The Reincarnation of Peter Proud

by Max Ehrlich

  Occasionally they would talk of marriage, but in a deliberately vague way. Perhaps, they said. Someday. But they both knew it wasn’t really there, not for the long run. They appreciated each other, both physically and intellectually. They more than just liked each other, but someday, they knew, it would end, with deep regrets and a great sense of loss on the part of both. But in the meantime they enjoyed each other from day to day.

  Then one night, out of nowhere, without warning, his pleasant, peaceful existence was shattered.

  Chapter 13

  It was about two months after his last session with Hall Bentley, during the spring midterm break. He was sprawled on the couch in front of the television set, indifferently watching the end of one program and the start of another. The program just coming on was one of those documentaries the networks occasionally produced, the kind they put together to convince the FCC that they were indeed operating in the public interest and vitally interested in raising the cultural level of the American people. This one, according to the opening title, was on “The Changing Face of America.”

  He had played three hard sets of tennis that afternoon and was on his second martini. He felt pleasantly tired and drowsy. He had to struggle to keep his eyes open as he stared at the screen. Nora was in the kitchen broiling steaks. She was complaining to him about her job. He only half-listened as she went on irritably:

  “That bastard I work for—Dr. Lohrman—he’s been impossible lately. Having some trouble with his wife or something. I think she left him. Anyway, he’s taking it out on all his teaching assistants, particularly me. It seems I can’t do anything right. And do you know what I found out about him?”

  “What?”

  “He’s dishonest. Intellectually dishonest. I happen to know that he found an article in some obscure German publication, paraphrased it a little, and he’s going to use it in his own work. Publish it without credit….”

  On the television screen, a narrator came on. He stood on a huge floor map of the United States. This was a program, he said gravely, about contemporary America. The America you and I live in today. The America most of us love. We are going to show you how its face has changed, where America has gone, where it is now. How it has changed in population, in regional economics, and in other ways during the past fifty years.

  Peter drained the last of his martini. He was getting sleepier. Nora’s voice continued from the kitchen. Vaguely he heard her saying that she had had it up to here with being a T.A., especially for a demanding idiot like Lohrman. He was impossible. Here she was, a PhD candidate, treated like a child, paid a pittance, and still paying tuition. On top of all this, she had gone before the doctoral committee to present her dissertation subject and the chairman, a pompous son of a bitch, had rejected it. He had told her that she needed a more problem-oriented subject. And what the hell did that mean?

  Her voice drifted off. It became a babble from a distance. He stared fixedly at the television screen. Pictures were flashing on the screen now, quick cuts of various towns and villages. Grainy pictures taken long ago, the kind they would call Americana now. The narrator was talking about the Northeast now—specifically New England. Many years ago, he said, it was a vital industrial area. Here, in these towns and villages, were silk, paper, tool and die, textile, and small arms industries. It was an area full of skilled craftsmen, many of them immigrants from the old country, as well as native Yankees. But times had changed. Many of the industries had closed and moved south, where labor was cheaper.

  The pictures went on and on, a montage of shots, one after the other—towns and cities, circa 1920, from Maine to Connecticut. They showed principal streets, factories, residential sections, monuments, public squares and so forth, none of them identified by name.

  Suddenly he sat bolt upright. There, on the television screen, he saw it. His town.

  He was sure of it. There was one quick picture of the main street he knew so well. The stone railroad bridge over the street, its underside curved in the shape of an arch. Then a shot of the square he remembered. And the tower, an exact replica of the one he had seen so many times in the Tower Dream.

  They were only glimpses. The name of the town hadn’t been given. But it had been there, right on the screen. His town.

  He sat rigid, staring at the screen. The narrator was talking about the South now. Pictures of other cities, other towns, flipped by quickly. He sat there in a cold sweat. Then he yelled:

  “Nora!”

  She came running from the kitchen, looking alarmed. “What is it?”

  He told her what he had seen. He babbled it out, the words coming out in a rush. She stared at him.

  “Pete, you’re crazy.”

  “I told you. I saw it!”

  “You couldn’t have.”

  “I swear I saw it.”

  “All right,” she said. “You think you saw it. Maybe you did—in your imagination.”

  “No.”

  “Darling,” she said patiently, “there isn’t any such town. Not the one you dreamed about, anyway. You were just lying on the couch, you had had a couple of martinis, and you were half asleep. You know—daydreaming. You saw all these pictures flashing by, and you just identified with a couple of them. Had a kind of hallucination …”

  He stared at her. Now he was a little uncertain.

  “You think so?”

  “I don’t think, I know.”

  “I could have sworn I saw it, Nora. That railroad arch. That street. Right there on the screen. Staring me in the face. And that public square, and the tower …”

  “The next time, darling,” she said, “I’d go easy on the martinis. Especially when you’re so tired. Now why don’t you go in and wash up? Those steaks are almost ready.”

  Later he was unable to sleep. He tossed and turned, trying to recreate those few moments in front of the television set. Now he didn’t trust his memory. Maybe he had been dozing, or just seeing things.

  Still, he had been so damned sure.

  There was only one way to find out. Somehow, he had to get another look at that film.

  He called the network offices in Burbank. They did have a copy of the film, but it was locked up in a vault. It was against network policy to show it privately. However, if he wanted to put his request in writing, they would see that it was directed to the proper channel. In short, it was a dead end.

  Peter tried another tack. He had a few friends in the television industry, and one of them knew the producer of the show, a man named Paul Daley. Daley was located in the New York office of the network. The producer would certainly have an air copy of the film, and if Peter wanted him to, his friend would volunteer to call Daley personally.

  Peter called Daley in New York, mentioned his friend’s name, and told the producer a vague story of trying to trace his childhood hometown and thinking he’d seen shots of it in the film. He explained casually that he was going to be in the East on other business and would appreciate a chance to see the film. Daley was agreeable.

  Following that, he talked to Hall Bentley, The parapsychologist heard him out without comment. He told Bentley everything—his planned visit to the network, Nora’s reaction.

  “You know, Pete, maybe she’s right. It could have been just an illusion.”

  “But I swear I saw that town.”

  “One hundred percent sure?”

  “No.”

  “Then you thought you saw it.”

  “Yes. But at the time, I was sure.”

  “Look. It’s possible you did see it, in a manner of speaking. You were drinking, and tired, and almost dozing. You’re staring at the screen. All these pictures are going by—pictures of New England cities and towns. You’ve got a mental picture of your New England town, the one you dream about. It’s very vivid. You want to see that town—so much, it’s coming out of your ears. So you simply thrust it up there on the screen—among all the others.”

  “All right. I see what you mean.”

 
; “Another possibility. Maybe you actually dozed off and then hallucinated. As you did before.”

  “I haven’t done that once since you put me under …”

  “I never said the results would be permanent. You could slip back at any time.”

  “But why then? Why would I have that particular hallucination at the exact time I was watching that particular program?”

  “I don’t know. Unless the pictures you saw while you were still conscious triggered it.”

  “Still, it’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll quote you a much bigger one,” Bentley said dryly. “You dream about a particular town. And then, miracle of miracles, you see it on a television program.”

  They were silent for a while. Then:

  “Hall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Suppose it isn’t a coincidence at all. Suppose it’s true. Suppose it was all arranged.”

  “Arranged?” Bentley stared at him. “I don’t follow.”

  “I don’t know how to put this. I realize how strange it must sound. But it’s a feeling I have. That somebody or something is trying to tell me something. Otherwise, why did I have these hallucinations? Why me? And why did I just happen to turn on that program and see what I saw?”

  “We haven’t established that you saw anything.”

  “There’s a simple way to find out.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m going to New York. The answer’s there, on that film. Either I saw it or I didn’t.”

  Bentley was silent for a while. Then he said thoughtfully, “Pete, I don’t want you to get me wrong. I’m not trying to put you down. I’m a scientist. It’s my nature and my business to be skeptical, to prove any story out by picking holes in it and still finding it doesn’t leak. But I’m not that pure a scientist. You say you have this feeling that somebody is trying to tell you something. Maybe it’s true. After all, these hallucinations of yours are absolutely unique. I’ve interviewed thousands of patients, as I’ve said, and I’ve never come upon any case even remotely resembling yours. Even an idiot has to admit there are things happening all around us which no one understands. Just because they happen to be beyond our limited comprehension doesn’t mean they’re not true. We’re cracking new frontiers in human perception all the time. You’ve dreamed of a town, and now you think you’ve seen it on television. Maybe you did—just by chance. Which reminds me of something that Anatole France said about chance. You know the quotation?”

  “No.”

  “ ‘Chance is the pseudonym God uses when he doesn’t want to sign his own name.’ ” Bentley was silent for a while. Then he stirred.

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “There’s something I want you to do. And do it today, before you leave.”

  “Yes?”

  “Where’s that notebook, the one in which you recorded all those dreams?”

  “At home. Why?”

  “Go home and get it right after you leave here. Then get two Xerox copies. Mail one to me, registered mail. When I get it, I’ll put it, unopened, into a vault. Along with the tape we made while you were under hypnosis.”

  “What about the other copy?”

  “Get to a bank today, before they close. Take out a safe deposit box in your name.”

  “I’ve already got one.”

  “I’m sure you have. But take out a new box in some other bank. Put the other copy in that box. Then don’t make another visit to that vault. Don’t go near it again until I tell you. Your name and today’s date will be registered on the vault clerk’s admittance card. It’ll be the only entry, proving that you never made a second visit.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “You’ll have to hurry to get all this done.”

  “Why all this?”

  “I’ll give it to you in one big word: proof. If something happens, we’re going to need all of it we can get.”

  That night he told Nora he was going to New York. And as he packed, he told her why.

  “You’re out of your mind,” she said.

  “Maybe.”

  “You must see that what you’re doing is completely irrational”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I do.” She was angry now. “You didn’t see anything on that television set. Not one damned thing. Except what you wanted to see. There wasn’t any town that you recognized. Certainly no town that you dreamed of. It was all fantasy. Can’t you understand that?”

  “I’ll find out when I get there.”

  “Pete, listen to me. Stay here. Here you were, feeling fine. No more hallucinations. Cured. Now you’re getting involved again, opening up a whole new can of beans. Let it alone, Pete. Don’t go exploring now. Stay here.”

  “I can’t. I’ve got to see that film.”

  “Then you’ve made up your mind. And nothing I can say is going to change it.”

  “I’m sorry, Nora”

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I tried, but I’ve had enough. Frankly, you scare me, Pete. I don’t think you’re rational. I think you’re going over the edge and don’t realize it. Anyway, you won’t find me here when you get back.”

  Chapter 14

  He caught an 8:45 a.m. flight and arrived at Kennedy airport a few minutes before five. He picked up his bag and stepped out onto the curb. It was cold and raining hard. He had forgotten to take a raincoat, and he shivered as he hailed a cab. The traffic was snarled up as they came out on the Van Wyck Expressway. For a long time, they crawled along. Outside, the city was almost blanked out in a gray murk. The rain slanted hard against the windows of the cab. He felt tired and depressed.

  He checked into his hotel and had dinner in his room. He had no desire to go out. He could hear the wind howling and whining through the steel and glass canyons outside. It was still raining hard. As he stared out of the windows the city outside seemed hostile, set on another planet. He felt as though he were a stranger here, a displaced person. More than that. He felt like a fool.

  What am I doing here?

  Like an idiot, he had come all this way just to pursue a fantasy. Now he was sure that he had seen nothing, that it was just another hallucination. The conviction had begun to grow on him when he had boarded the plane. If the flight hadn’t been nonstop, he was sure he would have turned around and flown back home. Even Bentley had been skeptical. And Nora thought he was mad. Now he had lost her. When he had gotten up that morning, she was already up and packing. He had begged her to stay, but she remained stiff, remote. She had simply told him she would be back for the rest of her things later that day. Then she had walked out.

  He went to bed, more depressed than ever.

  That night they came again, for the first time in many weeks. One after the other. First, the Tree Dream. Then the Tower Dream and the Money Dream and the Tennis Dream and all the others. And ending, as always, with the Lake Dream.

  Paul Daley, the producer of “The Changing Face of America,” was young. He greeted Peter in his office, then took him up to the editing room. He had an assistant editor thread the Movieola, then turned to Peter.

  “I’ll start it going. I’ll be looking into the eyepiece here. But if you stand just a foot or two behind me, you’ll be able to see what’s going on, too. When you see the town come up, tell me to stop. Then I’ll be able to freeze the scene, so you’ll get a good look. Okay?”

  Peter nodded. There was a tight feeling in his chest. Then panic seized him. There isn’t going to be any town, he thought. There never was a town. Not on this film, and not anywhere else. And since there was no town, how could he tell Daley to stop the machine? Where? At what point on the film? It was absurd. He, Peter, would be caught with egg on his face. I thought the town was there. Sorry I wasted your time, Mr. Daley. It must have been something I just dreamed up. He wouldn’t blame the producer for throwing him out of the place.

  “All right. Let’s roll it.”

  Daley stepped on the foot pedal. The
re was a loud, whirring sound. Looking into the eyepiece, over Daley’s shoulder, Peter saw the title come on, then the narrator standing on the huge floor map of the United States. The narrator’s mouth was moving, but no sound came out. Vaguely, Peter remembered the gist of what he was saying. The America you and I love. And how its face has changed. Where it has gone, and where it is now …

  “That montage is coming up now,” said Daley. “Keep your eye peeled.”

  Suddenly the pictures came on the screen, grainy, old. New England towns. Factories belching smoke. Main streets. Forests. Mountain ranges. Rivers and fields. Farms. Close-ups of faces. Parks and monuments. White Colonial churches. Public squares. Workers swarming out of factories. Pedestrians crossing streets. First one town, then another. Then another.

  To Peter they seemed endless. At any moment, he knew, the locale would switch to the South, and it would be over. Not only the sequence, but his hope. He would have to tell Daley …

  Suddenly he saw it.

  “Stop!”

  Daley stopped the Movieola abruptly. The producer said, “That it? The one I just passed? The one with the tower?”

  “Yes.”

  The word came out of him in a croak. Daley glanced at him curiously.

  Peter had broken out into a cold sweat. He continued staring into the eyepiece, but the town was no longer there. Some other place was on the screen.

  “I overran it a little,” said Daley. “I’ll reverse the film, and then freeze the frame for you.” He stepped on the foot pedal again. The pictures slipped back into reverse. Then Daley froze the picture.

  His town. There it was. It was real. The picture had been taken from the tower. There was the river in the distance, lying there in that reverse-S curve. There was the square just below, the familiar monuments and walks, the benches where people sat. Just as he had seen it so many times in the Tower Dream.

  Daley moved the film back a couple of frames more. Now he saw what appeared to be a main street, with the stone railroad bridge with the archlike curve on its underside. He’d know it anywhere. Crowds of people were on the street. They were wearing old-fashioned clothes. This must have been taken sometime in the twenties. In his dream, of course, he had seen it in a much later period, the forties. But it was his town; there was no doubt about it. The picture on the tiny screen swam before his eyes.