The Year's Best Horror Stories 11

SLIPPAGE by Michael Kube-McDowell

Michael Kube-McDowell is one of the newer writers on the scene, and one who is fast making a name for himself—as a writer of “hard” science fiction. First published in 1979, he has already appeared several times in Amazing, Analog, and Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, as well as in a number of science fiction anthologies. Nonetheless, when “Slippage” appeared in Twilight Zone Magazine, editor T.E.D. Klein called the story “pure Twilight Zone from first line to last.” It is also pure terror.

Born in Philadelphia in 1954, Kube-McDowell attended high school in Camden, New Jersey and graduated from Michigan State University with an M.A. in science education. He and his wife, Karla (who contributed the “Kube” to the family name), currently are living in Goshen, Indiana (a state that seems to be attracting more than its share of science fiction/fantasy writers), where he reviews science fiction for two area papers in addition to doing “whatever other writing I can scrounge that pays.” He plans to begin writing full time soon, and he takes his work seriously: “The only hobby I have any time for anymore is hugging Karla. I once knew how to play the viola and the roster for the Phillies, but both are slipping away.”

It did not begin as a time of madness.

Richard Hall tossed his rain-dampened ski cap into the nearest chair and ran his fingers back through his thinning hair. “Elaine?” he called.

She appeared at the bedroom door and moved to hug him. “You look frazzled.”

“Am,” he said, face buried in her hair. “Fought half the morning with a dimwit from Human Resources who tried to tell me I don’t know my Social Security number. Took the IRS’s word over mine. Ha!”

“Take a short loving recharge,” she invited.

“Glad to,” he said, tightening his embrace.

“That’s enough,” she said, and pushed him back. “Choose: start dinner or get the mail in. My hands were full.”

“Mail, thank you.” He took the key from her hand and the stairs to the lobby, returning with six pieces of junk mail—one promising “Sexually Oriented Advertisements”—one bill, a letter from Elaine’s mom, and a tattered copy of the Cross Creek Weekly Chronicle. Cross Creek, which was every bit as small as its name implied, had been Hall’s birthplace and home for seventeen years. His mother still lived there, and the subscription was an annual gift from her, about which he had never had the courage to say, “Please don’t bother.” The paper came an average of three weeks late, by the cheapest class of mail, and the high point of it was frequently a list of where townspeople had gone on vacation or the weights of the 4-H sheep.

Settling back on the sofa and kicking off his shoes, Hall ripped out the staples and turned to the front page. He immediately frowned, and read quickly.

“Elaine?” he called. “Listen to this.”

“If it’s the balance of the Total Charge bill, I’d rather not hear it,” she called back.

“No—something in the Chronicle. They’re closing my old high school.”

“Why?” Elaine appeared, bringing him a cold soft drink.

“According to this, the school board decided that they could get better value sending the students over to the new consolidated high school in Atlasburg. Cross Creek High School was too rundown and had too few students. So the last day of classes will be—” Hall looked at his watch “—tomorrow. Oh—and they’re going to hold an all-class reunion as a kind of going-away party.”

“When’s that? You’ll want to go, won’t you?”

“It’s…” Hall scanned for the date. “It was yesterday,” he said, his voice dropping.

“Oh, Rick, I’m sorry. You missed it.”

“I’ve been meaning to get back and visit the teachers, my old friends… what happened to the six years, Elaine? It doesn’t feel like it’s been that long,” he said, shaking his head. “Listen to this: ‘Class officers will be assisting Mr. Hutchins and Principal Jane Warden in contacting all graduates.’ Jim Harris is our class officer, and he has my address. I should have heard from them before this.”

Elaine moved next to him and rubbed his shoulder, and he smiled at her.

“I feel cheated. It would have meant a lot to be able to be there. I haven’t really kept in touch with some people that were good friends, either.”

“It’s two hundred kilometers away,” Elaine said, trying to let him off his own hook.

“I could have written.”

“I’m surprised your mom didn’t let you know.”

“So am I.” The timer on the oven began ringing, signaling that dinner was ready, and they rose together to rescue it. Cross Creek High was forgotten for the time.

But that night, after Elaine had fallen asleep beside him, Richard Hall lay in the darkness with the hum of the clock and the creaking of the walls, and thought about high school and the friends he had lost track of, and felt alone.

He eased out of bed without disturbing his wife, and moved quietly to the den. It was only nine-thirty in Cross Creek, and a good friend should be able to excuse a call at that hour. Hall dug the small white address book out of the back recesses of the desk. Some of the entries, he saw, were very old.

Too old, in fact. The number he had for Jim Harris was no longer in service. The same was true when he tried calling his closest friend. The phone of Ruth, whom he had been both friend and boyfriend to, was answered by a sleepy man who said gruffly, “You got a wrong number.” And the phone of a teacher who’d been more than a teacher rang thirty times without being answered.

Hall returned to bed, feeling both anger at himself and a deep depression. Something good that had been his had slipped away, and in the darkness it was easy to believe that it was forever beyond his grasp.

A few days later, Richard and Elaine arrived home from work close enough together to take the same elevator to the fifth floor.

“I’ll bet dinner didn’t cook itself tonight,” she said.

He smiled. “I won’t take that bet.”

When they reached the apartment, she disappeared for a moment into the kitchen. “I was right,” she said on her return.

“Want me to fix it tonight?”

“No. I want you to take me out.”

“Suggestions?”

“The little lakeside restaurant outside of North Springfield.”

“Our old summer rendezvous. The one where we had the wedding reception.”

“That’s the one.”

“That’s a good hour’s drive away—and I’m not even sure I can find it again.”

“You’d better be able to!”

Hall showed a mock grimace. “We’d better get going, then.”

The Halls were generally silent while driving—Richard disliked being distracted. But as they neared the lake, Elaine turned away from watching the scenery—it was growing too dark to see well—and spoke.

“Do you think they still have our picture on the wall?”

“I don’t see why not. Pictures of customers are the only decoration they use.”

“It’s been a while since we’ve been here. Maybe they move the old ones out every so often.”

Hall pursed his lips. “Would you be angry if I couldn’t remember the name of this place?”

“No, because you never remember anything. But I won’t tell you what it is—you’ll have to work for it.”

“The Benchcraft… the Beachhouse…”

“Something like that.”

“Beachbelch…”

“Oh, come on!”

“Beachwood!” he said triumphantly.

“That’s it.”

“I can’t claim any credit—just saw it on a sign back there. Isn’t this the exit up here?”

“I think so.”

They turned off the highway, headlights sweeping across the undisturbed grass-covered sandy mounds found everywhere near the lake. A kilometer farther on, the road turned to parallel the shore.

“It’s not too far now,” Elaine said.

“No.”

They both watched the roadside ahead, expecting at any moment to see the sign, the building, lights, parked cars.

“That’s odd,” Hall said, frowning. “I was positive it was just a bit after the road turned.”

The car bored through the lakeside night for a minute more, and then Richard slowed the car and pulled onto the shoulder. “We must have passed it right at the beginning, when we were talking,” he said as he made a wide U-turn. “It was never that well lit.”

“But it sits right out in the open—right on the shore. We couldn’t have missed it. I don’t think we went far enough.”

“I’m not going to drive all the way to Cleveland. If we didn’t pass it, then we’re on the wrong road.”

They drove back the way they had come, confused.

“There’s someone walking,” Elaine said suddenly, as the headlights picked up the shape on the lake side of the road. “Let’s ask him.”

Hall was already slowing down, and rolled down his window. The rushing roar of the small breakers filled the car for the first time. “Sir?” he called. “Could you help us with directions?”

The man, carrying a fishing rod and tackle box, crossed the road slowly and came to Hall’s window. He was at least sixty years old. “If I can.”

“We’re trying to find a restaurant called the Beachwood.”

The old man pointed at the sands across the road. “Right there.”

Richard looked where the old man was pointing. “There’s nothing there.”

“That’s right. She burned down, mebbe six months ago—mebbe more. If it were day, you could see the pilings she sat on; that’s all that’s left.”

“Oh, what a shame!” Elaine said.

They thanked the fisherman, then watched him fold back into the darkness behind them as they drove away.

“Home?” Hall asked.

“Nonsense. You owe me dinner.”

“The Hearth?” he offered.

“That will be acceptable. Drive on, James.”

“Yes, Madame,” he said, but the heartiness was false. For the second time in a week, Richard Hall felt the tug of something lost.

The graphics department supervisor made his way slowly through the maze of drawing tables in the room, dropping off yellow paycheck envelopes as he went.

“Afternoon, Richard,” he said as he reached Hall’s table. He riffled through the remaining checks. “How’s your day going?”

“Pretty well.”

The supervisor reached the end of the bundle of checks and started again at the top envelope, frowning. “You didn’t get your check early, did you?”

“No.”

“And you weren’t on an unpaid leave these last two weeks?”

“I wasn’t on any kind of leave. I was right here.”

“Well, your day just took a turn for the worse. There’s no check here for you.”

“Let me see.”

“Don’t you trust me? It’s not here.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“Well, you’ll have to go down to payroll and get it straightened out.”

Hall started to push back his chair, and the supervisor held up his hand. “Oh, not now. We need those charts for the taping this afternoon. Go down on your lunch hour,” he said, and walked away to complete his rounds.

“I can’t wait to tell you I quit,” Hall said in a diplomatically hushed voice, glaring at his supervisor’s receding back. He pulled the phone toward him, consulted a piece of paper in his wallet, and dialed.

“Concept Execution. May I help you?”

“Personnel.”

“Thank you.” A new voice: “Mary Anders, Personnel. May I help you?”

“This is Richard Hall,” Hall said, keeping his voice low. “I submitted an application to you several weeks ago—I wanted to make certain it was all in order.”

“Yes, Mr. Hall, I remember. I’m glad you called. We recently reviewed your application when filling an opening, and found it is not yet complete. We still need a copy of your birth certificate and your educational transcripts.”

“I sent for both the day I applied,” Hall said. “The transcript is coming to you directly—I can write and make sure it’s been sent. If you recall, I explained that my original birth certificate is gone, and I’m trying to get a duplicate from the state. It should be here soon, and I’ll see that you get it right away.”

“Very good. By the way, we’ve also had a little difficulty tracking down one of the references you gave us. Would you confirm that we have the correct address? ‘Spark and Son, 213 High Street—’ ”

“ ‘Cross Creek, Pennsylvania,’ ” he finished for her. “That’s correct. My supervisor was John Spark, the owner.”

“Has the company moved or gone out of business, to your knowledge?”

“No, Spark and Son is kind of a town fixture. I can’t imagine them moving. I can try and check on that, too, though.”

When he had hung up, Hall turned to the artist working at the board to his right.

“Chris?”

“Yeah?” Chris Wood laid down his pen and looked at Hall.

“Is it possible to catch a disease that causes everyone to try and ignore you?”

“Why?”

“Because if there is, I’ve got it,” he said, and laughed.

There was a thick collection of mail, and Hall looked through it as he walked to the apartment. He shook his head unhappily as he walked through the door.

“Have I been especially bad lately?” he asked Elaine, who was seated on the couch watching television.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m beginning to feel like a victim.”

“Of what?” she asked, tilting her head quizzically.

“Of a new crime—you take a guy and ignore him, pretend he’s not there, until he cracks up. I feel like Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life, only there’s no guardian angel.”

“What’s making you feel that way?”

“Here—here’s the perfect example. There’s ten pieces of junk mail here, all with your name. Two even have your maiden name.”

“My lucky day,” she said, smiling and taking them from him. “When they’re in your name, you throw them out before I can see them. What else, besides the mail?”

“No check for me this morning. I had to spend my whole lunch hour fighting with payroll, and I still don’t have one. I wasn’t in the computer, that’s how bad they screwed up, and they couldn’t process a check by hand until Monday.”

“That’s enough to ruin your day,” she agreed.

“I can’t wait to get out of there. Say—I didn’t get to see yesterday’s mail. Was there anything from the state on my birth certificate?”

Elaine hesitated, but only briefly. “No. Nothing came.”

“It figures. Where’s tonight’s newspaper?”

“I left it in the kitchen.”

“Okay.” When he had disappeared through the swinging saloon-style doors, Elaine moved quickly to the buffet and gathered up several folded sheets of paper that were lying there in a neat pile. She buried them in the back of the end table drawer nearest her chair, closing it just as Richard reappeared.

“What do you have there?”

“Oh, just some trash,” Elaine said, flustered.

“Well, don’t put it in there. Give it to me and I’ll put it in the compactor.”

“I don’t—”

“Come on, give it to me while I’m still standing up.”

“It’s not really trash, not yet.”

“Are you trying to hide something from me?”

“No—I—”

“You are! Get them out. I want to see them.”

“No!” she said angrily. “They’re private.”

“Come on, Elaine, it took you too long to think of that. What could they be that they’re so terrible I can’t see them?”

Slowly she retrieved the papers from the drawer and held them out. “I would have shown them to you. I just didn’t want you to see them tonight, feeling the way you do. Some of the things you said—”

Hall took the papers gently, and reversed them so that he could read them. The first was from the university he had graduated from and Elaine had attended for a year. Elaine stood up and crossed the room, standing with her back to him as he read.

“Can’t find my records to issue a transcript,” he said. “You’re right. I could have done without seeing that tonight.” He unfolded the second sheet, which bore the seal of the State of Pennsylvania—Bureau of Vital Statistics.

“Oh, no,” was all he said, very quietly. He moved it to the bottom of the pile and looked at the final paper. It was smaller, of stiffer paper, and very official.

He looked up from it at his wife. “Why did you change the title to the car?” he asked, and his voice had acquired a hard edge.

“I didn’t,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t know why it came that way.”

“The car used to be in both our names,” he said more loudly. “Now it’s only in yours! You’re the only one who could do that.”

“They must have made a mistake printing the registration—” she started. But she did not get to finish the sentence.

“You! It’s been you doing these things!” He stepped forward, trembling from the force of will needed to restrain himself. “Why, Elaine? Why?”

She stepped back. “You’re scaring me, Richard. Please don’t come near me,” she said in the calmest voice she could muster.

“I don’t deserve this,” he said, tossing the papers on the floor behind him. He had lowered his voice, but that made it even more threatening.

“Please, Richard…”

He stepped toward her, and she turned to run to the bedroom with its locking door. She was too slow; he caught her by the shoulder of her loose-fitting blouse and yanked her back, the thin fabric tearing to the seam as he did. “Why are you doing this?” he shouted, his breath hot on her face. “What did I do to you?”

“Richard, I didn’t—”

“You want me out? You don’t have to make me think I’m crazy to get it.” He was shaking her, holding her by the upper arms in a powerful and painful grip. In the face of his anger, her strength had fled; without his hands, she would have collapsed. “You’ve got it, if that’s what you want! I won’t stay and let you mess with my mind!” He flung her into a chair, and, pausing only to scoop up his keys, stalked from the apartment.

Elaine Hall half-stumbled, half-crawled to the chair beside the phone. She could not control the trembling in her limbs, and misdialed twice before making the connection she wanted.

“Chris? This is Elaine.” Her voice communicated more than her words.

“Are you all right?” Wood asked immediately.

“I—I think so. Yes, I am. I’m just a little shook up. Can you come over, Chris? I need you to be here—and Rick, he—” The tears came streaming from her eyes. “Rick’s going to need both our help.”

Reassured by the presence of a full fuel tank, Richard Hall turned up the radio to a level that precluded coherent thought and simply drove. Presently he became aware of where he was: on the highway that would bring him nearest to Cross Creek. Once he had realized that fact, he did not think about it further.

It was nearly eleven-thirty when he turned off the engine, parked in front of the wood frame house in which he had grown up. There were no lights on inside, but by the glow of the porch lamp he could see that the house’s paint was departing in long, ragged strips. A cloud of insects—gnats, mosquitoes, and the occasional bulk of a moth—circled in the halo of yellow.

Hall climbed out of the car to find that the street was as quiet as it had ever been. Only his footsteps on the walk and the chirrup-chirrup of crickets broke the silence. The doorbell button moved under his finger, but there was no sound inside the house, so Hall opened the screen door to knock.

After a dozen heavy blows with his fist, Hall stepped back to look at the front of the house. A light now showed at the window marking his parents’ bedroom, and he followed his mother’s progress to the front door by the other lights that came on, one by one.

Finally he heard a rustling on the other side of the door, and realized he had not thought of what he would say, how he would explain his presence. Before he could consider the question, though, the front door was yanked open to the limit of the security chain, and a woman’s face, old and marked by suspicion, peered out through the gap.

“Mom—hi. How are you doing?” Hall said, smiling self-consciously.

Anger crossed the woman’s face. “You disgusting drunk!” she screeched. “I’m not your mother. Go away now, and leave a woman to sleep. Go, or I’ll call the police.”

For punctuation, she slammed the door shut with surprising strength.

“Thank God I’ve found you,” Chris Wood said, his voice showing his relief.

Hall stepped away from the motel door reluctantly and let his friend in. “I wish you hadn’t.”

“That’s very well for you,” Wood said, sitting on the edge of the bed, “but I’ve used almost all my vacation time to do it. Elaine is very worried about you. I am too, only I’m a little more confused than she is.”

“She didn’t need to worry,” Hall said, closing the door. “I’m all right.”

“You might have called her and let her know.”

Hall moved to the window and held the curtains apart with his hands so that he could look out. “I was afraid to.”

“She’s eager to have you back. She’s not angry.”

“You don’t understand,” Hall said, turning to face him. “I was afraid she wouldn’t be there—or that she would be, and wouldn’t know me.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Do you know where I went the night I ran out?”

“No. If I’d known that, I’d have found you sooner.”

“I drove to Cross Creek to see my mother. And she didn’t know who I was.”

“Come on, Rick. You’re not making any sense.”

“She denied that I was her son! She slammed the door on me, and after I got it open again, she slammed it a second time.”

“Could she have been angry? You’d have gotten there late, wouldn’t you—”

“No, no! She was right—I’m not her son.”

“She’s getting on in years, isn’t she—”

“You’re not listening to me!” Hall shouted. “She’d never known me!”

“I wish you’d listen to yourself,” Wood said gently. “You’re standing there screaming some very strange things at your old friend.”

Hall sighed, and sat down in the nearest chair. “I thought all those things you’re trying to say,” he said softly. “I thought them in about the first ten seconds, and then I couldn’t. I got her to open the door again, Lord knows how. There’s been a photograph—” Hall took a deep breath “—hanging above Mom’s couch for almost ten years. A picture of the four of us, taken when Diane was graduating from high school.”

“Diane’s the oldest, right?”

Hall nodded. “The picture is still hanging there, but I’m not in it anymore. There’s no blank space—nothing’s been cut out—Diane and Kris are just standing a little closer together.

“Now do you understand? Now do you know why I was afraid to call Elaine or go home? Can you imagine what it would feel like to go home to your wife and have her deny that you are what you think you are? That would be too much, Chris. I’d crack.”

“She’s there, and she isn’t going to deny you. She wants you.”

Hall did not seem to hear. “I’ve never believed in God, Chris. Maybe—maybe He’s finally decided He resents that. No, I don’t really believe that. I’m trying to be rational. But the things that have been happening—they just aren’t.”

“You mean the college records—and the registration…”

“The restaurant, not being invited to the reunion, my mom—all of them. They have to be related.”

Wood loosened his tie. “How?”

Hall stood up and went to the window again, as if watching for something. “I feel like I’m being followed—like someone is tracking me down the paths I’ve taken through life and systematically tearing them up behind me. And getting closer to where I am, all the time. It’s as if I’ve done something terrible, and to punish me they are erasing the traces that I ever existed.”

“Rick, please come sit down.”

Hall reluctantly complied, “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” he asked tiredly.

Wood chose his words carefully. “I want you to listen to me for a couple of minutes. I’m going to offer you another explanation for the things that you’ve experienced. And you’ve got to try to accept it, and believe it, because if you can’t—if you can’t, Rick, then you’re going to have to admit that you’ve already cracked. There has been a series of unfortunate, but totally explainable occurrences that for some reason, overwork perhaps, has hit you in a very strange way. I’m going to take every single incident and explain it. If I miss any, you tell me.

“The invitation to the reunion—lost in the mail, with a million other pieces of mail this year. The restaurant—does a fire need explanation? You’re not the only customers or the only couple that had a picture on those walls.

“The check—would that be the first error ever coming from the man-machine interface? Your mother—the sudden onset of senility. I’m sorry, but it happens. The phone calls—the fact that you hadn’t called in years is explanation enough.

“The junk mail—they all buy the same list, and add and remove names all the time. You’re off because you don’t buy, Elaine’s on because she does. The registration—the law has been changed so that joint ownership is automatic, and your wife’s name was first, so that’s the only one they printed.

“The transcript—eight thousand people in your graduating class? That means they lost zero point triple-zero one percent of their records. The loss of your birth registration—do you think the flood that destroyed the regional office had you in mind when it swept the filing cabinets and microfiche away?

“The picture in your mother’s home—that damning picture. Was that the only picture taken that day? Did they perhaps take one ‘just with the girls’?”

“There were a lot of pictures,” Hall said slowly.

“Is it impossible that something happened to the picture that’s been there for ten years, so that she had to put up another?”

“Or I might have just not seen things clearly,” Hall said. “That night—I could have seen anything I wanted to.”

“Did I leave anything out?”

“Stark and Son, my first job. They couldn’t find them to use as a reference.”

“And?”

“I had the wrong address.” He rested his head on his folded hands. “I had myself thinking, ‘My God, they’ve moved the building.’ ” He looked up and sighed. “I want to go home to Elaine.”

For a few days, anchored by overtime and bolstered by Elaine’s affection, Hall gave every sign of having stabilized. But inside he was still unsettled, fighting to understand his own foolishness. Chris had shown him how he had misread events, but not why.

Presently, however, he became aware of a hollowness, a space left by friends lost and not replaced. My own doing, Hall thought. One group left in Cross Creek—another scattered by college graduation. Too much work to keep the friendships alive. But all I have here are acquaintances and coworkers—except for Elaine, no real friends. Even Chris is more Elaine’s friend than mine.

Having fixed the blame on himself, Hall could do nothing else but to try to atone. He waited for a night when Elaine turned in early with a magazine. Old cold trails, he told himself as he opened the address book. But how much can we have changed? Still—start small.

After eight rings, the phone was answered.

“Greider residence,” said the voice.

“This is Rick—Rick Hall, Mr. Greider,” Hall said happily. “I’ve been trying to call you for a couple of weeks, but no one’s been home.”

“I’ve been quite busy cleaning out my things at the school. Who did you say you were again?”

“Richard Hall—chemistry, six years ago. Remember? Our lab group didn’t get an experiment right until May, and you threw a party.”

Greider didn’t answer right away. “Young man, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you. I had a Kristen Hall, two years ago.”

“That’s my sister.”

“Hmm. You say you attended Cross Creek six years ago?”

“That was my senior year. Then I went to MSU, in design.”

“I’m really very sorry, but I don’t seem to be able to remember you very clearly.”

“I’m surprised; I came over to your house several times that year. Do you still have the little file cards on us?”

“No. I’m retiring this year, and I got rid of those. I do apologize, Mr. Hall, but there have been so many students over so many years…”

“I understand.”

“Is there something I can do for you?”

“No, I just wanted to say hello.”

It was a small failure, but substantial enough to blunt his enthusiasm. He sat quietly for a moment and flipped through the address book. There were names to which he could not even attach faces. Perhaps it has been too long.

The yearbooks were on the top shelf, and Hall had to drag a chair over to the bookcase and stand on it to reach them. They were well coated with dust; it had been some time since he had looked at them.

Hall permitted himself a few nasty thoughts at Greider’s picture in the faculty section, and then turned to the pictures of the clubs. He looked for his face among the dozen below the label, “Art Club,” but failed to find it. But that’s right—he had missed three days with the flu, and most of the photos had been taken those days. He had thought he had been listed below it as “Missing from photo: R. Hall,” but there was no such notation. He must have been wrong.

Turning to the seniors section, he paused several times to admire the young beauty of the girls he had dated, frozen by silver chemistry and printer’s ink. Then he turned the page, and his own face smiled up from the page at him—cheerfully seventeen, the irrepressible lock of hair over his right ear sticking out.

Hall reached for his drink, resting on a coaster on the table beside him, but his hand never closed on it; he stared, incredulous, at the page, the muscles in his left hand standing out as he gripped the yearbook tightly.

The page had rippled, like water disturbed by a pebble, and when it had cleared, his picture was gone.

“Chris?”

“More trouble?”

“Can you help me find him again?”

“When did he leave?”

“No more than an hour ago.”

“Why not call the police this time, Elaine? I don’t like to have to say it, but we don’t know whether he might be dangerous—if not to others, then to himself.”

“No. He’s my responsibility; I’m his wife.”

“He’s his own responsibility, and right now, he can’t handle it.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that if we get him back, he needs more than a little extra attention this time. He needs more help than even you can give him.”

“Professional help.”

“The county mental health agency could decide what was best for him.”

“What if he doesn’t agree with them?”

“Your testimony in court would take care of that.”

“I couldn’t,” Elaine said. “Not even now. I’ve got to love him back to health.”

“That’s my condition for going out after him—that you promise to do whatever’s necessary for him to get better. And if you say no, I’m going to have to call the police myself.”

“Oh, Chris…” She sounded tired. “Find him. I promise.”

All Wood had to go on was what his friend had done the first time—head for Cross Creek. There were too many places Hall could have gone, and too few people searching. For the first time, Wood wished he had given in and bought a citizen’s band radio. But he hadn’t, and he could find little enthusiasm as he pulled onto the North-South Freeway.

Not expecting to find Hall anywhere but on the road or in Cross Creek, Wood nearly drove past the unlit car on the shoulder. But as he neared it, he caught a glimpse of the many bumper stickers adorning the back of the car, and recognized it as Hall’s. He pulled onto the shoulder himself and stepped out of the car into a night well lit by a gibbous moon.

The car was empty, and Wood started up the grassy hill to the row of trees above. A short trail led through the clump of trees and to a clearing, in the middle of which Hall sat cross-legged. Wood approached him cautiously.

“I understand,” Hall said clearly.

“Richard?” Wood said tentatively.

Hall turned his head. “Hello, Chris.”

“Richard, I want you to come back with me.”

“I was nearly ready to go, even if you hadn’t come here.”

“What are you doing?”

“I was listening.”

“Listening?”

“Yes—to the world.”

“Meditating.”

“If you wish.” Hall rose and brushed the bits of grass and dirt from his jeans. He seemed exceptionally calm.

“What did you hear?”

“Nothing—nothing from outside. From inside, a great deal.”

“Are you feeling all right?”

“Perfectly. Are you ready to go?”

They walked down the slope, and Wood steered Hall away from his car. “Leave it here, we’ll get it later. Please, ride with me.”

Hall smiled understandingly. “You’re afraid I might run off again.”

“Yes.” Wood admitted. “Shouldn’t I be?”

“No. Not anymore. Of course I’ll come with you, if that’s what you prefer.”

“I do.”

“Can you explain it to me?”

Wood found Hall’s almost beatific calm disturbing, but hesitated to say anything, for fear of setting Hall off once more. Finally he could not resist any longer. “You seem very different.”

“It’s just that I understand what’s happening now.”

“No.” Hall twisted on the seat so that he was facing Wood. “How can you see from the outside what I can barely grasp from the inside? I wish I could make you understand. You and Elaine both. I want you to be able to accept it. You have the closest ties to me, so it should happen to you last.”

“All right, Richard. You don’t have to go on.”

“I would if I knew what to say—that I’m slipping into the cracks between moments—that a mistake is being edited out of the cosmos—”

“Please stop. It’s hard for me to listen to you talk like this.”

“It’ll be harder when I’m gone and you don’t understand. There isn’t much time left. They’re very close to me now.”

“We’ll protect you,” Wood said, near tears. “We’ll get you all the help you need.”

“I don’t need any help.” They were nearing the city; traffic was building up and structures outnumbered trees along the highway. “I’m not afraid, Chris. When I’m gone, everything will be in the place that it was intended for it. At least that’s how I feel. I’ve made my peace.”

Wood took his eye off the road. “Dammit, stop!” he blurted. “You’re sick but you’re going to get better. Just grab on to that thought, all right?”

“That car is stopping,” Hall said in measured tones.

Wood glanced back at the road. “Idiot drivers,” he said, braking and honking the horn. He looked in the side mirror, saw that the next lane was clear, and swung the car out of danger with a twitch on the steering wheel. The screech of tearing metal said that the car behind them had not done as well.

To his credit, Wood did not cause an accident himself when he saw that his passenger was gone.

The apartment door opened only moments after he knocked.

“I’m sorry, Elaine,” Wood said. “I had him, and I lost him. I was distracted by traffic, and he must have taken that moment to jump out. I couldn’t look for him very long, because he was on foot and I had a car back on the highway.”

“Find him? Find who? What are you talking about?” she said, kissing him perfunctorily.

The kiss had the emotional impact of a heavyweight’s best punch. “Richard, of course.” When she showed no recognition or understanding, he added, “Your husband.”

“You have a strange sense of humor sometimes,” she said stiffly. The phone rang. “Come in and sit; I’ll be ready in a few moments.”

Wood stared as she disappeared into the kitchen, the folds of her long dress swishing with her precise steps. Then he looked at the rest of the room, seeking some clue that would relieve him of his confusion.

Almost immediately his eye fell on the picture that hung by the front closet. It had been a huge print of Richard and Elaine’s wedding picture. Had been. Had been. Now there was a graduation photo of Elaine, and beside it in a second frame, her college diploma. Why had she changed it? No—how had she done it—the diploma she had never earned, because she had married Richard.

Wood felt beside him for a chair and fell back into it. He held his head in his hands, fighting the pain of accepting the unacceptable. Then he looked back at the photo and diploma, and was confused. It had been a fine graduation—a beautiful clear day, a wild party at night.

Elaine returned from the kitchen. “Now, will you please explain your joke about Richard? You make me feel like such a dummy sometimes.”

Wood looked up at her and frowned. “Richard who?”

Elaine sighed. “I’m not going through that again. Do you have the tickets? I’m ready to go.”

Wood patted his pocket absently, as though something had happened that he had missed. “Yes.”

That night, they enjoyed each other as though it were the first time.