Neither answered. She thought there had to be another answer—one that made sense. “Ed—you haven’t been into drugs, have you? Or hypnosis—anything like that?”
“Nothing. Neither of us. It happened the way she said. We don’t know how or why, or if it has ever happened to anyone else. But it did, to us—beginning on June third.”
June third? That’s three months, and— “And you didn’t tell me, until now?”
“How could he?” said Melanie. “You can’t believe it now—you couldn’t have begun to believe it if I’d tried to tell you as Ed alone, without me here physically to back it up. Right?”
“She is right, Margaret I hated the secrecy, but there was nothing I could do. Now . . . why don’t you think of questions—anything—that Melanie couldn’t know if she were not me?”
She was not ready—not so soon, not so easily—to give in. “You could have coached her.”
“No way,” said Melanie. “You can check. I didn’t leave the sanitarium—except twice, briefly, and under a doctor’s care both times—until yesterday. I had only one visitor—my brother, Charles Blake, from New York—and no letters or phone calls in or out. So . . . when’s to coach?”
With her objection stymied, Margaret set herself to asking questions. Dates, times, places, and people; she ran out of things to ask. Ed suggested she work on trivia, personal minutiae; Melanie knew a convincing percentage. No one remembers everything, Margaret realized— and could think of no further ways to resist.
“All right,” she said, “I guess I’m convinced. Not in my gut yet, but in my head I can’t deny it. The more we talk, Melanie, the more I hear Ed in you. That impresses me, maybe more than your answers do.”
Now that she had said it, her mind cleared; she could think again. “So you are Ed and Ed is you. And it’s all right that I don’t understand it, since you don’t, either. One question, though—just what do you want me to do about it?”
Melanie’s eyes widened. “Why, accept it, is all. Let you and Ed get back to full honesty—take this load off the split-level soul we share. Okay?”
Looking from one to the other, Margaret nodded. “And of course I see why you have to be lovers. No one, not even I, can possibly be as close to Ed as you are, Melanie. Well, I’ve never been jealous—have I, Ed?—and I’ll try not to be now.”
Seeing their intent, serious faces she felt tears coming. To break the mood, she laughed. “All right, you two-in-one or vice versa, let’s go over to the Carlain abode and have dinner.”
“Why not here?” said Melanie. “I’ve been learning to cook, and there’s food. Let me—”
“Not a chance.” Margaret shook her head. “Ed and I used to go camping—remember?—and no mere three months could make him a passable cook. Give it a little time—and I’ll help, too. But not today. Let’s go.”
They went.
* * * *
Melanie thought, That was easier than I expected. Margaret liked her—no problem there. Her own feelings toward the older woman? Not quite the same as Ed’s; she could feel a difference but could not yet put her finger on it. Meanwhile . . .
Outside, she wanted to take her own car, but the other two insisted they all ride in Margaret’s. All right. On the way she lay back with eyes closed, not talking, letting her thoughts roam.
At the Carlain house, Margaret started to guide her, to tell her where things were—then stopped cold, laughed, and said, “I’m sorry; I forgot you’ve lived here too.”
Melanie said, “You can’t expect to digest the whole impossible thing in two hours; we have three months’ head start on you, remember.”
Ed spoke. “And living it, at that. No sweat, Margaret”
His wife smiled and said, “You’re right; I’ll need some time.”
Later, at dinner, the man and wife talked mostly of Carlain family matters; although these were also part of Melanie’s own recalls, she felt subtly excluded and did not know why.
When Ed poured wine she said, “You’re wasting this. So far, nothing alcoholic tastes good to me.”
He grinned. “You like this one; I remember. It’s light, white, and dry—you even have one refill.”
“You—?” She scowled. “More trapped action, Ed?”
“Not really—it just happened. But if you’d rather, I’ll try not to tell you things ahead of time, unless you ask.”
“Yes. That might be better.” She sipped the wine and found that she did like it; almost immediately she felt its glow. Midway through her second glass she looked and saw Ed’s amused smile. “Don’t worry, I can handle the rest of this okay. But no more.” The alcohol stimulated and relaxed her but did not fog her mind; she followed the conversation and occasionally contributed.
She was neither surprised nor perturbed when all three went to the master bedroom; after all, Ed was Margaret’s as well as hers. Later, without thought—out of habit and instinct and long years of loving—she reached to Margaret.
The older woman gasped. “You mustn’t—I don’t—”
“I’m still Ed—remember? Even in this package.”
A shaky laugh. “Well—anything you can do . . .”
* * * *
Ed enjoyed the dinner and the evening but was impatient, waiting. All that happened later moved him deeply.
I love them both so much. . . .
* * * *
For the first time, Melanie woke to see Ed beside her. She heard kitchen noises; Margaret was already up. She thought of something Ed had told her: “If the one of us—you, for now—who lives the day first is the one to initiate communication, we can avoid trapped action.” It sounded reasonable. She reached under the covers and initiated communication.
* * * *
The funny thing, thought Margaret, was that she did not feel left out or threatened. Closer to each other than either could be to her—but they were both Ed; both loved her. She would never have joined in woman love had Melanie been only Melanie, rather than a new Ed with new limitations, new ways.
When she heard the shower running she began cooking breakfast. When it stopped, she called, “It’s on the table, nearly. Five minutes—then you have to fight the dog for it” Both beat the deadline and the nonexistent dog.
Over coffee, Ed talked—perfectly good words, but Margaret had a hard time understanding him. “You get it, Melanie? Unless we agree together, a day ahead of time, you have to be the one to decide anything between us that affects action. Or else I’m trapped—or you would be, if we ever change phase.”
“Yes, I see that.”
“And we should know a day ahead where each of us is going to be, separately, so we don’t have chance meetings that nail the second half of us.”
“Why is that?” asked Margaret.
“I’m talking about how to avoid determinism—in a situation that springs it on us if we don’t watch out like a couple of hawks.”
“But I don’t understand. What’s so bad, that you’re trying to keep away from?”
Ed told her of the day when Melanie, at Coos Bay, had seen him from the balcony. “And I hadn’t even decided to go by that route—I halfway intended to fly down. But she saw me, so I had to be there.”
“Why? Why couldn’t you just fly, anyway?” She saw both turn pale and sag, hardly breathing. “Hey—what did I say?”
Fighting to catch breath, Ed answered. “I—I don’t know why it is, but we can’t even think of causing paradox without being practically knocked on our butts. By panic fear, damn it!” He paused. “I think maybe I can talk about it if I keep it hypothetical—yes, that way it only half scares the pants off me. Okay, I’ve read in stories—the far-out ones, with time machines and such—about things that can’t happen if they do happen. Paradoxes. One story solves it one way, somebody else writes it different. But I think I see how it really works. A person doesn’t commit a paradox—commit isn’t the right word but to hell with that—because something scares the bejesus out of him so that he can’t”
<
br /> “I still don’t understand.”
“Neither did I, until I felt it. Just take my word.”
“And mine,” said Melanie.
Finally Margaret said, “Well, if that’s the case, at least you can stop worrying about it.”
* * * *
The trouble was, the two found, that the only way to fight determinism was to inflict it on themselves. Each day, almost, revealed new loopholes for “trapped action”; all they could do was to tighten further their already restrictive rules.
And their two roles chafed them. Ed resented being trapped, even when it was all his own doing and none of Melanie’s. Melanie complained at having to initiate all phone calls and most decisions. Once they came near to fighting—shouts and a flung dish. When the dish miraculously escaped breakage the fight broke down into laughter. The worst part was having to live through it twice, both times realizing the wrongness: their unity, split in conflict
* * * *
“Maybe if we did change phases we could see each other’s side of it better.”
“But we’re each on both sides, Ed. Every twice-lived day.”
“Not as each other. You as you are always a day behind on memory.”
“And always first through the grinder, of whatever happens,” she said. “It shouldn’t matter, should it? But it does.”
“Yes.” He thought about it. “It’s because we are not the same person, looking out of your skull, as out of mine. And the difference keeps growing.”
“In itself, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
“Of course not. I didn’t say it was, did I?”
“No.” She paused. “You know the great thing about us?”
“I know a number of them. Which one did you have in mind?”
“Ed—you and I—we can’t lie to each other.”
“Oh? Hmm—you couldn’t, to me. But I could, to you.”
“Not for long, Ed. In a few hours I’d remember, and catch you out”
“Yes, but then you’d know why I did it, so you’d do it too.”
“Determinism, you mean. Trapped action.”
“Yes,” he said. “Back where we started, aren’t we?”
“Shall we try to change phases, then?”
“I don’t know. Shall we?”
She smiled. “That’s right; it’s up to me to decide, isn’t it? Okay—then I do. If only to see if we can.”
Ed nodded. “All right. And since I’ve had a day to think about it, after you made that decision—”
“God damn you, dangling me on a string like a puppet!”
“I had to; you know that. I’m not supposed to predict your actions for you—remember?” He waited for her smile and returned it. “Anyway, I have it figured out, if you agree.”
“Tell me.”
“First, for obvious reasons we can’t see each other or be in touch, after tonight, until the change is made. Or not. . . .
“Now here’s the schedule I’ve worked out. See what you think of it”
* * * *
The next day, Tuesday, Melanie slept late. She dawdled through breakfast and did not bother to dress. Loneliness muffled her spirits; she wanted to see Ed but knew she must not
How about Margaret? If she were careful, said nothing to Margaret that might influence Ed? She dialed the number and heard the ringing signal; after twelve rings and no answer, she hung up, puzzled. Then she guessed what had happened—it was so hard to keep track of all the complications.
Ed’s there, and he remembers. So he wouldn’t answer, or let Margaret, either. I suppose he’s right, but—damn!
Automatically thinking ahead, she checked her watch. Twelve-forty. So Ed would know which call to ignore . . . and they hadn’t spoken, so her lapse didn’t really count, did it? Right!
* * * *
Everything bored her—reading, TV, records, even food. She made a sandwich for dinner but left half on the plate. She tried TV again and still found nothing that interested her. She decided to dress and—well, go out on the town. Why not?
Her hair had outgrown the short-curls treatment and straggled a little; to hell with that. Her slacks were snug, her blouse modest. The compromise satisfied her.
* * * *
She attended a rock concert and met a tall youth who called himself Barry Giles. Afterward they went—her transport, so his treat, he said— for Herfyburgers. But in the dim corner of the parking lot he put his hand on her and said, “Let’s do it first. Drop the pants, okay?”
She took his wrist and pulled the hand away. “Sorry, suggestion overruled. Let’s go get the sandwiches.”
His face was ugly as he said, “It’s not a suggestion. It’s an order.” And now he grabbed, hurting her.
Without thought, her right hand reached. The nails of her fingers dug in behind his ear; the ball of her thumb pushed hard against his eyelid. He tried to shake loose and gasped with pain and fear when he could not.
Her voice shook; she could manage only a hoarse whisper. ‘If you want out of here with two eyes, get out right now!” She relaxed her grip slightly, enough that he could pull free. For a moment he glared with the untouched eye, rubbing the other. Then, watching her clawed hands, he reached behind him and opened the door. His mouth worked as if to speak or spit, but after a moment he backed away. Outside and standing, he slammed the car door hard, looked at her a few seconds longer, and turned to saunter into the drive-in. She watched him go inside before she started the car.
Driving home, she thought, Why, that’s what I did the other time, too. Sort of. . . .
Back at the apartment, she ate the other half of her neglected sandwich. Some night out!
* * * *
Reading and records, and TV until it signed off, and a walk in the cool night when boredom pushed toward sleep. By false dawn she knew she could not continue much longer; her body, accustomed to regular hours, demanded sleep.
She had kept coffee in reserve because more than a cup or two gave her jitters and heartburn, but now was the time for it. She drank several cups, black, while she read another book. When she was finished she had no idea what the plot was about.
When the sun rose she went out to the car. Ed had once driven thirty-six hours without sleep; the act of driving kept him awake without much effort. Melanie crossed Lake Washington on the toll bridge, found her way to I-90 East, and drove to the summit of Snoqualmie Pass, about fifty-five miles from downtown Seattle. She parked and got out, and walked perhaps a mile up a hiking trail, breathing tree-scented Cascades air. She started to sit down, then realized that sitting, in this restful place, was one step nearer sleeping. She walked to the car and started back to the city, driving as she had on the way out—conservatively, in the right-hand lane. It was time, not distance, that she wanted to cover.
A little past nine she entered the apartment again. Her thoughts were fragmented, not tracking well, she knew. She looked at the schedule Ed had left her—hours yet before she was supposed to sleep. From the refrigerator she took a prepackaged salad. It tasted good enough but sat heavily in her stomach.
The coffee had worn off, but not the jitters. She stood looking out through the glass wall, down the lake toward the city skyline—the square, high-rising boxes that now passed for architecture. She found herself nodding, dozing on her feet. She squinted at her watch—oh, no! Another two hours?
She shook her head. To hell with it—schedule or no schedule, her endurance had reached its limit.
She lay, feeling the nervous irritable jerks of her body—too strained to relax—and waited for the warm blanket of sleep to cover consciousness. But each time the blanket came, the spasms pushed it away. She drifted into a limbo of not-thinking.
A stronger “jump” brought her half-alert for a moment; then she felt sleep coming on her like a tide. Relieved, she sighed.
In the last instant of consciousness she hung above a black abyss. But before she could fall, sleep came.
* * * *
The alarm clock began Ed’s Tuesday early. For most of the day he kept to himself, trying to work. He avoided Margaret because she was curious about the phase change—and some of her questions he could not answer.
If he had known how hard it would be on the kid, he thought, he would have let things alone, scratched the whole idea. My God! That creep in the parking lot! Although he remembered the scene, somehow he did not feel that it had happened to him, but only to Melanie.
That memory was one reason why he hit the bourbon harder than he had in some time. Another was that he wanted to be physically ready for bed, early. By eight o’clock he was well primed for sleep.
Universe 10 - [Anthology] Page 23
