by Mike Resnick
I quit my job at OceanPort and hired on with the police department. They stuck me behind a desk for a few months, until my limp disappeared, but yesterday I finally got transferred to the vice squad.
There’s a major drug deal going down tonight: alphanella seeds from somewhere out in the Albion Cluster, ten times as powerful as heroin. We’ll be mounting a raid in about four hours. The buyers and sellers both figure to have plenty of muscle standing guard, and it’s likely to get pretty hairy.
I hope so.
I’ve already locked my weapons away.
INTRODUCTION TO “DISTANT REPLAY”
Lezli Robyn
Mike has this uncanny ability to predict which of his stories are most likely to make the Hugo ballot. When we first met as a result of a book purchase on eBay, he sent me “Distant Replay” along with several other stories following the discovery I couldn’t easily find his fiction in Australia. He told me that the aforementioned story was probably the only one he wrote that year that he believed could make the Hugo Ballot.
Two months later his prediction came true, and as soon as I read it I knew why. Mike has this amazing ability to write stories that readers can easily identify with emotionally, even though they are often set on fantasy or science fiction worlds that are completely alien to our own experience. That is because the SF or fantasy elements aren’t the focus of the story. Instead Mike uses the SF or fantasy element to enhance the very human story he is trying to tell.
How would it affect you if you lost the one person you thought you’d spend the rest of you life with? And what if you then met someone else who was exactly like the loved one you thought you’d lost forever—down to the appearance, name, career, and personal likes and dislikes? “Distant Replay” answers those questions in such a poignant way, exploring love, loss, acceptance, and discovery through using the science fictional supposition that there is an exact doppelganger out there for everyone.
I hope this story makes your heart smile, as it did mine that very first time I read it. It is said that a writer puts a piece of himself into every story he writes, and that he views his published ones as beloved children who have grown up and are making their impressions on the world. If that is the case, then “Distant Replay” has really done Mike proud.
As with “All the Things You Are,” I’m sitting there playing a Sinatra album, and he’s singing “Where or When,” which I find very evocative. You know the song’s story: he’s dancing with someone he’s sure he’s met before, but he can’t remember where or when. Even the dress that she’s wearing now, the smile she’s smiling now, she was wearing and smiling some other time and place.
And I got to thinking: why would such a thing occur? And then I thought, well, I’m in my sixties, and he’s describing a beautiful young girl who hasn’t aged a minute. What if I saw a girl who was the spitting image of Carol when she was 23 or 27? What if she wore the same clothes, even had the same first name? What if she had the same taste in books, in movies, in foods? Is there a story there? I thought there was, and I doped out the reasons for her appearance, and sold it to Asimov’s. It was a 2008 Hugo nominee for Best Short Story.
DISTANT REPLAY
THE FIRST TIME I SAW her she was jogging in the park. I was sitting on a bench, reading the paper like I always do every morning. I didn’t pay much attention to her, except to note the resemblance.
The next time was in the supermarket. I’d stopped by to replenish my supply of instants—coffee, creamer, sweetener—and this time I got a better look at her. At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. At 76, it wouldn’t be the first time it had happened.
Two nights later I was in Vincenzo’s Ristorante, which has been my favorite Italian joint for maybe forty years—and there she was again. Not only that, but this time she was wearing my favorite blue dress. Oh, the skirt was a little shorter, and there was something different about the sleeves, but it was the dress, all right.
It didn’t make any sense. She hadn’t looked like this in more than four decades. She’d been dead for seven years, and if she was going to come back from the grave, why the hell hadn’t she come directly to me? After all, we’d spent close to half a century together.
I walked by her, ostensibly on my way to the men’s room, and the smell hit me while I was still five feet away from her. It was the same perfume she’d worn every day of our lives together.
But she was 68 when she’d died, and now she looked exactly the way she looked the very first time I saw her. I tried to smile at her as I passed her table. She looked right through me.
I got to the men’s room, rinsed my face off, and took a look in the mirror, just to make sure I was still 76 years old and hadn’t dreamed the last half century. It was me, all right: not much hair on the top, in need of a trim on the sides, one eye half-shut from the mini-stroke I denied having except in increasingly rare moments of honesty, a tiny scab on my chin where I’d cut myself shaving. (I can’t stand those new-fangled electric razors, though since they’ve been around as long as I have, I guess they’re not really so new-fangled after all.)
It wasn’t much of a face on good days, and now it had just seen a woman who was the spitting image of Deirdre.
When I came out she was still there, sitting alone, picking at her dessert.
“Excuse me,” I said, walking up to her table. “Do you mind if I join you for a moment?”
She looked at me as if I was half-crazy. Then she looked around, making sure that the place was crowded in case she had to call for help, decided I looked harmless enough, and finally she nodded tersely.
“Thank you,” I said. “I just want to say that you look exactly like someone I used to know, even down to the dress and the perfume.”
She kept staring at me, but didn’t answer.
“I should introduce myself,” I said, extending my hand. “My name is Walter Silverman.”
“What do you want?” she asked, ignoring my hand.
“The truth?” I said. “I just wanted a closer look at you. You remind me so much of this other person.” She looked dubious. “It’s not a pick-up line,” I continued. “Hell, I’m old enough to be your grandfather, and the staff will tell you I’ve been coming here for forty years and haven’t molested any customers yet. I’m just taken by the resemblance to someone I cared for very much.”
Her face softened. “I’m sorry if I was rude,” she said, and I was struck by how much the voice sounded like her voice. “My name is Deirdre.”
It was my turn to stare.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” I said. “But the woman you look like was also named Deirdre.”
Another stare.
“Let me show you,” I said, pulling out my wallet. I took my Deirdre’s photo out and handed it to her.
“It’s uncanny,” she said, studying the picture. “We even sort of wear our hair the same way. When was this taken?”
“47 years ago.”
“Is she dead?”
I nodded.
“Your wife?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’d say she was a beautiful woman.” Then, “I hope that doesn’t sound conceited, since we look so much alike.”
“Not at all. She was beautiful. And like I say, she even used the same perfume.”
“That’s very weird,” she said. “Now I understand why you wanted to talk to me.”
“It was like…like I’d suddenly stumbled back half a century in time,” I said. “You’re even wearing Deedee’s favorite color.”
“What did you say?”
“That you’re wearing her—”
“No. I meant what you just called her.”
“Deedee?” I asked. “That was my pet name for her.”
“My friends call me Deedee,” she said. “Isn’t that odd?”
“May I call you that?” I said. “If we ever meet again, I mean?”
“Sure,” she sai
d with a shrug. “Tell me about yourself, Walter. Are you retired?”
“For the past dozen years,” I said.
“Got any kids or grandkids?”
“No.”
“If you don’t work and you don’t have family, what do you do with your time?” she asked.
“I read, I watch DVDs, I take walks, I google a zillion things of interest on the computer.” I paused awkwardly. “I hope it doesn’t sound crazy, but mostly I just pass the time until I can be with Deedee again.”
“How long were you married?”
“45 years,” I answered. “That photo was taken a couple of years before we were married. We had long engagements back then.”
“Did she work?” asked Deirdre. “I know a lot of women didn’t when you were young.”
“She illustrated children’s books,” I said. “She even won a couple of awards.”
Suddenly Deirdre frowned. “All right, Walter—how long have you been studying me?”
“Studying you?” I repeated, puzzled. “I saw you jogging a couple of days ago, and I watched you while I was eating…”
“Do you really expect me to believe that?”
“Why wouldn’t you?” I asked.
“Because I’m a illustrator for children’s magazines.”
That was too many coincidences. “Say that again?”
“I illustrate children’s magazines.”
“What’s your last name?” I asked.
“Why?” she replied suspiciously.
“Just tell me,” I said, almost harshly.
“Aronson.”
“Thank God!”
“What are you talking about?”
“My Deedee’s maiden name was Kaplan,” I said. “For a minute there I thought I was going crazy. If your name was Kaplan I’d have been sure of it.”
“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” said Deirdre. “This has been just a little…well…weird.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I said. “It was just, I don’t know, like seeing my Deedee all over again, young and beautiful the way I remember her.”
“Is that the way you always think of her?” she asked curiously. “The way she looked 45 years ago?”
I pulled out another photo, taken the year before Deedee died. She was about 40 pounds heavier, and her hair was white, and there were wrinkles around her eyes. I stared at it for a minute, then handed it to Deirdre.
“This is her, too,” I said. “I’d look at her, and I’d see past the pounds and the years. I think every woman is beautiful, each in her own way, and my Deedee was the most beautiful of all.”
“It’s a shame you’re not 50 years younger,” she said. “I could go for someone who feels that way.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing.
“What did your wife die of?” she asked at last.
“She was walking across the street, and some kid who was high on drugs came racing around the corner doing 70 miles an hour. She never knew what hit her.” I paused, remembering that awful day. “The kid got six months’ probation and lost his license. I lost Deedee.”
“Did you see it happen?”
“No, I was still inside the store, paying for the groceries. I heard it, though. Sounded like a clap of thunder.”
“That’s terrible.”
“At least she didn’t feel any pain,” I said. “I suppose there are worse ways to go. Slower ways, anyway. Most of my friends are busy discovering them.”
Now it was her turn to be at a loss for an answer. Finally she looked at her watch. “I have to go, Walter,” she said. “It’s been…interesting.”
“Perhaps we could meet again?” I suggested hopefully.
She gave me a look that said all her worst fears were true after all.
“I’m not asking for a date,” I continued hastily. “I’m an old man. I’d just like to talk to you again. It’d be like being with Deedee again for a few minutes.” I paused, half-expecting her to tell me that it was sick, but she didn’t say anything. “Look, I eat here all the time. What if you came back a week from today, and we just talked during dinner? My treat. I promise not to follow you home, and I’m too arthritic to play footsie under the table.”
She couldn’t repress a smile at my last remark. “All right, Walter,” she said. “I’ll be your ghost from six to seven.”
I was as nervous as a schoolboy a week later when six o’clock rolled around. I’d even worn a jacket and tie for the first time in months. (I’d also cut myself in three places while shaving, but I hoped she wouldn’t notice.)
Six o’clock came and went, and so did six ten. She finally entered the place at a quarter after, in a blouse and slacks I could have sworn belonged to Deedee.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, sitting down opposite me. “I was reading and lost track of the time.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Jane Austen?”
“How did you know?” she asked, surprised.
“She was Deedee’s favorite.”
“I didn’t say she was my favorite,” said Deirdre.
“But she is, isn’t she?” I persisted.
There was an uncomfortable pause.
“Yes,” she said at last.
We ordered our dinner—of course she had the eggplant parmesan; it was what Deedee always had—and then she pulled a couple of magazines out of her bag, one full-sized, one a digest, and showed me some illustrations she had done.
“Very good,” I said. “Especially this one of the little blonde girl and the horse. It reminds me—”
“Of something your wife did?”
I nodded. “A long time ago. I haven’t thought of it for years. I always liked it, but she felt she’d done many better ones.”
“I’ve done better, too,” said Deirdre. “But these were handy.”
We spoke a little more before the meal came. I tried to keep it general, because I could see all these parallels with Deedee were making her uncomfortable. Vincenzo had his walls covered by photos of famous Italians; she knew Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin and Joe DiMaggio, but I spent a few minutes explaining what Carmine Basilio and Eddie Arcaro and some of the others had done to deserve such enshrinement.
“You know,” I said as the salads arrived, “Deedee had a beautiful leather-bound set of Jane Austen’s works. I never read them, and they’re just sitting there gathering dust. I’d be happy to give them to you next week.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” she said. “They must be worth a small fortune.”
“A very small one,” I said. “Besides, when I die, they’ll just wind up in the garbage, or maybe at Goodwill.”
“Don’t talk about dying like that,” she said.
“Like what?”
“So matter-of-factly.”
“The closer you get to it, the more a matter of fact it becomes,” I said. “Don’t worry,” I added lightly. “I promise not to die before dinner’s over. Now, about those Austen books…”
I could see her struggling with herself. “You’re sure?” she said at last.
“I’m sure. You can have a matched set of the Brontes too, if you like.”
“Thank you, but I don’t really like them.”
It figured. I don’t think Deedee had ever cracked any of them open.
“All right,” I said. “Just the Austen. I’ll bring them next week.”
Suddenly she frowned. “I don’t think I can make it next week, Walter,” she said. “My fiancé’s been away on business, and I’m pretty sure that’s the day he comes home.”
“Your fiancé?” I repeated. “You haven’t mentioned him before.”
“We’ve only spoken twice,” she replied. “I wasn’t hiding the fact.”
“Well, good for you,” I said. “You must know by now that I’m a believer in marriage.”
“I guess I am, too,” she said.
“You guess?”
“Oh, I believe in marriage. I just don’t know if I believe in marri
age with Ron.”
“Then why are you engaged to him?”
She shrugged. “I’m 31. It was time. And he’s nice enough.”
“But?” I asked. “There’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere.”
“But I don’t know if I want to spend the rest of my life with him.” She paused, puzzled. “Now why did I tell you that?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Why do you think you did?”
“I don’t know either,” she said. “I just have this feeling that I can confide in you.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “As for spending the rest of your life with your young man—hell, the way everyone gets married and divorced these days, maybe you won’t have to.”
“You sure know how to cheer a girl up, Walter,” she said wryly.
“I apologize. Your private life is none of my business. I meant no offense.”
“Fine.” Then: “What shall we talk about?”
I thought about Deedee. Sooner or later we talked about everything under the sun, but her greatest passion was the theatre. “Whose work do you like better—Tom Stoppard’s or Edward Albee’s?”
Her face lit up, and I could tell she was going to spend the next ten minutes telling me exactly who she preferred, and why.
Somehow I wasn’t surprised.
We skipped the following week, but met every week thereafter for the next three months. Ron even came along once, probably to make sure I was as old and unattractive as she’d described me. He must have satisfied himself on those counts, because he never came back. He seemed a nice enough young man, and he was clearly in love with her.
I ran into her twice at my local Borders and once at Barnes & Noble, and both times I bought her coffee. I knew I was falling in love with her—hell, I’d been in love with her from the first instant I saw her. But that’s where it got confusing, because I knew I wasn’t really in love with her; I was in love with the younger version of Deedee that she represented.
Ron had to leave town on another business trip, and while he was gone she took me to the theatre to see a revival of Stoppard’s “Jumpers” and I took her to the racetrack to watch a minor stakes race for fillies. The play was nice enough, a little obscure but well-acted; I don’t think she liked the color and excitement of the track any more than Deedee had.
