Jumper

by Steven Gould

  “I think so.”

  “But you can say it again, now, if you like.”

  “Oh, Millie. I love you.”

  “I love you. I’m going to go to bed now, but I may have trouble sleeping. Think of me.”

  “How can I avoid it?” Go to her, go to her, go to her.

  She laughed. “Good night, sweetheart.”

  “Good night, love.”

  She hung up and I stared at the receiver in wonder. Then I jumped to Stillwater, outside her apartment, and watched her bedroom window until the light went out.

  I was looking for a present for Millie and I remembered something I’d seen at the Metropolitan Museum of Art gift shop. I tried to jump to the steps of the museum and nothing happened. Quickly, before I lost all confidence, I jumped to Washington Square.

  No problem.

  I’d only been to the museum once, with Millie, and, though I’d intended to return many times, I hadn’t got around to it.

  You just don’t remember it well enough, I thought.

  The more places I jumped, the more places I had to remember, if I wanted to jump there again. Am I going to have to jump to every site I know once a week, to keep them fresh in my mind?

  I decided it was time to buy some more toys.

  On Forty-seventh Street I found it easy to spend two thousand dollars on: one video camera, small, using eight-millimeter tape; one video player for the same size tapes; one case of twenty-minute tapes, ten enclosed; two extra NiCad power packs; and an external fast charger for the power packs.

  An hour later, after I’d charged a battery pack and read the camera’s instructions, I jumped to Central Park, by the croquet green, on the west side of the park, and walked across it and up to Eighty-first, where the Met is. Then I spent a few minutes filming an out-of-the-way alcove by the doors of the museum, first recording the alcove, then standing in it and recording a panoramic view. I talked about the images and smells as I did it, into the microphone.

  Then I jumped home, took the tape out and carefully labeled it, “New York Metropolitan Museum of Art, Front Steps.” I watched it on the video player connected to my twenty-five-inch television. The video quality was excellent.

  Now, obviously, I wasn’t going to have any trouble jumping back to the museum. I’d just been there and I’d paid attention. However, in six months, when I hadn’t been there for a while and the memory had faded, I hoped the videotape would give me the necessary “reminder.”

  We’ll see.

  After buying Millie’s presents, I spent the rest of the day recording my more infrequently used jump sites. Sometimes, when the site was a little too public, I changed it to an out-of-the-way corner. In Florida, for instance, I acquired a new site at the Orlando airport, a nook formed by two columns. In Pine Bluffs I found a spot between two bushes in the town square across from Leo Silverstein’s office. In Stillwater, I found an alleyway two houses down from Millie’s house. In Stanville, I chose an area behind the dumpster at Dairy Queen, between a hedge and the building at the public library, and the backyard at Dad’s house.

  I had to buy two more cases of videocassettes, plus a rack to store the tapes in.

  This took me through the end of Tuesday. On Wednesday, early in the morning, I jumped to the Orlando airport and caught the shuttle to Disney World. The bus got there twenty minutes before it opened. I found a space between two bushes, acquired it, jumped home to get the video camera, jumped back, and recorded the place. I also recorded a site inside the park. The security at Disney World is very good, so I was careful to select a place not covered by monitor cameras. I had this weird image of Mickey Mouse coming up to me and saying, “The jig is up! The jig is up! Hee, hee! Cuff him, Goofy.”

  I was pretty careful.

  Several times during the day I was tempted to jump where people couldn’t help but see me, to skip ahead in the longer lines. I hate long lines, but I didn’t risk it. I could always jump back, first thing in the morning, before the crowds got there, or near closing, after they’d cleared out.

  Millie should be here, I thought. I wouldn’t mind waiting in line with her.

  A memory, long forgotten, surfaced. Mom was going to take me here, to Disney World, on our next trip down to see Granddad.

  I gave up around six in the evening, my feet hurting and my head aching from the heat.

  Back in my apartment I napped for a couple of hours, then called Millie. We talked for over an hour; then like previous nights, I jumped to Stillwater to watch her window until the light went off.

  Midnight EST found me staring at a photo-booth picture of Millie and arguing with myself.

  Why don’t you tell her?

  What, tell her that I’m a bank robber? That I do nothing productive with my life? That I steal people’s hard-earned money?

  Just tell her about the jumping.

  Sure. If I tell her about the jumping, think of all the other questions she’ll ask. She loves me now. I don’t have to be a freak to win her love. I can be myself.

  Oh, yeah? She loves what you’ve chosen to show her. Isn’t omitting the rest just as much a lie as manufacturing falsehoods? Aren’t you living a falsehood? The longer you go without telling her, the more betrayed she’ll feel when she does find out.

  Does she have to find out, though?

  Do you love her?

  Ouch. Okay, she has to be told. Eventually. When the time is right.

  I stared at Millie’s picture and shivered.

  At two in the morning the Washburns started fighting again, only this time it got physical. In a period of twenty minutes, her voice went from loud, angry comments to cries of fear and then finally, shrieks of pain.

  It sounded like Mom.

  I jumped to the corner, by the deli, my jeans pulled hastily on, my coat over bare shoulders. I dialed 911 at the pay phone and reported an assault in progress at that address and that apartment. When they asked for my name and whereabouts I said, “I was just walking by. I don’t want to get involved, but it sounds like he’s killing her.” I hung up.

  Unable to stand the screams, I didn’t jump back to the apartment, dancing back and forth on the cold pavement in my bare feet. Even from here, I could hear her screaming faintly.

  Hurry, dammit.

  The police took five minutes to get there, a car pulling up with flashing lights but no siren. I couldn’t hear her screaming anymore. The two cops rang the doorbell for the Washburns’ apartment and spoke into the intercom. I heard the door buzz and they pushed on through and went inside.

  I stood by the phone, in shadow cast by the streetlight. My feet were getting colder by the minute. So jump someplace warm. I didn’t move. I didn’t want to go back to the apartment and I didn’t want to go away. It was not unlike having a sore spot in my mouth, painful to the touch, but still the tongue keeps poking and prodding at it.

  The two policeman stayed in the building less than two minutes, then walked out, got in the car, and drove away.

  Shit.

  I jumped back to my apartment and listened carefully. She was crying, but apparently he’d stopped hitting her. I turned the radio on to hide the noise, and went back to bed.

  The weekend was magic, marred only by a nagging voice that said, over and over again, tell her or you’ll regret it, and the fact that her roommate hadn’t gone home for the weekend.

  I gave her the cast-marble head, first.

  “Oh my God, it’s beautiful. What is it?”

  “It’s a reproduction of a detail from Michelangelo’s Pietá. It’s called The Head of the Virgin. I thought it highly appropriate.”

  She blushed and laughed. “Your second gift of virginity? Well, it’s absolutely gorgeous and I love it. I’m afraid to ask how much it cost.”

  I shrugged and brought out the next box.

  She looked at me accusingly. “I told you it makes me feel guilty when you spend money on me!”

  “Apologies, in advance, then. I’ve kept myself in check, mos
tly, but I failed. You deserve much, much more.”

  She stared distractedly at the wrapped box. “Humph. Trying to get out of it with sweet talk isn’t going to work.” She shook the box, considered its dimensions, and bounced it on her palm to get some idea of the weight. “It better be a book.”

  “It’s not.”

  She opened it slowly, carefully, keeping the paper intact. She got to the jewelry case and gave me another dark look.

  “Open it.”

  She did and her mouth dropped open. Surprise and obvious pleasure. “You remembered.”

  It was a copy of the “Princess Necklace,” the original of which had belonged to Sithathoryunet, daughter of Sesostris II, king of Egypt during the twelfth dynasty. It had drop-shaped beads of lapis lazuli, carnelian, aventurine, and gold plate over silver, separated by round beads of amethyst. I’m sure the original had solid-gold beads instead of electroplate, but you can’t have everything. Two hundred and fifty dollars plus thirty for the matching earrings.

  “Well, yes. I almost offered to buy it for you then, but you were so touchy about money.”

  She put the box down and pushed me back onto the couch. “I still am touchy about money. Stop buying me expensive gifts.” She kissed me softly, taking her time. “I mean it.” She kissed me again. “And thank you.”

  We went out that night to the nicest restaurant in Stillwater, so Millie could dress up and wear the necklace and earrings. Three different women asked about them, leaving her to flounder through a brief history of twelfth-dynasty Egypt. She glared at me after the last encounter.

  “Stop laughing! I’m a psychology major, not an archaeologist.” But she kept smiling through her complaint and she kept fingering the necklace throughout dinner.

  There was an uncomfortable moment when she asked me how I’d kept my suit from wrinkling in my tiny overnight bag. I’d jumped back to my apartment from her bathroom, to grab the suit off a hanger. It hadn’t been in my bag. It hadn’t been folded at all. “Do you believe in paranormal powers?”

  “Oh, like you have the power to iron men’s suits with your mind?”

  “Well, it would come in handy, wouldn’t it? Tele-press-esis? Psycho-iron-etics?”

  She laughed and I changed the subject.

  On Friday she had three classes, so I jumped back to Brooklyn, read a while; then, when Disney World opened, I jumped to Florida and rode Star Tours three times in a row.

  I didn’t have to wait in line at all.

  I’ve got to bring Millie here.

  We spent the afternoon in Millie’s bed, warm and safe, a fortress defending us from October’s chill. We walked half a lazy mile afterward, to a café by the campus. Woodsmoke was drifting from some of the chimneys and it reminded me of Stanville.

  At supper she asked, “Have you heard anything from your mother?”

  “No, not yet, but it’s only been three days. I checked the answering machine today, and there wasn’t anything.”

  “Ah, you can do that over the phone?”

  “Yeah, you can. All it takes is a touch-tone phone.” I hadn’t used the remote feature, but you can. Half-truths and omissions. You call this an honest relationship? I covered my mouth for a moment with my napkin. Then I countered with, “Have you heard from your ex?”

  “Ugh. Why’d you bring him up?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sissy broke up with him.”

  I blinked. “What, over that incident at the party?” I couldn’t resist. I’d wondered what had come of his story.

  “Well... he got pretty weird right after that. He came up with this UFO-abduction story right out of the twilight zone. Sissy is really into New Age shit and she ate it up.” She shook her head. “He was never that weird when I dated him. However, Sissy skipped class one day and found him in bed with her roommate.” Millie grinned. “Now that’s the Mark I know.”

  “What a sleaze!” I should’ve jumped him to Harlem or Central Park—it was after dark. No... he’s no Topper Robbins. Still, I was glad I’d done as much as I had.

  We saw a bad movie after dinner, so bad it was funny, and amused ourselves with whispered alternative dialogue. We walked back through the campus and sat on a bench counting stars until the cold forced us to walk again, back home, and to bed. Surprisingly, we didn’t make love, but slept, nestled like spoons, arms entwined.

  And that was all right.

  I milked my stay until Monday morning, explaining that I wasn’t scheduled to depart until then. She wanted to know flight times and I nearly told her everything right then. Instead, I spilled a glass of water on the both of us by “accident” and in the ensuing cleanup, the question was forgotten.

  Actually, I think she knew I didn’t want to talk about it. So she didn’t push it.

  Back in New York the indicator on my answering machine showed three messages. I shrugged, then pushed the replay button and sat, cross-legged, on the floor, my head in my hands.

  The first message said, “Have you ever considered the security of life insurance? The problems of—” It was a taped computer-driven ad. I stabbed angrily at the advance button and the machine forwarded to the next message.

  “Have you ever considered the security of life insurance? The prob—” I hit the advance button again, swearing under my breath. I fully expected the next message to be the same stupid ad.

  “Hello, this is Mary Niles, calling for Davy Rice. It’s Sunday night around eight o’clock on the west coast, uh, I guess that’s eleven, your time. I’d rather not leave a number, but I’ll call again tomorrow, that is Monday, evening at the same time.”

  Mom.

  The voice was heartrendingly familiar, unaged, just as I remembered it. Her tone was hesitant at first, then simply matter-of-fact.

  What do I say to her? I played it again, to hear her voice. I found tears streaming down my face and my nose was running, but, instead of getting a tissue from the bathroom, I played the message over and over and over again.

  Waiting through the day was bad. I hovered around the phone all morning, on the off chance that Mom might decide to call early, but the tension kept building and building. Finally, I jumped to the Embassy 2, 3, 4 at Times Square and watched two movies in a row, just to turn my mind off.

  When I jumped home, the indicator showed one message. I swore and pushed replay, but it was some guy named Morgan asking about a girl named Sheila—a wrong number. Mixed feelings, relief and disappointment at the same time.

  I called Millie at seven, six her time, which was early, but I didn’t want to miss Mom when she called. I didn’t want her to find a busy signal or the answering machine.

  Luckily, Millie had just gotten home.

  “Your mom called? That’s great! What did she say?”

  “It was just on the answering machine. She wouldn’t leave a number, but she’s calling again tonight. That’s why I’m calling now, so I’m off the phone later.”

  “Ah. I’m really glad for you, Davy. I hope it works out.”

  “Well... we’ll see.” I was scared shitless, but hope was there, too. “I wouldn’t have sent her the letter without your help, Millie. I wouldn’t have had the courage. Thanks.”

  “Hey! You don’t give yourself enough credit. Don’t put down the man I love.”

  “I love you. I’m going to get off now. Okay?”

  “Sure. I love you, too. Bye.”

  “Bye.” I set the receiver down in the cradle with exaggerated care, softly, tenderly. It was silly, but since she wasn’t there to touch like that, I expressed it in hanging up the phone. I laughed at myself.

  I was still scared.

  The wait from seven o’clock to eleven was worse.

  At eight-thirty the phone rang and I snatched it up.

  “Have you ever considered the security of life insur—” I slammed the phone down.

  Five minutes later it rang again.

  “Hi, this is Morgan. Is Sheila home?”

  “There’s no Sheila
here. You’ve got the wrong number.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” He hung up.

  Almost immediately it rang again.

  “Hi, this is Morgan. Is Sheila there?”

  “It’s still the wrong number.”

  “Oh.” Irritation. “I must be misdialing it. She was very careful when she gave it to me. Sorry.”

  Dickhead. She probably didn’t give you her real number.

  There was a pause of two minutes; then the phone rang again.

  “Hi, this is Morgan. Is Sheila there?”

  I paused. Then, in my best Brooklyn accent, an octave below my normal speaking pitch, I said. “Oh, jeez. I’m sorry man. Sheila’s dead!” I hung up.

  That wasn’t very nice, Davy.

  I felt guilty, but he didn’t call back again.

  At nine the phone rang again.

  “Have you ever considered the security of life insurance? The problems of protecting your loved ones from an uncertain future?”

  This time I let the ad run until I’d written down the name of the company and their phone number. Then I hung up and thought dark thoughts about the misuse of voice-mail system while I looked up their address in the phone book.

  At 10:55 the phone rang again.

  Oh God ohgodohgod.

  I picked it up, licked my lips. “Hello?”

  “Davy? David Rice.”

  I exhaled a shuddering breath. “Hi, Mom,” I said in a small voice. “What’s happening?”

  It was straight out of the past, a slice of childhood. I’d get off the school bus, run up the driveway, pop in through the kitchen door, and say, “Hi, Mom. What’s happening?” And she’d say, “Oh, not much. How was school?”

  The voice on the other end of the line became as small as mine. “Oh, Davy... Davy. How can you ever forgive me?”

  Is there no end to tears? My eyes stung and I blinked rapidly.

  “Mom—I know about the broken bones in your face. I know about the year in the hospital. I don’t see that you had much choice. It’s okay.”

  Well, it might become okay.