Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by J. Francis McComas

  But you couldn’t tell Marcia that you had a one-way paralysis. Why not? Well, you just couldn’t!

  MONTROSE stood up. He stretched slowly, raising himself on tiptoe. His body felt fine. Clenching his fists at his sides, he jogged in place for several minutes. Swinging his arms violently, he performed several spectacular bending exercises.

  “I’m all right,” Montrose gloated. “I’m thirty-four and I’ll bet I could run a hundred in ten flat. In fact, I’ll go over to the gym and prove it!

  He was a little tight, of course. But as he walked over to the gym, his stride was long and even and his body was erect.

  Montrose looked at his nude body before putting on a gym suit. Not a blemish. Stomach flat, shoulders broad. A damn’ good body!

  “Hi, Frank! What is this, an Adonis act?”

  Dr. Sam Halsey, his chunky body in gym trunks, stood at the end of the row of lockers, grinning widely at him. Montrose blushed, then laughed.

  “Hello, Sami I’m developing a new fixation for you to play around with. I’ve fallen in love with my big toe!”

  “Listen, bud,” grinned Halsey, “you wouldn’t expect a big-shot alienist like me to fool with that, would you?”

  “All right, big shot, just how would you cure it?”

  “Simple,” Halsey said with mock gravity. “Just amputate the toe!”

  The both laughed heartily.

  “Say, Frank, how about a few fast rounds? I haven’t had the gloves on for a month.”

  “Swell,” nodded Montrose. “Check ’em out, will you, while I get a suit on?”

  Montrose slid easily between the ropes and went to one corner of the ring. The padded canvas felt light and springy beneath his feet. He looked warily over at Halsey, now going into his customary crouch. As Montrose edged out into the ring, he remembered the drinks. Have to keep Halsey away from the body, today.

  “Okay?” called Halsey.

  “You may fire when ready, Gridley.”

  Halsey hunched his shoulders and charged. It was his usual attack. Montrose, taller and with a decided edge in reach, usually side-stepped that first rush and did some deadly work with a left jab.

  Not today, however.

  Montrose extended his hand for the jab. That is, he tried to extend it. His left, and then his right, came up and covered his face—like a child shutting his gaze off from some feared thing. Nor did Montrose side-step. Instead, he jumped wildly backward, bounced against the ropes, then turned his back to Halsey and ran away from him.

  Halsey stopped.

  “Hey!” he grunted. “What goes?”

  Montrose crashed into the ropes at the opposite side of the ring.

  “Don’t hit me!” he yelled. “You mustn’t hurt me!”

  Halsey dropped his hands.

  “Huh! What did you say?”

  Montrose dropped his hands. He stared at Halsey, eyes glassy with fear. Halsey frowned at that fixed stare. Then, Montrose shook his head. Intelligent fear replaced the hysteria in his eyes.

  “Wha—what did I say?” he stammered.

  Halsey told him.

  Montrose looked down at his gloved hands.

  HALSEY went over to him. He laid a glove on Montrose’s shoulder, noticing the involuntary wince as he raised the glove.

  “Tell me, Frank.” It was the psychiatrist speaking now. “What’s wrong?”

  Montrose did not lift his head.

  “I—oh hell, Sam! I might as well tell the truth! I was scared! I had to cover up—run away, so you couldn’t hit me!”

  “You were afraid of getting hurt?”

  “That’s it!” Montrose raised his head and looked beseechingly at the other. “You know I’m not a coward, Sam!”

  “Sure I do,” soothed Halsey. “Now, you and I are getting dressed and then we’ll go over to my office. Something’s bothering you, fellow, and I’ll find out what it is!”

  They had quite a talk. Halsey opened a bottle of very good Scotch, let Montrose have all he wanted. In half an hour, Montrose was telling the story of his life. When he had finished, Halsey fiddled with his key chain for a while, then grinned at Montrose.

  “I envy you,” he said. “You’ve been places and done things.”

  “I’m a lot happier right here in Pleasanton!”

  “With a girl like Marcia! You should be, Frank!”

  Halsey cleared his throat.

  “You see, Frank, Marcia’s really the crux of the matter. Tell me, does she know about this deal you made with the hospital?”

  “God, no! As a matter of fact, I’d forgotten it myself—until today . . .”

  Halsey nodded.

  “I see. Well, fellow, you haven’t forgotten about it! At least, your subconscious has made quite a play with that fact.”

  “What’s that got to do with Marcia?” frowned Montrose.

  “A guilt sense. Subconsciously, you believe that your body doesn’t belong to you any more. You can’t marry Marcia with a body that doesn’t belong to you. It’s cheating yourself and her!”

  Montrose fiddled with his empty glass.

  “That sounds pretty far-fetched to me, Sam,” he muttered. “I don’t quite get it.”

  “Look.” Halsey’s voice was patient. “You’re a high strung, imaginative fellow. You’re deeply in love with Marcia. You feel that she has re-made your life—which she has. And because of this—this sale of your body—you don’t feel worthy of her. That rankles!”

  “And that’s why I—I couldn’t go in the church?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then what do I do?”

  Halsey leaned back in his chair, grinning widely.

  “I wish I could cure all my patients as easily.” He looked at his watch. “Let’s see, it’s noon. You get the one o’clock plane to the city. Go over to the hospital and buy back that damn’ bill of sale. Tear it up—come back here—and I’ll get tight at your wedding!”

  Montrose hesitated, then rose slowly from his chair.

  “Are you sure, Sam?”

  “Of course I am!”

  “We—ell . . . it sounds good. But I’ve had the feeling as though this was something I didn’t know about—something I, personally, couldn’t control . . .”

  HE PAID the driver and stood for a moment, staring curiously at the small hospital. Actually, he was seeing it for the first time. Montrose walked slowly up the tiled walk. His hand slowed a little as he reached to push open the door. A vague uneasiness crept over him.

  A brisk, middle-aged woman in a severe suit looked up from the switchboard as Montrose approached.

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like to see Dr. Aloysio.”

  “Dr. Aloysio does not see anyone without an appointment.”

  “I think he will know me. Mr. Frank Montrose. I’m in the city for just an hour or two and it’s very urgent.”

  “All right,” the woman said doubtfully. “I’ll call him.”

  Montrose turned away as she plugged in the call. The air was still heavy with the hospital smell. But, in the afternoon light, the place was certainly different. More cheerful. He tried to picture the haunting gloom of his previous visit.

  “Dr. Aloysio does not know you, sir.” Montrose swung back to face her. “If you will state your business, he will give you an appointment.”

  Montrose frowned. Had the doctor forgotten? Of course not! No one, even J.P. Morgan, forgets giving out a hundred dollars. Then what went on here?

  “Ask Dr. Aloysio to think again,” Montrose snapped. “Just mention one hundred dollars to him!”

  The woman’s mouth tightened.

  “Dr. Aloysio has an excellent memory,” she grated. “He said that he had never heard of you!”

  Montrose paled. The woman flinched a little before the blazing fire in his eyes. Blind, hot anger surged over him. The day had been terrible enough without this last, unreasonable complication.

  “I think,” he grated, “that I can soon convince Dr. Aloysio that he does re
member me!”

  He strode down the corridor to the office door. The woman started to rise, then hastily plugged in a line.

  Montrose jerked open the door and stalked into the office of Dr. Aloysio.

  Dr. Aloysio was seated at the big desk.

  “Who are you, sir.” There was restrained anger in the clipped tones. “What do you want?”

  Montrose stood in front of the desk. He leaned forward, palms of both hands flat on the desk’s oaken top.

  “Take a good look, Dr. Aloysio,” he said as calmly as he could. “Don’t you remember me now?”

  The cold eyes behind the glasses gave no hint of recognition.

  “I do not, sir.”

  The doctor’s phone rang. The doctor ignored Montrose completely as he lifted it from its cradle.

  “Yes? Yes, he is here now. If I do not phone you in five minutes, summon two orderlies!”

  That was wrong. Even in his anger, Montrose remembered the other voice. The Dr. Aloysio had been pompous, wordy. Now . . .

  The devil with that! A man’s voice is different at different times! And he wasn’t here to worry about this damned doctor’s vocal characteristics. Montrose took out his wallet and took out a hundred dollars.

  “Let’s cut out the foolery, Dr. Aloysio,” he snapped. “There is a hundred dollars. Take it and give me back the agreement!”

  Dr. Aloysio stared at the bill.

  “My dear sir,” he said, “I do not know you at all. Still less do I know what you are talking about!”

  He almost convinced Montrose. The hand that held the money wavered, drew back. Dr. Aloysio permitted himself a small nod. That jerked Montrose back to his taut fury.

  HOLDING himself in as best he could, Montrose jerked out the story of the episode of a year ago. Dr. Aloysio’s eyes widened, then narrowed in a stare of clinical appraisal. When Montrose had finished, he arose, walked around the desk and stood in front of Montrose.

  “Mr. Montrose,” he said, “you are obviously not drunk. From a cursory examination, I would think you sane—sane but, at present, emotionally unbalanced. You—”

  “I did not come here for an examination!” Montrose’s voice rose. “Damn it to hell—I’ve had a bad day—I’m not going to stand here and let you make it worse. I don’t know what your motive is and I don’t give a damn! But, damn you—tell me you didn’t write this! If you can!”

  Montrose tossed the money on the desk. It slipped to the floor, but neither man noticed it. His whole body was trembling as Montrose jerked out his wallet again. His fingers probed awkwardly for the agreement., found it, creased and worn. He smoothed it out, held it in front of the doctor’s face.

  “Take a look at that! You wrote it and your fat friend, Fesler, watched you write it!”

  “Fesler? Dr. Fesler?”

  “Oh, God!” cried Montrose. “Won’t you stop it! He was here in the office with you.”

  Dr. Aloysio lost his impersonal calm for the first time. His voice was hesitant as he said,

  “My good friend Dr. Fesler died three years ago.”

  There was a loud knock at the door.

  “Go away, boys,” called Aloysio, “it’s all right.”

  As retreating footsteps sounded down the hall, Aloysio held out his hand.

  “Let me see that agreement, please.”

  Montrose handed it over. Aloysio looked at it carefully. He sighed. Most of his professional aplomb came back.

  “I did not write that, Mr. Montrose. Wait,” as Montrose opened his mouth. He opened a drawer in the desk. “Here is one of my notebooks. Compare the handwritings.”

  Montrose did so. The room teetered crazily. His anger left him, to be replaced with a crawling, snickering fear. The handwriting of the agreement was not that of Dr. Aloysio. From afar off, Montrose seemed to hear a wild, jeering laugh.

  “Here, man!” cried Dr. Aloysio. “Sit down.”

  Montrose felt his arm taken, was steered to a chair. He felt himself fall into an easy chair, heard the doctor move back to his desk. Then the sharp fumes of smelling salts cleared his fogged brain.

  Dr. Aloysio put the glass stopper back on the bottle.

  “I’m sorry,” his voice was kind. “I didn’t understand. You seem to be the victim of some ghastly kind of joke.”

  But Montrose did not quit just yet. He forced himself to sit erect.

  “Dr. Fesler’s dead, eh!” he croaked. “How about the fellow at the switchboard?”

  Dr. Aloysio shook his head.

  “We had to discharge him about ten months ago for drunkenness. He was totally unreliable.” He took out cigarettes, gave one to Montrose and lit it. “You see, Mr. Montrose, at the time you mention, I myself was in bed with a severe attack of pleurisy. I can only conclude that someone, with the connivance of the man at the switchboard, played a joke on you.”

  Montrose stumbled to his feet. He stared at Dr. Aloysio for a long while, then began to laugh crazily.

  “Somebody bought my body!” he cried. “Where am I going to buy it back!”

  Dr. Aloysio took Montrose’s arm. Montrose shook it off and staggered toward the door.

  “Going to get drunk,” he mumbled. “Drink all this—all of it—right out of existence!”

  “You can’t do that!” cried the doctor. “Stay here until you calm down—

  But Frank Montrose had gone through the door. As he reeled down the corridor, Montrose saw nothing of his surroundings, but his crazed mind seemed to hear jeering laughter.

  “BUDDY,” said the cab driver.

  “This hack ain’t a hotel room!”

  The nasal voice penetrated Montrose’s consciousness. He opened his eyes. Montrose shook his head, then stopped abruptly. Leaning over the back of the driver’s seat, the cabbie grinned without mirth.

  “You look like a wreck, buddy,” he said.

  “I feel it.” Montrose’s voice was thick. “Where are we?”

  “We’re at the airport. Remember?”

  “Airport! What airport? My God—am I still in the city?”

  The driver nodded.

  “Yep.” He glanced casually over Montrose’s wrinkled suit, soiled shirt; his eye paused at the unshaven chin. “I would say, pal, that you’ve seen a lot of our fair city.”

  Montrose turned his head. Looking outside, he was surprised to see it was broad daylight.

  “It’s morning,” he muttered.

  “Sure. Monday morning—”

  “Monday!”

  “Sure.”

  Monday! Montrose had come down on Friday. What had happened—a three day drunk? Why? There was a whole covey of butterflies in his stomach, but he forced himself to think.

  And slowly the picture came back. Of the doctor and his terrible proof that he’d never written that purchase agreement. Of Montrose running from the hospital, helpless, alone—making for the nearest bar. Then, lots of bars. Drunk. The old way out, the way he’d always taken when things went wrong.

  “Go on to the airport,” Montrose cried. “Is there a plane soon?”

  “Yeah. You got any dough left, buddy?”

  Montrose opened his wallet. A ticket and a single ten were all he had left. The driver nodded at the money and started up his cab. Montrose saw Marcia’s picture in his billfold. Marcia!

  A three day drunk—while Marcia had probably gone crazy with worry. No—Frank Montrose was the crazy one. What had been this business of a body? A body sold to a doctor that didn’t exist. Montrose laughed. Maybe the body didn’t exist, either.

  The noise of the plane’s motors was definitely not soothing. Montrose clasped his aching head between his hands and tried to think. He couldn’t. It might have been the hangover—very likely it was, but he couldn’t quite focus his mind on any one matter.

  When he arrived in Pleasanton, the problem of Marcia forced everything else from his mind. For a while, horror went away, replaced by a purely normal worry as to how he was going to square things with her.

 
He had just finished drying himself after an icy shower when his doorbell rang. It was Marcia.

  “Frank! Oh, Frank—what happened?. Are you all right?”

  She held out her hands and for a brief moment he was safe in her embrace, everything else forgotten. Then, she drew back.

  “Frank,” she said slowly. “I think you owe me an awful lot of explanation.”

  Marcia looked closely at him. Montrose hadn’t shaved yet and it would take several night’s sleep to clear up his eyes. Montrose jammed his fists tight into the pockets of his dressing gown. He tensed with the effort of meeting her eyes, but couldn’t quite make it.

  “I guess I went on a tear, honey,” he muttered.

  Marcia looked at his clothes, still heaped where he had thrown them. Then she walked slowly over to a window and looked out.

  “I guess you did,” she said. “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Marcia turned and faced him, but she did not move toward him.

  “Frank,” her voice was low but clear. “Do you really want to marry me?”

  “Good God!” Pain rang in his voice. “How can you doubt it!”

  “Frank.” her tone was controlled, “your behavior at the church was very strange. I believed you when you said you were ill, yet—I couldn’t help thinking that you looked . . . frightened.”

  MONTROSE’S mouth twisted. God forbid she should ever know just how scared he’d been. But not of her . . .

  “Then,” Marcia went on, “you called me and said you must fly down to the city. You were to be back for dinner. You were gone three days—without a word to me.”

  The sunlight streamed through the window, giving her loveliness a golden frame. Her beauty hurt him. What could he say?

  The truth?

  What was the truth?

  Like any man in his position, Montrose tried to postpone the inevitable.

  “Look, Marcia,” he said. “I honestly don’t know when I ate last. Would you wait while I finish dressing, then have some breakfast with me?”

  “I’ve already eaten.”

  “Well, watch me, then!” he exclaimed. “And then I’ll explain everything. Honest.”

  Montrose stepped toward her, his hands outstretched, pleading. Marcia shrugged.