Memory (Hard Case Crime)

by Donald E. Westlake

  “No...no. Nothing like that.”

  “Well... Begin wherever you like, then. Explain the situation as best you can, and if there are things I don’t understand I’ll ask you about them.”

  “All right. What, what it is, something’s...happened to me. I used to be an actor, and then this thing, this thing happened to me. I don’t remember— No. My memory isn’t good any more, that’s what it is.”

  “Memory?” The old priest had a vague and hopeful smile on his face; he was trying hard to understand. “You mean, you have amnesia?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t think so. It isn’t, it isn’t a sudden break in my memory, it’s just that everything sort of fades. People with amnesia remember everything back to when the amnesia started, and nothing before that, isn’t that the way it is?”

  “I’m sorry, I really don’t know anything about amnesia,” the old man said, then smiled again, adding, “except, of course, from motion pictures. But I believe it’s something like that, yes.”

  “What I’ve got is different from that, something else. I remember just bits and pieces of things. My memory is like a sieve, everything runs through it. In a few days, I’ll probably forget talking to you.”

  The priest seemed uncertain at that, as though not knowing whether or not to take offense. Then, setting it aside, he said, “Are you under a doctor’s care?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Well, you should be.” He seemed almost indignant, as though someone had been mistreating Cole. “From what you tell me about yourself, you certainly should have a doctor look at you. Do you live here in the Village?”

  “Yes. Over on—” Cole stopped, and felt a sickly smile of embarrassment cutting his face. He squeezed his mind painfully, and the name he wanted popped out. “On Grove Street,” he said.

  “Is your family there?”

  “No, they— Uh. I come from upstate.”

  “Ah.” The priest nodded. “This parish is filled with the rootless young,” he said, with some sad satisfaction. “But don’t you have any friends, anyone to help you?”

  “I haven’t talked to anybody since I came back.”

  “Back?”

  Cole realized he’d assumed the priest already knew about all that; as though his own decreased knowledge had proportionately increased everyone else’s. “I was away,” he explained. “A long way...” He gestured; a far distance. “I had a lot of trouble getting back.”

  “And you haven’t been in touch with your friends?”

  “No. I don’t remember them, it’s been too long, I don’t know what to say to them. I want to be better than this before I go see anybody I used to know.”

  “Well, you really ought to see a doctor. I’d be happy to recommend one for you, make the arrangements— Are you Catholic?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “No?” The priest seemed surprised at that, and then, struck by a sudden thought, he said, “Oh! Oh, dear!”

  Cole sat watching, wondering, while the priest stared past him at the opposite wall. Cole nervously rolled his cigarette between his fingers, and waited.

  “Mm,” said the priest thoughtfully. “That brings up the whole question of sin, doesn’t it?” Abruptly he smiled at Cole, pleased to see him. “You’re quite a theological problem, young man, do you realize that?”

  “I am?”

  “Yes, of course. Of course! Assuming you are Catholic—or, that is, you were Catholic before your accident—and now, not remembering yourself to be Catholic you—oh—you eat meat on Friday, you fail to attend Mass on Sunday, you—oh! Of course! You miss your Easter obligation!” His smile broadened; behind the parchment lips gleamed large, white, square, obviously false teeth. “Do you see the problem?”

  “I—no, I’m sorry.”

  “Well, of course not, you know nothing of Catholic doctrine, the commandments of the Church.” He held his hands out, palms up, as though comparing two weights; his palms were blue-white, irrigated with blue veins. “Everything depends,” he said, “on whether or not you were a Catholic at the time of your accident. If you were not, the problem is still religious but no longer specifically Catholic. You said your name was Cole?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’re probably not Jewish. You don’t look Jewish, though that doesn’t necessarily— Still, you’re probably some form of Christian, which means you very well could have been a Catholic. Have you returned to the home you lived in before the accident?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were there no religious pictures, statues, prayer books? A rosary?

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “Of course, that doesn’t prove anything, one way or the other. The rootless young very often drift away temporarily from their parents’ religion. On the other hand, if you weren’t Catholic, if there weren’t some trace of your Catholic past still in your mind, you wouldn’t have come here for help, would you?”

  Cole spread his hands. “I don’t know, I don’t know why I came. I just—”

  But the priest wasn’t interested. “It was memory,” he said. “You yourself said your memory isn’t really gone, only impaired. Some hint from your past life led you here; you must be Catholic.”

  “Well...”

  “Oh, no!” The priest held out placating hands. “Don’t worry, don’t let it trouble you, I’m not accusing you of anything! What is committed in the darkness of ignorance can always be forgiven, washed away in the light of truth. There’s time for that, plenty of time. Have no fear for your immortal soul, you won’t— For the moment, my interest is purely speculative, purely the simple theological question you raise. If you no longer remember your Catholicism, are you still bound by the rules of the Church? That is the question!”

  Cole said, “That isn’t— The question is, what am I going to do?”

  “Well, of course!” The old priest was animated now, his eyes sparkling, his pale hands darting in excited gestures. “What is your course of action? Shall you be treated as a baptized Catholic, with all of the privileges—and yet, all the responsibilities—of that condition, or has your changed physical and mental state created a change in your spiritual state as well? Which sacrament shall I offer you, baptism or holy confession?”

  Cole said, “No, that isn’t—”

  “Good heavens,” cried the priest. “Confession! There’s another problem. Why man, you don’t even remember your sins; how on earth can you possibly confess them?”

  Cole brushed his hand in front of his face, like a man who’s walked into cobwebs. “I don’t care about that,” he said. “That isn’t what I’m thinking about, I don’t care about any of that.”

  “Of course you don’t, that’s the whole point! Being lost in the outer darkness, you are unaware of the very existence of light. Ignorance remains ignorant of the possibility of knowledge, that is one of the great mysteries of the human condition.”

  There was nothing here for Cole; he looked pointedly at his watch, saying, “I have to—”

  “Of course. We can’t go any longer now anyway, I must get advice. You should come back to see me—no. Let me contact you, that would be better, give me a chance to assemble—” Rummaging in unsuspected pockets at the sides of his robe he produced a crumpled small envelope and a ballpoint pen. Clicking the pen with the absorption of a man who’s never done such a thing before, he smoothed the envelope on the table and said, “Just let me get your name and address. You said your name was Cole? Paul Cole?”

  Regretting having given the name in the first place, Cole now had to nod and say, “Yes, that’s right.”

  “How do you spell that?”

  Unhesitating, he said, “K-O-H-L.”

  “Good. And the address? Grove Street, you said?”

  “Yes. One hundred forty-two Grove Street.”

  “Fine. Your telephone number?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t remember it.”

  “I suppose it’s in the book.”

  “Yes.
I think so.”

  “Well, fine.” The priest got to his feet, and Cole followed him. Putting the pen and envelope away, the old man said, “I never fail to be astonished at the complexity of the Almighty.” He smiled, patted Cole on the shoulder. “We will help one another,” he said. “Come, I’ll accompany you to the door.”

  Walking beside the old man, it occurred to Cole that a doctor had been mentioned earlier, the priest had been going to recommend a doctor, maybe arrange an appointment. In his theological excitement, he’d forgotten all about it. Cole nearly brought it up again now, but held back; he had no desire to prolong conversation with this man.

  At the door, the priest said, “You’ll be hearing from me, you can be sure of that.”

  “All right,” said Cole. “Goodbye.” He turned away from the smiling face, and went down to the street.

  The afternoon was ending. The sun had disappeared behind the buildings now, and a colder damper breeze was rushing along the narrow streets. There were fewer pedestrians, fewer cars.

  Cole walked toward his apartment, hunching his shoulders within his clothes, wondering why he had expected anything from that visit to the church. The priest had, after all, turned out only to be Benny again, too involved with his own complexities to be of any help to Cole. But what help had Cole expected, what help did he want? He didn’t know, couldn’t say in words, and maybe that after all was the surest sign that he needed help.

  He stopped at a small grocery store on the way, and bought food for dinner.

  17

  Cole came out of the Unemployment Insurance office feeling bitter and frustrated. In anything he tried to do, there were always necessities he hadn’t thought of, and in every contact he made with others of his species there was always a wall of either indifference or self-concentration that couldn’t be surmounted.

  It had been the same just now, when he had gone in to sign for Unemployment Insurance. He had brought along the payment booklet, but that had turned out to be not enough. They had to know more about him than that. They had to know where he had last worked, and under what circumstances he had left his last employment, and neither of these facts did he know. He had stood in a long line for an hour and ten minutes, and had talked to a snappish stout woman with gray wiry hair for two or three minutes, and now he was back on the street again, having it all to do over again, and facts to learn about himself before he could even re-begin.

  Outside, it was a miserable day. A cold slanting rain knifed endlessly from a low gray sky. The Christmas decorations all over midtown Manhattan looked like ancient relics untimely ripped from some rotting attic, hung out in the wet air to finish their decomposition. Surly Christmas shoppers milled aimlessly on the streets, poking one another with black umbrellas. And the subway platform, when Cole went down to it, stank like wet green wool. He stood waiting there for the train; he and all the other waiting people on the platform reminiscent mostly of tired range horses standing in the rain.

  The train came and Cole boarded, and found a seat. Mute irritability was on every face, including his own. He rode downtown, and got out at his stop, and walked homeward through the rain, where at first all he did was strip out of his wet clothing and make a cup of instant coffee. He made toast, too, and put one of the blaring records on, and sat a while at the kitchen table in his underwear.

  He had the conviction that he didn’t belong. This city was two great slabs of concrete, with all the people crawling through the narrow space between them; at least, that was the way it seemed to him now. But he was also convinced that this would all change once he was himself again; in the old days, he must have been adapted to this life. The music was a part of it, and friends like Benny, and an environment that included the subway and the bitter woman in the Unemployment Insurance office. When he was his old self again, all of those things would seem natural to him, and not bother him. Some he would think good, and the rest he would take in his stride. A kind of slow-burning impatience filled him when he thought this way. He wanted to get out of this slough of despond, and soon.

  With the coffee and toast in him, with the apartment around him, he gradually warmed, and the present began to look less bleak. He got to his feet after a while, and went into the bedroom, and put on fresh clothing.

  The bedroom was already spotted with notes, scotch-taped here and there to the walls. One near the bed told him to wind the clock. One near the door told him not to leave the place unlocked. Another, obsolete now, told him to go to the Unemployment Insurance office this morning, and to look on the desk for the payment book. Another, the result of a sudden thought after he was already in bed last night, reminded him that seventy-five dollars rent was due the first of January, and that twenty-five dollars was owed Benny and must be paid as soon as possible, lest he forget it. And finally, one on the closet door told him to check off each day on the desk calendar, so he would always know the day of the week and the date.

  Dressed, surrounded by reassuring familiarity and bolstering notes, Cole sat at the little metal desk and went though his old income tax forms again. It seemed to him that he remembered something about having an agent, an actor’s agent. If anyone could give him the information the Unemployment Insurance office needed...

  Yes, here it was. Mrs. Helen Arndt. And in the little blue book of telephone numbers, “Helen – CI5-3610.”

  He hadn’t wanted to have to do this, to get in touch with anyone from his old life, but now he had no choice, he needed the money too badly. He’d just have to take the chance. He’d speak to this Mrs. Helen Arndt, and see how the conversation went, and try to see ahead of time the right thing to do.

  He dialed, and the phone was answered on the first ring, by a woman with a husky voice saying hello. Cole asked for Mrs. Arndt and the woman said speaking, and Cole gave his name. Her tone suddenly changed. “Paul! Honey, where have you been all these years?”

  “Can I come see you this afternoon?”

  “Of course, baby. After two-thirty, hear?”

  “All right.”

  “And you’ll tell me all your adventures.”

  “Yes,” he said, made wary by that but also somewhat distracted. Her voice had suddenly sounded familiar to him, had sounded like a voice that was no surprise to hear. He tried to put a face to it, but the only thing he got was a dim image of a face below a lavender hat.

  “Two-thirty, then,” she said, and the conversation was finished.

  He immediately made two notes, one with Mrs. Arndt’s office address on it, which he put in his pocket, and the other reminding him to go there this afternoon at two-thirty, which he scotch-taped to the front door.

  He’d recognized her voice. That was a good sign, that; and if the blurred image in the lavender hat turned out to be meaningful it would be an even better sign. He’d know in less than three hours.

  The record on the phonograph came to an end, and he went over and replaced it. This music was still harsh and callous in his ears, but he was determined to adapt to it. Turning away from the phonograph after replacing the record, he glanced across the room at the plank-and-brick bookcase, and it occurred to him to wonder whether the books would be like the records, or if here at last he would find some common ground with his former self. He went over to look, and for the next two hours, he sat on the floor and studied his books.

  There were books on acting, plus volumes of plays among the hardcover books on the bottom shelf and anthologies of plays in paperback form, and paperback biographies of current entertainers. Half a shelf was taken up by paperback collections of cartoons, most of a sexual slant, and the rest of that shelf was given over to collections of short stories and paperback editions of bestsellers. There was some science-fiction, too, and a few private eye novels. Finally, there were two or three books on the movies.

  Cole looked into almost all the books. Here and there a phrase or chapter title or cartoon would strike a familiar chord, but most of what he saw was strange to him. His old self, of course, ha
d read all these books, contained them all within his mind. So they must still be there in Cole’s mind now, part of the knowledge still buried under rubble. Should he reread them all in hopes of the rereading helping to open his memory, or should he wait until other things opened it, when rereading would no longer be necessary? He wasn’t sure, and finally decided to let matters take their natural course; if he felt like reading one of these books, he would, but he wouldn’t force himself.

  At ten past two he left the apartment and walked through the still-falling rain to the subway. The sidewalks were greasy now, the rain beginning to freeze where it landed. Trucks and taxis splashed down Seventh Avenue, most of them with their headlights on though it was still early afternoon. But the cloud layer seemed even lower and darker and thicker than this morning, and the slanting rain was like veils, obscuring everything behind a few feet away.

  Mrs. Arndt’s office was in a grim building on Eighth Avenue, between 46th and 47th Streets. There was a single elevator, very old-fashioned looking, operated by an old man in a faded flannel shirt and gray workpants. He took Cole up to the third floor, and Cole, walking down the hall amid faint rustlings of recognition, found the office for himself.

  HELEN ARNDT

  Theatrical Representative

  Cole walked in and found himself in a small room shoulder-deep in dark green filing cabinets. In an open space in the center was a small desk and a young red-haired girl who smiled at him and said, “Hi, Paul. Long time no see.”

  But this wasn’t Mrs. Arndt. He knew who she was, this girl, but he couldn’t quite get the knowledge out where he could see it. He forced a friendly smile on his face and said, “Hi.”

  The girl spoke into the cream phone on her desk, and then said to Cole, “Go right on in.” The friendly smile was still on both their faces, but Cole was suddenly terrified. He would never be able to keep Mrs. Arndt from finding out. What would she do?

  A wooden door that said Private on it was on the other side of the desk. Cole went over there, nodded at the girl because he was at a loss for what to say to her, and pushed open the door.