, #Memory, #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Time Travel
As Tilden grew older, what was once titillating became tiresome. And Comstock became so indiscriminate in his
assaults that newspaper editors and cartoonists now saw
him as a buffoon. In 1887, Comstock took it into his head
to declare war on the living French artists of the Barbizon
school. He raided the respected art gallery of Herman
Knoedler and confiscated all the works of Henner, Perrault, and Bougereau, including prints of the huge Bougereau that
hung in the Hoffman House bar. He tried to get that taken
down as well but was heaved into the street by patrons.
den's life until one June day in 1891, when he thundered
into the office of the
Greenwich Graphic.
Comstock an
nounced to the startled editor that the town of Greenwich
had a cancer festering within its borders. A blood-soaked
abortionist, a butcher of sweethearts, had disguised herself
as a dressmaker, and if the editor would accompany him to her place of business, they would doubtless discover instruments suited to a purpose far more evil than the stitching of feminine adornment. The two men went but found
nothing incriminating, Carrie Todd having fully abandoned
her past. There were, in fact, at least two other abortionists
in the vicinity who did a substantial business, abortion be
ing the most common method of birth control and in the end usually cheaper than the accumulated cost of those rolled rubber skins, which sold for a full dollar each.
Carrie, as it happened, had a common “female problem”
and was being treated for it by Dr. Miles Palmer. Among
her private records, Comstock found references to frequent visits to his office but no indication in her ledgers that she
had paid him for his services. Having secured the distraught
dressmaker's arrest on the promise of evidence to come,
Comstock went to confront Miles Palmer. He had vaulted
to the conclusion that the two must be in business together.
Miles Palmer held his temper. Carrie was a patient, no
more, no less, her complaint being none of Comstock’s
business. Like many of his patients, she paid
for her treatment
by the barter of goods. When Comstock demanded an
examination of his records, Miles Palmer suggested that he
leave while he still could under his own power. Comstock
persisted, asking why the doctor should wish to be paid in ladies' dresses and demanding a list of their final recipients.
Miles Palmer, without a word, then dragged Comstock to
the second-floor landing and threw him down the stairs,
breaking a banister and three of Comstock’s ribs.
that was putrescent in the town. He claimed to have new
information charging that more than one notorious prostitute from the New York flesh pits had sought to deny her
past and was living in Greenwich under the guise of respectability. Modern invention, he announced, would help
him drive the guilty from their hiding places. With one of
the new Kodak Detective cameras he would range through Greenwich taking photographs of any woman who might conceivably have been attractive enough that a certain type of man might have paid for her entertainments. These photographs would be shown to the New York City Police for identification of the tainted. Comstock could not be dis
couraged. He was knocked down or caned at least three
more times by outraged husbands or fathers, was slapped
or otherwise belabored by a score of women, and had two
cameras smashed, one directly over his head. Far more men
and women, however, meekly submitted, fearful that any
show of reluctance would be wrongly interpreted.
Tilden, in the beginning at least, was more annoyed than concerned. Comstock had done this sort of thing before and
not much ever came of it. He'd once made a show of pu
rifying nearby New Canaan, presumably because he was
born there and still owned the family farm, except in that
case his focus had been more on the public library, a small
brewery, and a dance class. Nor was Laura Hemmings at
all worried. Her past, she felt sure, was known only to
Margaret. If Tilden did recognize her he was being a gen
tleman about it. And she was sure no one in New York
would know her likeness the way she looked and dressed
now. Nevertheless, when Comstock first approached her as
she roller-skated with her pupils at Ray's Hall, she slapped
his face on general principles.
Nor was Margaret particularly concerned at the start, except for poor Carrie Todd. Margaret, as Laura pointed out,
had hardly been in the mainstream of New York's flesh industry. But the more Margaret saw of Comstock in the
streets of Greenwich, and the more she saw other women
scurry to avoid him, the more her mind began to work. She thought not so much in terms of discovery but of the devastation that would result. She would lose her lovely home.
She could never remain in Greenwich. All the friends she'd
made would turn away. Even Laura might not dare stand
by her. She would lose Tilden. If he would not take her as
his honest wife even after she bore his child and was re
spected in the eyes of all who knew her, what could she
expect if she were publicly branded? The life of her son, Jonathan, might be shattered and shamed almost before it began. What would he think of her once he was old enough
to understand the taunts of schoolmates? Would he draw
away at her touch?
This was Margaret's state of mind on the day when An
thony Comstock brought his Detective camera to the reg
ular Wednesday meeting of the Women's Christian
Temperance Union.
It was also the day on which Tilden, who had been
watching a growing anxiety in Margaret, was seen whip
ping a horse on the Post Road in the direction of West
chester, an expression of black rage upon his face. Unseen,
crushed in his pocket, was a letter in Jay Gould's hand.
Sixteen
The trees of Railroad Avenue were bare again and laced
with snow. Corbin rubbed his face. For a brief moment he
thought he was caught in some netherworld between then
and now, because the sweep of the town landscape was the
same and even the Walkers' seafood store remained where
he'd seen it, although the awning and tubs were gone. He felt a dim urge to hurl a brick through the Walkers' win
dow. He did not quite know why. Nor did he dwell on it
or speak again to Tilden. Just get the car, he told himself.
Get the car and get back home.
in the station lot. Corbin used his hands to sweep the snow from his trunk and then extracted a small folding shovel,
which he used to clear a path behind the rear tires. The
Datsun started without great protest.
feel heat building within himself as well. A low level of
anger. He was not having much difficulty now separating
Tilden's thoughts from his own. Tilden' s part had to do
with the heavyset man with the whiskers and the camera,
Comstock, and with one of the Walker women, Belle by
name. Corbin wasn't really sure what she'd done. And
Gould. Tilden always seemed to be stewing about Gould. Corbin wondered whether Gould could actually have done
even half the things Tilden seemed to blame him for. Gould must have had better things to do than spend his life hound
ing Tilden and the other man, Cyrus Field. Anyway, they were all long dead. Everyone was dead. So what did it
matter? There was no more use in brooding over those old
hurts than there was in chewing on the bitter moments of
your own life. They were just as dead, although you
wouldn't think so the way they keep bubbling up to the
surface at odd moments. Corbin wondered if his own
grandson, if he ever had one, would someday feel the vague
sting of one of the ordinary minor humiliations of Corbin's life. Maybe he'd wake up in the middle of the night feeling
crushed because his grandfather was left off an invitation
list fifty years earlier. Maybe he'd have nightmares about
getting beaten up by two aging thugs in an underground
garage. Genetic memory. Corbin put the car in gear. Ge
netic memory is a pain in the ass.
Sorry, Tilden. It's all over. You and Margaret have taken
up enough of my life, and I'm finished with you. God, I
can't believe what a twerp I've been. Like a puppet with
you pulling the strings. If I think any more about this I'm
going to feel about you the way you feel about Gould, and
it isn't worth the effort.
Gould.
Anger.
No dice.” Corbin shook his head, then cut the Datsun out of its parking space. “I'm going to drive straight up to
Maple Avenue, I'm going to go inside, and I'm going to
tell Gwen that I'm unloading that house and everything in
it. I'll tell that terrific lady that I can't believe she stuck
with me this long and why don't we see how fast we can
get on a plane to Barbados where we'll lie in the sun and
cook all this right out of me. I'll teach her to scuba dive
and to wind surf. I'll dance her feet off and bring her break
fast in bed. While she's eating it I'll think up new ways to
show her that five minutes with her is worth all the Christ
mas mornings of my life.”
Corbin was saying these things aloud as he pulled out of
the station lot and made the two right turns that would wind him back toward Milbank Avenue. But then he made a third
right turn and found himself on the Greenwich entrance
ramp to the Connecticut Turnpike. Corbin cursed. He
slowed and stopped, checking his rearview mirror, then al
lowed the car to coast backward down the ramp.
Gould. Please.
Corbin heard it. Or felt it.
''Uh-uh.” He shook his head. “Not Gould. Gwen.”
Please.
‘Oh, nuts!” A pickup truck was turning into the ramp
behind him. Corbin angled over to the side to let it pass.
Please, Jonathan.
Shut up!” Corbin said sharply. “Jay Gould is dead,
and even if he wasn't I just told you I'm...” He took a
long breath. “Look at this. I just decided I'm through being
crazy and here I am sitting around arguing with you.”
He'll hurt Margaret.
Corbin sighed again and sat back. Barbados was looking
better by the second. Yet for the first time since he realized
who Tilden was and what he was, Corbin began to feel
sorry for him. If Tilden was real, right now, even if he was
a real ghost, which seemed to make more sense than to believe he was just a collection of stored memories, he
seemed stuck in time. Whether or not Jay Gould hurt Mar
garet, it's done. It's over. And Tilden and Margaret both
survived. If Sturdevant's right,Tilden lived about another
fifty years, which isn't all bad, and Margaret—Grandma
Corbin—lived at least that long.
share his anger at Comstock, and at Belle Walker for some reason, and even at Laura Hemmings, because they all had
something to do with Margaret's packing off to Chicago.
But so what? In the next fifty years, nothing good hap
pened? There must have been a whole sequence
of..-.
“
Sequence,” Corbin whispered. Everything so far was
in sequence. Tilden's memories. Or the memories that are
Tilden. All the little scenes that played in Corbin's mind. They were all in sequence. Sitting with Gwen before and having all those buzzing thoughts, like about Teddy Roosevelt's new book and taking a walk with J. P. Morgan— none of it made any sense until he got it in some kind of order. Maybe that's Tilden's problem. He can't just put this
thing on fast forward and leap ahead. Maybe it's what
keeps him around.
