Memory (Hard Case Crime)

by Donald E. Westlake

  While he was putting the money away, his glance caught on one of the notes he’d put up on the wall, the one reading: 50 GROVE ST.—NEW YORK—Look In Wallet. He saw that note, and was reminded of why he’d put it there, and nodded to himself. He’d be able to go to New York soon, and it was a good thing, good to be off before he got worse, before he got so bad he forgot all about going, which he now knew was more than possible. At least twice since he’d put that note up it had been used, twice when he’d forgotten all about who and what he really was and what he really wanted from life, twice when he’d fallen into the habit of thinking of himself only as the Paul Cole who worked at the tannery and lived at the Malloy house and went with the girl named Edna. Both times, seeing the note had only confused him, but once he’d looked in his wallet and seen the union cards and the Army Discharge and all the other papers enough memory had come seeping back into his mind to get him once more on an even keel.

  But New York was still in the future, and in the interim the note would stand guard. Right now he had other things to think about, and he was in a hurry. He stripped out of his work clothes and put on his suit trousers, then went to the bathroom and hurriedly washed. There was a gnawing in his stomach, part anticipation and part hunger, and he decided the Malloys wouldn’t mind if he took a piece of bread or two from the kitchen on his way out.

  He put on a clean white shirt, but no tie, and shrugged back into the borrowed coat. He went downstairs without turning any lights on, and felt his way to the kitchen and the refrigerator. Opening the door to turn on the refrigerator light, he used its glow to get two pieces of bread from the breadbox. Then he closed the refrigerator again and went back through the darkness to the front door and outside. He walked along eating the dry bread.

  He had the address on a note in his wallet, but he didn’t need to refer to it. It was 618 Morton Street. Morton intersected Charter two blocks up, and 618 was in the first block to the left. He’d repeated the address and route to himself so many times that he didn’t need the note at all.

  There were individual differences in the houses in this town, differences of color or exterior material, differences between open porch and enclosed porch, dormer attic windows or not, but the basic architectural style was always the same. A rectangular shape, with the short dimension facing the street. A porch, with a four- or five-step stoop. Two stories plus attic, with an A-shaped roof. When it was a one-family house, there was only a porch on the first story, but two-family versions had another porch upstairs, sometimes full-width and sometimes half-width.

  618 Morton Street was one-family, with clapboard siding, painted gray, and the porch open. There was a green glider on the porch, and a battered red child’s pedal auto. Through the window, Cole could see Edna sitting in the living room, watching a variety show on television.

  She’d told him not to ring the bell, it might wake either or both of the children, to rap on the living room window instead, so that’s what he did, leaning over the glider to do it. She was startled for a second, and then she looked over and saw him and smiled and waved. She got up and headed for the front door, and he went across the porch to meet her.

  She opened the door and let him in, saying, “Boy, it’s cold out there, isn’t it?”

  “Uh huh.”

  He took off his coat, and they went into the living room. There was a feeling of tension in the air; it was like their first meeting all over again, both of them awkward and ill-at-ease, but she more so than him.

  “I better pull the drapes,” she said. “In case a neighbor sees you or something.”

  With the drapes closed over the window, they sat down on the sofa together, both facing the television set.

  “This is a good show tonight,” she said, artificially, and went on to tell him some of the funny things that had already happened on it. He put his arm around her shoulders, and when a commercial came on he turned his head and kissed her.

  For a long time, they didn’t say anything at all. They kissed, or sat with their heads together watching the television screen, and his right hand stroked her arm. Excitement was building very slowly within him, excitement mingled with apprehension, and it took a strong effort of will when at last he tentatively touched her breast.

  They were kissing then, and at his touch on her breast she sighed and seemed to melt, to go soft and boneless in his arms. Encouraged, he stroked her breast more boldly, and her arms tightened around him, her right palm moving in a small circle on his back. Her breast was an anonymous soft mound beneath his hand, with the layers of clothing between, obscuring his sense of her body.

  There were long intervals, a long time when they were only kissing, and a long time when they were kissing and he was fondling her breast through layers of clothing, and he had tried no further step by one o’clock, when the variety show ended and the television set went silent with blue snow. Only one channel served this town, so she got up from the sofa and went over to switch the set off. When she looked back at him, her face was so soft and happy and trusting and pleased by his presence that he couldn’t stand it. He felt suddenly as though it had been a cruelty to touch her breast, and he wanted to apologize to her for it, but he didn’t because he was sure she wouldn’t understand.

  Two standing lamps were lit in the living room, and she switched one off before coming back to the sofa. Her natural shyness was still in her, but her hesitancy and embarrassment were gone. She came back and sat down next to him and leaned forward for his kiss as though they’d been going together like this for years, but also as though in all those years kissing him had never lost its early fascination.

  He kissed her, but he kept his hands on her arm and back. She waited, but he didn’t move either hand, so she squirmed a little and then took his left hand and placed it on her breast. He closed his eyes, and held her more closely, his mind a confusion of attitudes. The excitement had grown strong in him, but he was feeling guilt too, as though he were lying to her somehow and taking advantage of her. And the apprehension had grown, a prickling across the back of his neck as though something hostile were coming closer, he didn’t know what; he wondered if it had anything to do with something in his past.

  She was wearing a green pullover sweater. At a point when the excitement was stronger in him than any other feeling, he slid his hand down from her breast to her waist, worked his fingers under the sweater, and slid the hand up again over the electric slickness of her slip, and his fingers curved again around her breast, which felt smaller now, but firmer. She began to tremble when his hand moved under her sweater, and held him more fiercely, and ground her lips against his.

  He parted his lips, and his tongue touched tentatively outward, and her mouth opened for him. Their tongues trembled together, and his hand stroked her, and stroked her, and stroked her.

  He wanted his hand under the slip, and under the bra, and his fingers explored this way and that way, trying to find an opening somewhere, and failing, so he said the first words either of them had spoken since he’d first kissed her. He whispered, “Take off your sweater.”

  He couldn’t see her face, because their heads were together, his lips by her ear, but he felt her stiffen slightly and she whispered, “I’d better not. What if they come back?”

  “It’s only quarter after one.”

  “Paul...”

  “I won’t hurt you,” he promised, not entirely sure himself what he meant, but nevertheless afraid it was a lie.

  They separated, he taking his hands off her, and slowly she removed the sweater, keeping her head lowered and not looking at him. Her slip was white, and slick-looking, with thin straps that went up over her shoulders, next to the wider white bra straps. Her shoulders looked thin and hard and pale and cold.

  She whispered, “I’m embarrassed to have you see me, Paul. Is it all right if we turn off the light?”

  “All right,” he said. The one lamp still lit was beside the sofa, on his side; he turned around and switched it off, and
then it was pitch black in the room.

  “I’m scared,” she said, laughing nervously. “Isn’t that silly?”

  He put his arms around her. “There’s nothing to be scared of,” he said. The slip had an irritatingly harsh feeling to it, beneath his hands.

  She was trembling, just slightly, but when he kissed her the trembling faded away, and she didn’t react at all, one way or the other, when he slid the slip straps down her arms and off, and pushed the slip down to her waist. He undid her bra, and removed it, and touched her again, and she sighed again, the way she’d done the first time he touched her. She was very thin; below her breasts her ribs were separate corrugations of her flesh.

  He kissed her and caressed her, and the fright seemed to have gone out of her. From time to time she sighed, and her arms were tight around him. When he bent his head to kiss her breast, her right hand stroked his hair, and he thought she was smiling.

  But when he put his hand on her leg, she stiffened, pressing her legs tight together, and whispered, “No, Paul. Please.” He took his hand away at once, but she seemed to think she had to give him an explanation, because she said, “I don’t want to go that far. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to stop, and we shouldn’t do—we shouldn’t do anything like that.”

  “All right. I won’t ever try to force you.”

  “I like you to touch me, Paul, up here. You can do it, I like it. If you want to turn the light on, that’s okay.”

  “Not if you don’t want to.”

  “It’s silly to feel that way, isn’t it?” She laughed again, briefly and nervously. “To let you touch me, and not let you see me. But I can’t help it, I get embarrassed.”

  “It’s all right. I don’t want to do anything you don’t want.”

  “I like you an awful lot, Paul. I like you better than anybody else I ever knew.”

  She thinks I’m going to stay here forever. How can I tell her I’m not going to? That’s why I’ve been feeling bad, because she doesn’t know I’ll be leaving soon.

  Her refusal to let him touch her leg had drained some of the excitement from him, and now this thought drained the rest, and suddenly he didn’t want to touch her or kiss her at all anymore. Not because of her, but because of him. He could visualize her sitting there next to him, naked to the waist, her slip all bunched around her middle, hopeful and trusting and shy. He felt as though he’d been playing a cruel practical joke on her.

  But to just pull away all of a sudden would hurt her feelings, so he made an excuse. He said, “What time is it?”

  “Oh, golly, I don’t know!”

  “I better check. I’ll have to turn the light on for a second.”

  “Don’t look at me!”

  “I won’t,” he promised. He got up from the sofa and felt for the lamp and switched it on, keeping his back to her. Looking at his watch, he said, “It’s quarter to two.”

  “Oh. It’s a good thing you thought of it.”

  “Do you want me to turn the light back off? While you get dressed?”

  “Would you? Just for a minute.”

  “All right.”

  He switched it off again, and in the darkness heard the rustlings of her. She said, “Isn’t this stupid? I don’t know what it is, it just embarrasses me. I feel a like a stupid little kid or something.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with being modest.”

  “But I let you—touch me and all. It’s just silly, that’s all. I can’t find my swea—no, here it is. Just a minute now.”

  He waited, standing in the pitch darkness next to the lamp, until she said, “There! You can turn it on now.”

  He switched the light on, and they squinted at each other, he standing and she still sitting on the sofa. Her hair was mussed up, and there were high round spots of color on her cheeks like a toy soldier.

  She got to her feet, making final adjustments on her sweater, and saying, “I guess you better go now. They’ll be coming home pretty soon.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow night after work,” he said.

  “Okay.” She smiled happily, and put her hand on his arm as they walked to the door. He kissed her briefly, and put on his coat, and then kissed her again. Then he left, going out into the cold. She stood in the doorway, hugging herself and smiling after him, and when he got out to the sidewalk he waved to her, and then headed home.

  What was he going to do about her? He ought to tell her, or stop seeing her, or something. It wasn’t right just to let it ride like this. Up to now it hadn’t bothered him, because going to a movie together or dancing together in a tavern wasn’t very much, and didn’t imply very much. But tonight had implied worlds. He may not have been the first man ever to touch her breast, what with high school hayrides and such, but he was sure in his mind that he was the first man ever to get even a part of her clothing off.

  He shouldn’t have done it at all. He shouldn’t even have agreed to come here tonight, he should have made some sort of excuse. But the idea had excited him, and he was still strong with the need for someone. So he was using her, and it was cruel. And he didn’t want to be cruel.

  If he just stayed away from her for the rest of the time here, he would hurt her badly, and that was no good. He knew how shy she was, and how unsure of herself. If he stayed away from her now, particularly after tonight, it would be brutal for her.

  What he had to do was tell her the truth. Tomorrow night. It would have been better to tell her before this, but the important thing was that she be told. Tomorrow night would do.

  He made the turn at Charter Street, and walked toward home. At the farther end of the first block, he saw parked ahead of him a brand new highly polished black car, and he stopped, feeling suddenly frightened. It took him a few seconds to understand the cause for the fright, and then he remembered vaguely a recent time when the police had come for him and questioned him in a long narrow room. Had they come in a car like that one ahead? That must be it.

  But why had they questioned him? It had had something to do with a sheet of shiny metal. He could remember holding it in his hands, remember his face reflected in its surface, and one of the policeman asking him if he’d ever seen that piece of metal before.

  But what was the piece of metal? He couldn’t remember, and he wasn’t even sure they’d ever told him or he’d ever known. Whatever it was, he must have satisfied them that he wasn’t guilty, because obviously they’d let him go. Had it been a robbery or something? He couldn’t remember why they’d picked him up.

  He approached the car slowly, wondering if it was after all them again, wanting to ask him more questions, and when he saw that the car was empty he smiled with sudden relief, and lit a cigarette.

  He still felt a little shaky, and found himself wishing he was back with Edna again, with his arms around her to drain away the shakiness. He walked on homeward, smiling, thinking about Edna, not thinking about getting back to New York at all.

  10

  While he was sorting his pay on the bed, he glanced up and saw the note on the wall and realized it didn’t make any sense. It said:

  50 GROVE ST.—NEW YORK—Look In Wallet

  But he didn’t have a wallet.

  He was just thinking about that tonight, when he got paid, about not having a wallet and so having to carry his pay around loose in his trouser pocket. He remembered thinking about that, and also thinking that he must have had a wallet at some time or another, but a long long while ago. He couldn’t even remember it, it was so long ago.

  Then why did he have that note up there? If he’d left himself a note in this room about a wallet, then he must have had a wallet at some time while he’d been living in this room, and he’d only been living in this room for how long?

  He couldn’t remember.

  He frowned at that, beginning to be disturbed. Until he’d noticed that note on the wall, he hadn’t been worried about anything or even thinking about anything, just going though the normal
motions without paying any attention. But now everything was different, now he was starting to be scared.

  He looked around the room, and it was full of things he couldn’t understand or justify. Not just the note about his nonexistent wallet, but all the other notes as well; why did he have to have notes telling him about his job and his name and the details of his everyday life? And here was the money on his bed, sorted into neat piles, with one of the piles to be added to the little hoard of money in the dresser drawer, but what was that hoard of money for? And how long had he lived here? And why couldn’t he remember ever having a wallet?

  With the money and the pay envelope on the bed was a ribbon of white paper that had come with his pay. He opened it in a distracted way, half-expecting it to be packed with the answers to all his questions, and at the same time realizing it wouldn’t have anything to tell him at all.

  But it did have two things to tell him: his name, and the date. Paul Cole. He not only recognized the name at once, but also recognized that he hadn’t remembered it until he’d seen it. And the date, the twelfth of December, seven days from the babysitting evening with Edna.

  What was wrong? Why was his mind so leaden? Why didn’t he remember anything, or know what anything meant?

  How long had it been like this? He slept, he ate, he watched television, he went to work. The world was in constant flux, always either getting lighter or getting darker, and at every shade between night and day he had his simple function to perform, requiring no attention and no memory, and he’d never known anything was wrong.

  Now he did. If it wasn’t so massive, so total, and yet so vague, he’d be frightened out of his wits, but the wrong was too elusive-pervasive and he was only stunned by it. He sat limp-armed on the bed, thrust out of the mnemonic round of habit, but without strong memories or a sense of identity or place to sustain him. His name was Paul Cole, the date was December twelfth; beyond that he knew nothing.

  Well, no. He worked in the tannery, and he’d just been paid, he knew both of those things. This was his room, on the second floor of a house otherwise occupied by a family named Malloy, he knew that. Edna, Little Jack and Black Jack, Ralph, Artie Bellman, and even more, these were all names and faces he knew. It wasn’t as though he were drifting in a vacuum.