Quantum Leap - Random Measures

by Ashley McConnell

  She scrunched up her face and peered up through the leaves, mature green now, not pale and new any more.

  Yeah. She’d talk to Kevin. He’d listen to her. He owed her that much. He was a jerk, but he owed her now.

  Davey was standing now, looking around, the stick hanging forgotten from his hand.

  It was time to get home. It was long past lunchtime, and Davey was getting hungry.

  The bar was empty, and Sam finally had the chance to play whatever he wanted to play without interruption, without an audience, without a damned Observer who was taking his own sweet time about showing up. His hands crashed down on the keys with as much force as Davey had used, and he closed his eyes and breathed deep, as deeply as he could, clear down to the diaphragm, clear down to his toes, trying to relax. It had been more than thirty-six hours since Al had made contact, and he was beginning to wonder if something had happened to him back at the Project. Laced through the worry for him was a thread of worry for himself, too. What was he going to do if Al never came back?

  He had to think about it. A couple of times he thought he remembered Ziggy managed to get somebody else through to him, but the memories were spotty. It had never really worked well. He couldn’t hear, or couldn’t see, or something was always wrong. Al was his only sure link to the Project, to Ziggy. If Al was gone, he was going to spend the rest of his life as a half-Mohawk half-Polish bartender who didn’t read much.

  He could always have faith that God or Fate or Chance, Time or Whatever the hell was Leaping him around wouldn’t allow him to be abandoned in the seventies, but. . .

  But he’d gone over that and over that: There were limits to what Whatever could do. That was why he Leaped to begin with. Leaping was connected to his doing something. Accomplishing something.

  Of course, the next question was what.

  He could get some petty revenge on Whatever by playing music that hadn’t been written yet, but he couldn’t remember any. His hands softened on the keys. There was one tune he could recall, always: “Imagine.” He played on, still musing.

  There was still another problem, one he’d been avoiding thinking about since the first moment of his Leap in: Just how serious was Wickie’s relationship with Rimae, and what was Sam Beckett expected to do about it?

  He didn’t need Al around to know what his Observer would advise him about that. For a tactical genius, Al could be very predictable sometimes.

  He didn’t know Rimae very well. He didn’t have any strong opinions about her yet. He did know he wasn’t going to sleep with her; he was Sam Beckett, and Sam Beckett didn’t do that sort of thing casually. “Mr. Morals,” Al had called him once. Well, he could live with that.

  It might be a little difficult to explain to her; she thought he was Wickie. Of course, by the time he got through telling her about the cabin, he might not have to worry about Wickie’s sex life any more. He’d seen enough of Rimae’s temper to know that the risk of Wickie losing his job was now a little more than 43 percent. It wasn’t that she was a bad person, really, but. . .

  He sighed and got up, closing the keyboard cover. Surely there was a laundromat open on Sunday. Besides, he had to return the rug shampooer.

  If only he’d Leaped in just to clean the rug.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The jungle talked at night.

  He could smell the dark—a heavy, wet, rotting smell, a smell of dead leaves and unwashed humans and snakes.

  Snakes. The black snake that curled through the bamboo bars and flickered its tongue at him, promising death, teasing him. The little grey-green snake that slid through and touched the lieutenant on the leg—the bare leg, exposed through torn and decaying cloth—the leg tied down so the lieutenant couldn’t move it away—just touched him, that was all—and the lieutenant cried, and whimpered, and died.

  The snake looked at him next, and he looked back.

  He couldn’t move. Each ankle, each wrist was roped to the bars of the cage; his feet were bare, his clothing was no better than the lieutenant’s.

  It was hot. Wet. Suffocating. His skin itched with the salt of old sweat.

  The snake hissed at him, rose up swaying.

  The dead lieutenant turned his head toward him and cried, each tear a memory. The flesh of the dead man’s face was dry against his skull.

  The snake was sliding against his hip.

  The lieutenant’s face turned into the face of Sam Beckett.

  Al Calavicci screamed.

  “Al, sweetheart, what is it?”

  He exploded into wakefulness, sweating, and Janna yelped as his fist connected with her shoulder. The sound shocked him from wakefulness into awareness. The room was dark, but he wasn’t in the jungle. He wasn’t tied. There was no snake. No lieutenant.

  No Sam Beckett either.

  Only . .. Janna, that was her name. Janna, who was backed up against the headboard staring at him, clutching at her shoulder. Janna, his wife. Who went from clutching her shoulder to touching his, lightly, seeking and giving reassurance at one and the same time. Ignoring her own pain to comfort his.

  Late afternoon. A hotel room in Santa Fe, New Mexico. He knew where he was now.

  He sat up wearily. “Oh, God. Janna, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” He didn’t try to touch her. He couldn’t bring himself to touch her. He rubbed at his wrists instead, as if rubbing could eliminate the almost invisible scars that still remained there, could eliminate the feel of ropes and steel and restraint.

  He went from rubbing his wrists to rubbing his temples, wondering how he was going to explain. It had been a long time since he’d had a dream like that.

  “You’ve been dreaming a lot lately,” Janna said softly, getting up.

  He could see her, he realized. There was a light on in the bathroom, fading sunshine coming through the curtains. He was in a hotel room in Santa Fe, not locked up in a cage in Vietnam; and he could see her, silhouetted by the light, all curves and sleek lines and .. .

  “What do you mean, ‘dreaming a lot lately’? I haven’t had those dreams in a long time.”

  She came back with a glass of water and a pair of pills. “Here. Take these.”

  “What are they?”

  She expelled a long breath through elegant nostrils. “Al. These are the pills Dr. Beeks prescribed for you. They’ll help you sleep without the dreams.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, not impatient, not accusing. You have dreams. This will help. Here—take them. Feel better.

  “I don’t have dreams,” Al said, forgetting momentarily what had awakened him in the first place. “What the hell is going on?”

  But if he stopped to think about it, he could remember: He had nightmares, memories that came back to haunt him. And Verbeena Beeks was a psychiatrist, had been treating him for PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder: Flashbacks to Vietnam, and the six years he’d been a POW, most of those years trapped in a bamboo cage too small to stand up or lie down in, each limb tied to the interlacing bamboo bars. This dream wasn’t even particularly bad, compared to some he’d had.

  He rubbed his temples again and reached for the glass and pills.

  “Okay.” It wasn’t easy to accept it. Apparently this version of his life had drawbacks as well as a wife.

  He paused in the act of putting the pills in his mouth, wondering. Was Janna his sixth wife, or had he managed to skip a few divorces this time?

  “Better close your mouth, you’ll catch flies,” Janna advised. The light from the bathroom, brighter than the sunlight, fell across his face, momentarily blinding him.

  “Turn the room light on,” he said sharply.

  Saying nothing, she reached past him to turn on the bedside light. Its illumination drowned out the spotlight from the bathroom. Al closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay. Thanks. Sorry—”

  “It’s all right, dear. I should have remembered about the light.” She moved around the bed, sat down, began rubbing his back, kneading his shoulders. “You’re worried. We’ll go back
first thing tomorrow. You need to talk to Sam, see that he’s all right. Go ahead and take your pills, you’ll sleep better.”

  He nodded. She was right, of course. He would sleep

  better. The pills would give him sleep, without dreams. Without nightmares.

  Without memories.

  The lieutenant wasn’t Sam Beckett.

  He hadn’t abandoned anybody. He couldn’t have kept the snake from biting the other man; he couldn’t have saved him. Calling out wouldn’t help. He couldn’t reach the lieutenant. Couldn’t touch him. Couldn’t help.

  If he’d said that in a session, Verbeena would tilt her head and raise one eyebrow at him, waiting for him to draw the obvious conclusion.

  But when he stepped back into the Imaging Chamber, the chances were good that Janna would be gone.

  His memories of two distinct pasts were blurring.

  He was leaning against her, her arms were around him, his head leaned back against her shoulder. She was comforting, saying nothing. She was a very patient woman, was Janna. He could . .. remember. . . her waking him from other nightmares in the recent past. He could almost remember how they met, at the first Project Christmas party. He could remember the first time he had touched her face, the movement of her cheek under his hand when she smiled at him, that bright, lovely smile.

  He could almost remember a whole life with her, and they were good memories.

  He set the glass aside and turned to hold her. He couldn’t fall in love with her. He couldn’t. He had to go back and help Sam change the past. The future.

  The now.

  He buried his face in Janna’s hair and waited for the pills to take him back into the dark.

  In the small, cluttered office in the back of the house down the road from the Polar Bar, Rimae Hoffman bent over the books, frowning as she riffled receipts in one hand and ran a calculator with the other. The locals weren’t enough to pay the bills, even with Ladies’ Nights and parties and every special event she could think of, even trying to peddle real estate on the side. Summer was always tough, but real estate and private parties usually provided a little cushion. This ;. ear neither seemed to be enough. It was starting out bad and she couldn’t see any sign it was going to get any better.

  What the hell had possessed Wickie to take back that quarter keg anyway? Something about kids, but that was bull—Kevin was of age, and that was all that mattered. Sure, it was only one sale, but what if the local kids decided to have the Midnight Hour bar down the road cater their parties? What if this sudden picking and choosing of his started applying to their parents? That could add up.

  She ran her fingers through her hair and swore. She’d have to talk to him. And he’d better not depend on having slept with the boss to keep him out of trouble, either.

  The trouble was she liked Wickie, she really did. The way he’d started acting recently, though, that was nuts.

  She’d talk to him. He’d straighten out.

  Maybe he could start playing the piano during his breaks from the bar. She hadn’t known he could play—in the last ten months he’d never touched the instrument. But in the last two days his hands had moved over it as if they’d done it all his life.

  An unconscious smile curved her lips.

  Someone rapped at the back door, and she looked up, half in irritation and half glad of the excuse to put the receipts away. She could see the outline of a man through the amber glass of the top half of the door. She knew that shape. The smile came back.

  He stood outside the door, waiting for an invitation— typical of Wickie. He’d wait out there forever until she came to let him in. Just standing there, looking up at her from the lower step—looking through the straight black lashes, almost shy, as if he wasn’t certain of his welcome. She grinned at him and opened the door. “Well, I’m mad at you, but not that mad. Come on in.”

  And now he looked confused. She shrugged and stepped aside, and he entered, looking around the office as if he’d

  never seen it before—anything to keep from looking at her. If he’d had a hat in his hands, it would be turning around and around, his hands clenching at the rim.

  But there wasn’t any hat, and he had his hands shoved into his pockets instead. So she kissed him.

  He jumped at first as if she’d jabbed him with a cattle prod, and then relaxed into it. He was actually getting interested, despite himself, when she stepped away again. “What’s the matter?” she inquired. “Still not feeling up to par?”

  “Oh, I’m fine. Really.” He passed the back of his hand over his lips, as if he had to scrub away the feel of her in order to think straight.

  She grinned at him. “Well, that’s good news. It’s about time. I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to come at all.”

  He nodded, looking around. Stalling. He acted as if he’d never seen the place before, staring at the handmade curtains at the windows, the rag rug on the floor, the brown plaid sofa. He certainly ought to remember the sofa, she thought. They’d spent enough time there. Now he was acting like a shy kid, making her make the first move.

  She had some new things on the walls, not pictures exactly, more like shallow window boxes made of wickerwork and pine cones. He studied them carefully.

  He was still stalling.

  “So what’s the deal?” she said abruptly, tiring of the delay, irritated by his continued lack of responsiveness. Well, if that was the way he wanted to play it, fine. “Hey, if you don’t have anything to say, I do.”

  “Why don’t you go ahead then.” He was being polite, she could tell, but he was also relieved that he didn’t have to talk. Well, that was Wickie, all right. The strong, silent type all the way.

  "Look, I don’t want any more messes like you got into on Friday, okay? Just make the deliveries and take the money. Okay?”

  He was looking directly at her now, and she wasn’t sure she liked his expression.

  “They’re kids.” The words were spaced out, precise. “A bunch of kids up by the river, getting drunk.”

  She shrugged. “That’s none of our business. It was bought legal and paid for legal and it should be delivered legal. I’m in the business of selling liquor, not buying it back.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. I don’t want to hear about this happening again, okay? Kevin’s nineteen. He’s legally a responsible adult. I’m not going to sell to somebody who’s under age. I’m not that dumb—I don’t want to lose my license. But I don’t want to hear my head bartender has taken up Prohibition, either, or I’m going to have to find myself a new head bartender. Got that?”

  He started to say something and stopped, seemingly baffled.

  She shook her head, went over to the cabinet beside the stereo, and got out a bottle. “Here. I’ll play bartender for a change.”

  “Isn’t it kind of early?”

  The laugh that escaped from her was more like a stifled chuckle. He really was nuts. “It’s after four. I didn’t think you cared.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  Her lower lip twitched. “Suit yourself.” She pulled a short, wide glass from the top shelf of the cabinet and poured an inch of whisky into it. “Confusion to the enemy.”

  The liquor was a shock going down, harsh against her throat. Despite what she might have told Wickie, she didn’t usually drink this early. She gasped a little, clearing the fumes from her mouth.

  Wickie was staring at her, as if something was slowly becoming clear to him, something he didn’t like. It couldn’t be the drinking, he’d seen her drink every night for almost a year.

  “Fetal alcohol syndrome.”

  The words were spoken with an air of discovery, as if he’d finally pinned something down.

  She choked, a trail of liquid dribbling out the corner of her mouth. Wiping it away with the back of her hand, she sputtered, “What did you say?”

  “Fetal alcohol syndrome. Davey. The flattened aspect of the nose and philtrum, the sp
ace between his eyes, the autistic response. His mother was drinking while she was pregnant with him, she had to be. He has fetal alcohol syndrome. That’s what’s wrong with him. I’ve been trying to remember for the last two days.”

  She stared at him, unbelieving. This was Wickie? Wickie, who was pretty good in bed and knew a lot of oddball drinks but never got past the eighth grade? And who the hell was he to stand there with that look on his face, disgust and sorrow and—how dare he—pity—Davey!

  She slapped the glass down on top of the cabinet, slopping liquid over her hand, ignoring it as it dripped on the wood, on the floor. “When did you become a doctor?” she asked mockingly. “Those are pretty big words for you, aren’t they?”

  He opened his mouth, shook his head as he changed his mind about whatever it was he was going to say. It gave her the chills. He wasn’t acting like the Wickie she knew. “It doesn’t matter. It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know if it’s true or not. I don’t care. Davey’s just as much a person as you are. What’s this ‘fetal alcohol syndrome’ stuff anyway?”

  “Use of alcohol by pregnant women has been shown to cause a range of defects in the developing fetus. There are plenty of cases in the literature.”

  “ Tn the literature,’ ” she mocked, getting a little frightened. He sounded like some kind of rocket scientist or something, spouting off that way. “My, aren’t we using big words these days?”

  He came over to her, a quick panther stride, snatched the glass off the cabinet—it didn’t slop for him, she saw with growing resentment—and then he was holding it under her nose, and her resentment and fright began to boil over into anger.

  "It doesn’t have anything to do with ‘big words,’ Rimae. This is why Davey’s the way he is. This is the whole reason, the only reason. Because his mother drank while she was pregnant! Didn’t you know? Didn’t anybody tell you?”

  Even though she didn’t feel threatened, he frightened her, and she got angry and slapped at his hand. The glass went flying, shattering against the wall. “Where the hell do you get off standing there telling me this stuff? Even if it is true, what difference does it make to me or Davey now?”