by Max Ehrlich
“Sam, what’s my diagnosis?”
It seemed to him that Goodman’s voice was guarded.
“Can’t give any results till all the horses are in, Pete.”
“When will that be?”
“In a couple of days.”
“Look, isn’t there something you could tell me?”
“Take it easy, Pete. I told you, I’ll need a few more days.”
He hung up. Something told him Sam Goodman was stalling. There was a certain tautness in his voice, a strain, an evasiveness. Or so it seemed. But then he thought, maybe I’m just imagining all this, looking for some kind of bogeyman.
He slept in the lab ten nights in a row. On the eleventh day he called Goodman again.
“Sam, it’s been a few more days. Now, let’s talk about it, okay?”
There was a long pause at the other end. Then he heard a sigh.
“Okay, Pete. My office. Four o’clock this afternoon.”
Sam Goodman put a match to his pipe. It went out. He tried another.
“Pete, we’ve come to some conclusions. Or, rather, conjectures.”
“Yes?”
“At first we thought you were simply an extreme case of dream amnesia. But after a few arousals, it’s clear to us that you’re suffering from what we can dream deprivation. A certain amount of this isn’t unusual. But yours is total. You’re a man who doesn’t dream at all. You had practically no rapid eye movements. Your REMs barely recorded. Same with the EEG. Your brain waves were very small, gave only very weak signals.”
“But I did dream, Sam. I had the same ones I told you about.”
“Maybe. But they didn’t register as dreams.”
“Then what the hell are they?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been in sleep research for years, and they’re unique in my experience. Staub called them hallucinations, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Then that’s what they must be. Or they could be memory plants, visions, revelations. Hell, I don’t know. Pete, you’re going through some kind of wild psychic experience. That’s all I can tell you.”
“No,” said Peter. “You know more than you’re telling me. Look, give it to me straight. I’ve got something to worry about here—is that it?”
Goodman avoided his eyes.
“I wish you hadn’t asked me that.”
“But I am asking you.”
Sam Goodman’s pipe went out. He picked up a book of matches to relight it. Then he threw the matches back onto the desk.
“Pete, first you’ve got to understand—I’m not very good at playing young Doctor Jones, the way they do on television. All I can give you are certain facts as I know them. A certain amount of normal dreaming is a requirement of any human being. Both physically and mentally. It seems to give immunity against psychosis.”
“Go on.”
“Nobody seems to really know why. Oh, there are theories. When people are dream-deprived, they’re unable to discharge certain tensions, infantile or otherwise. The nightly dream cycle provides release for these pressures. If the cycle is suppressed, then the pressures may be dammed up and at some point could break through. When this happens, the mind is swamped by distorted images. The senses are confused. Ordinary perceptions become blunted. Put it another way. When we dream, it allows us to go quietly and safely insane each night of our lives, instead of each day.”
“In other words, I’m on my way. Sooner or later, I’ve got to crack up. Go crazy. Psycho.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But that’s what you mean.”
“Look,” said Goodman carefully. “I agree, you have a problem. And it’s serious. But all this is premature. We just don’t have any precedent …”
“Damn it, Sam,” Pete said furiously, “will you level with me? If I don’t start to dream normally pretty soon, I’ve got a brilliant future as a gibbering idiot. Is that it? Or isn’t it?”
“Take it easy, Pete. We’ve still got some time. There has to be some way to pull you out of this. Somebody will come up with something.”
He sat there, shaken. Sam continued talking, but Pete hardly heard what he was saying.
Chapter 6
All that night he was unable to sleep.
The next morning, bleary-eyed and haggard, he flew north to a town in Mono County called Bridgeport. He had been retained by the California Indian Legal Services and the Native American Rights Fund to testify on behalf of a small colony of Paiute Indians who were trying to keep twenty acres of ancestral land. The government wanted it for a federal reclamation project.
It was his job as an expert to testify that the members of the colony were legitimate descendants of the original Paiutes; further, that their ancestors had occupied this land long before the first white man had come to their valley in the high Sierra, and that the occupation of the land was entirely valid, by treaty. If the Paiutes lost this land, and therefore a settled status, they could not qualify for federal housing aid and other programs designed to improve their jobless, welfare-dependent lives.
When he was called upon to testify, he blew it.
It wasn’t just that he was tired. Somehow, he couldn’t coordinate his testimony. He had lapses of memory. He had to refer repeatedly to files from his briefcase. He shuffled documents interminably, trying to find what he needed. He could hear the restless movements of those in the hearing room, the shocked whispering. He stammered and stuttered through his opening statement. An attorney from the Department of the Interior began to cross-examine him and somehow trapped Peter into contradicting himself. Everything seemed involuted, unreal. Peter’s testimony, although sympathetic, turned out to be damaging. He practically conceded that this particular band of Paiutes were squatters on someone else’s land. Under a patent issued in 1914 by the old General Land Office and under the Desert Land Act, the land had been sold to a non-Indian who claimed it was unoccupied. Peter knew this was illegal. But because he did not have his wits with him this day, he was unable to prove it.
When the hearing was over, he walked out red-faced. A senator on the Senate Indian affairs subcommittee who was sympathetic to the Paiute cause glared at him. The people who had retained him were hostile, tight-lipped. The few Paiutes who were there simply stared at him. He knew he would remember those hopeless, hurt faces for a long, long time.
He walked out onto the street. He swayed dizzily. He knew he could not travel back to Los Angeles, not now. He was just too tired. He had to sleep.
He found a motel and checked in.
First, he had the Baby Dream. He was in a quiet room, a child’s nursery, late at night. There was a white crib, pink blankets. And the sound of a baby’s cry. He picked up the baby and held it. He could feel the fretful child’s hot cheek against his and smell the odor of feces and urine, and then she appeared in the doorway, wearing a nightgown, staring at him, looking upset, and it was Marcia….
Next, almost immediately, the Cliff Dream. It was night, and he was on a grassy knoll just at the edge of a cliff, and below, in the valley, you could see the winding river and the myriad lights of a city on both banks. He was with Marcia and both of them were naked, and then they sank to the grass and she spread her legs for him, and he was on top of her….
And finally, the Automobile Dream again.
The same as before, to the last detail. It was an open car, and they were going very fast. They could see the branches of the trees flash by overhead. The sky was clear and spattered with stars. The moon was a thin crescent. Around her neck the woman with the red hair wore a red scarf. Her hair was flying in the wind, and there was a look of ecstasy on her face. He could hear her singing, but he could not identify the song. The motor hummed and purred. The ride was smooth, without vibration. He had the illusion that soon they would take oft as though they were on an airport runway. Soon they would leave the ground and fly over the trees and toward the stars. Then the girl’s eyes were closed, her head thrown back. She was
still singing, but the words were lost in the wind.
But again, as before, it was the car itself that enchanted him. Long and low and sleek. Large curving fenders. Black broadloom carpeting; red leather upholstery. Burled walnut-grain instrument panel. The color-indicator speedometer. He noted the mileage on the speedometer gauge: exactly 18,342 miles. Although from his position at the wheel he could not see the outside, he knew what it looked like.
His passenger continued to sing, oblivious to everything. Her eyes closed, an ecstatic smile on her full, red mouth.
He stepped on the gas. The speedometer needle changed color. From yellow to red. Sixty. Seventy. They were flying now. They were really flying….
He awoke. He had slept through the whole afternoon, and then the night. He dressed, had breakfast, and drove out to the airport.
On the plane he began to think about the Automobile Dream. It was beginning to obsess him. Of them all, it was the most detailed, the most specific. He could literally see that car. It was almost frightening how clearly he could see it. And the exact mileage. Eighteen thousand, three hundred and forty-two miles. How specific could you get?
It was an old car. A quality car, classic, built long ago. That much he knew. But he wasn’t a classic car buff; old cars didn’t interest him. He had seen an exhibit of them once in a museum; he did not remember where. He’d also seen custom car rallies: the men in those old-fashioned driving caps and wearing big gloves and goggles; the women in wide brimmed hats with the veils coming down over their faces. He’d see them parade the cars along the freeway—Model T Fords, Pierce Arrows, and the like. They belonged to some kind of club, he knew. Met for lunch, attended auctions, watched the ads for classic cars.
But he had the impression that this one, the car he had imagined in his fantasy, was much newer than these museum pieces. His curiosity started to gnaw at him. He couldn’t wait till the plane touched down at International Airport in Los Angeles.
He picked up his car and instead of driving home went straight to the campus. He parked his car and walked quickly past Bunche Hall, Haines Hall, and across Dickson Plaza. He felt impelled now, driven. His heart was beating hard, the excitement whipping his blood.
He entered the Powell Library, and went directly to the desk of the Reader’s Adviser. There were two students ahead of him. He waited impatiently. One wanted to know where she could find a book on the art of embroidery. The other wanted to know where he could find material on energy transfer processes in chemical kinetics. The boy was politely informed that he was in the wrong place, that what he wanted was the Research Library.
Finally it was Peter’s turn.
“Yes?”
“I’d like to find a book on old cars. Classic cars.”
“Oh, yes.” She thought a moment. “I believe we have several.”
She led him to one of the stacks. “You’ll find them on this shelf.”
There were several books on the subject. He began to go through them one by one. He quickly sorted out those which portrayed the very early cars and others which emphasized the ancient Model T’s, the Durants, and the Marmons. His car wasn’t that old.
He began to go through the others carefully, page by page. Picture History of Motoring, Cars of the Early Thirties, Treasury of U.S. Cars, Sports and Classic Cars. He studied illustration after illustration. Cars of the past, with familiar names: Cadillac, Lincoln, Chrysler. Vaguely familiar names: Pierce Arrow, Duisenberg, LaSalle, Daimler, Cord, and Stutz. And exotic and almost forgotten names: De Grand Lux, Hispano Suiza, Isotta-Fraschini, Marmon, Peerless, and Wills Sainte Claire.
Then he saw it. On page 158 of The Great American Automobile. His car.
It was an exact replica—beautifully photographed, both exterior and interior. He’d have known it anywhere.
He read the copy under the photographs.
PACKARD CLIPPER. Custom Convertible. Last of the Classic Packards. Construction begun August 25, 1941. Ended February 9, 1942, by government decree, when all new car models were suspended for the duration of the war. In these five months of production, 33,776 units were produced.
These luxurious and expensive eight-cylinder cars were identified by a long vertical grill with small horizontal bars, and by their large wheels with large disc caps. The fenders were large and rakishly curved. The Clipper was popular with those who could afford it, because of its long, low, racy design.
The interior on this model has true red leather upholstery and a black broadloom carpet. It features a burled walnut-grain instrument panel, and a pushbutton radio mounted in the center of the dash. A special feature, and unique to the Clipper, was a color-indicator speedometer. It changed colors as the car increased speed. From zero to thirty it was green, thirty to fifty yellow, and at speeds beyond fifty, red….
He took the book to the Xerox machine, made a photocopy of page 158, and slipped it into his briefcase.
As he walked out of the library, he suddenly stopped dead still in the middle of Dickson Plaza.
He was dimly aware that he was the focus of some attention. Groups of passing students paused to stare at him curiously. One girl half turned, as though to ask him if he was all right, then changed her mind, shrugged, and went on.
He stood there for a long time.
It had suddenly occurred to him that he was born in 1946. October 10, 1946, to be exact. About the same time that that car had been in style.
He began to walk toward Parking Structure Number Three. He no longer had any doubt about it. He had lived in some previous life as the man he thought of as X. He wondered what kind of man X was, what he thought about, what he did, what other people thought of him. It struck him suddenly, and with shock, that perhaps X was evil. Perhaps he had committed an unpardonable sin as far as this woman Marcia was concerned. Otherwise, why had she wielded that murder weapon so viciously, with such obvious hatred? Why had she cut him off in the prime of his life?
And before X? Reincarnation meant that you lived many previous lives. That you were born and died and were born again. The soul remained the same, but it inhabited one body after another. Who had he been before X? What kind of man had he been? Good or evil? He considered himself a civilized and decent person now. But for all he knew, back in some previous life he could have been a rapist or a murderer. The thought wasn’t pleasant. But of course he would never really know.
Chapter 7
That night, he decided that he could not keep Nora in ignorance any longer. He told her everything, from the beginning right up to his discovery in the library.
“I must have had another life before this one. Before October 10, 1946. I know I was the man playing tennis, and swimming that lake, and driving that car. And this woman Marcia must have been something to me. Wife, lover, something.”
“I see. So you’ve been reincarnated. You died and you were born again. But you don’t know your name, rank, or serial number.”
“No.”
“Well,” she sighed, “you’re worse off than all those people in the institutions. At least they know they’re Napoleon, or Joan of Arc, or General Grant.”
“Damn it, I’m serious!”
“I know you are, Pete. But really—reincarnation?”
“A lot of people believe in reincarnation, Nora.”
“Oh, I know. Thousands, maybe millions. They believe in astrology charts, and tarot cards, and witchcraft, and gurus who’ll read your fortune for twenty-five dollars an hour. Most of them are kooks, or just plain simple-minded. I know the kids are going for the reincarnation thing in a big way. But they’ll go for anything that gives them an out, a chance to escape reality. They’re looking for miracles to make them feel better. Anyway, it’s just a fad with them, the way so many of these things are.”
Pete’s eyes wandered down to Nora’s left wrist, on which she was wearing two big copper bracelets. They were supposed to protect you from arthritis, rheumatism, tennis elbow, and sciatica. He had noticed any number of women wearing them, and
a few men.
Nora saw his grin. Her face turned red.
“Oh, look,” She said. “I just wear these for fun. It’s just a—well, it’s a gag. You know.”
“Sure,” he said. “I know.”
“Oh, go to hell!” She laughed, then grew serious.
“But really, Pete, think about it, and you’ll see how ridiculous it is. You die, but you don’t really die. Your soul doesn’t go to heaven or to hell, like the fire and brimstone preachers said it would, but floats around until it finds a home in another body. Maybe that new body was born ten years later, or a hundred years later. And so on and so on. Life is just one big karma trip. Now—can you really buy that? Really?”
“I don’t know,”
“When you’re dead, you’re dead. When they bury you in the ground, or cremate you, you’ve had it. You’re just a bunch of chemicals turned into ash. And there isn’t any more. Period.”
He thought a moment. “Nora, there’s something I want to try.”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to set up a tape recorder next to my bed. If that voice you heard ever comes out of me again, maybe you could record it for me. I want to hear it.”
“What’s the point of that?”
“I just want to hear it. Or him.”
“Pete,” She said. “Listen to me. Let it alone. Don’t make waves.”
“It’s something I’ve got to try.”
He felt Nora tugging at him furiously, shaking him out of sleep. He opened his eyes and saw that it was early in the morning. As before, she was pale and shaken.
“Listen,” she said.
She turned on the tape recorder. At first he heard what seemed to be someone breathing, then chuckling under his breath. Then it came—a long, piercing, blood-curdling scream. A kind of howl, like a war cry.
He listened transfixed, chilled to his marrow.
“My God,” he said softly. “Oh, my God.”
“Now there’ll be a pause,” said Nora. “Nothing happens for a little while.”
