"You callin' me a slut? You callin' me that?"
Marty barely heard the airline executives drone on. He felt the sweat oozing from his forehead. It was a horror show, an internal storm that contradicted the picture of his being in complete control.
"Call me a slut! I dare you! Use the word!"
"Frankie," the gentle voice had said, "maybe you'd better go to your room."
And now Marty heard a question darting across the table. "Wouldn't that be something for the airline to emphasize, Marty?"
Thank God he'd heard the question, he thought. None of them around the table suspected what was going on inside him. But he hadn't heard the sentences that had gone before. Fake it. Fake it good.
Marty cleared his throat. "I think it has to be weighed against other factors," he said. "The public has a saturation point. Not all things can be treated equally."
"But we could emphasize it," said an airline V.P.
"I don't think we should commit to it now," Marty replied. "I'd like to do some testing."
"I'll buy that," the president said.
They all nodded. They knew Marty was sharp.
"I'd like to hear more," he said.
The accountant started expounding on how the airline had saved money by printing its menus in Taiwan, and Marty's mind again began to travel. An image formed in his brain: the trains set up and running, their clickety-click filling the house. As the accountant rattled off a list of figures, Marty took out a pen. The executives thought he was making notes for them. But he was composing a letter.
Dear Dad,
It's that time again. Just like last year and all the years before. I know you worry about me, and what's going to happen to me. But you shouldn't. I'll be fine. The important thing is to remember you the right way. I hope you're proud of me. I hope you'll be proud of me on the fifth.
Your loving son,
Frankie
The accountant stopped. "Did you get all that?" he asked Marty.
"Oh sure," Marty replied. "I jotted down everything I had to." He slipped the letter into a folder.
"I see," Samantha answered, as she looked down at her hands, now trembling slightly. "I'm sorry I took up your time." She hung up the phone.
So, Marty hadn't worked at the San Diego Union, although he'd told her stories of how he'd covered the police and the courts. They'd never heard of him. They didn't even have an application on file from a Martin Shaw. And none of the editors could recall the stories he claimed to have covered. Samantha phoned the Des Moines Register—Marty had told her he'd worked there too—and got the same reply. Now she was no longer willing to believe that all the people she'd contacted were incompetents with faulty records.
She was thunderstruck by the fact that there'd been a Martin Shaw in the Army and that her husband had used his service number. Obviously Marty had found out about the dead soldier and taken his number because he needed some kind of verifiable military reference. But why? And why was he so willing to travel back and retrace a past that, it was becoming clear, was in the shadows?
Was national security involved? Was Marty a kind of James Bond who had to hide his tracks? She rejected that, returning to her belief that a man trying to cover something would never agree to a "nostalgic" trip.
But maybe it wasn't a nostalgic trip. Maybe Marty had learned about specific areas of the country as part of some cover story. Samantha was beginning to feel overwhelmed by the questions, frightened by other possibilities. Maybe there was something mentally wrong with Marty, something that made him lie. Maybe he'd had an accident and injured his brain. Maybe he just imagined things.
But if he were "normal" and there were something unusual in his past, why had he not confided it to the woman he'd married?
Samantha couldn't handle this herself. She was beginning to accept that. But to whom could she turn to for advice? Lynne? She was a bit too close, and a bit too curious. A friend of Marty's? That would humiliate him behind his back. What if there were an entirely proper explanation for the mystery: What if it were medical, or psychiatric?
She certainly wasn't ready to confront Marty directly and risk the marriage.
Samantha Shaw knew of no wife who'd faced what she now faced—being married to a wonderful man whose past seemed not to exist.
Finally she made a decision to act. She decided there was only one person to call for counsel. Yes, he was a friend of Marty's, but a friend so special, so loyal, that, in Samantha's mind, no damage would be done. Tom Edwards was, after all, Marty's best pal, his alter ego, someone he spoke to each day. Tom and Marty seemed to think and feel alike. Tom was a few years younger, but it never appeared to matter.
Tom was a real-estate agent for one of the major brokers in Manhattan, occupying a glass cubicle on East 56th Street that was decorated with floor plans, pictures of apartment buildings and news clippings warning of new rent increases. Like Marty, Tom was well-built, but he had a quieter, softer personality, with none of Marty's commanding flair. They understood each other, Samantha thought, on a more emotional, subliminal level. Tom had a kindness that Marty needed, she reasoned, after spending his days with the sharks of business.
"Tom Edwards," Tom answered in his matter-of-fact, I'm-just-a-nice-guy style.
"Tom, Samantha."
"Hey, Sam. What an honor. You never call me. You looking for a new pad or something?"
Samantha laughed. "No, Thomas, I'm looking for you."
"For me? What'd I do?"
"Nothing illegal. I just need some help."
"Something bad happen?"
"Not at all. Oh, I'm not getting you at a rough time, am I?"
"No, it's a slow day. In fact, I'm gonna call old Mart later just to chat." Tom ran his hand through his longish, prematurely gray hair. "Now shoot. How can I help you?"
"You know the bash I'm having for Marty?"
"Of course."
"Keep this under your hat." Then Samantha stopped, frozen for a moment.
"Yeah?" Tom asked.
But Samantha remained silent. She couldn't do what she had planned—reveal everything that had happened, even to Tom. She wasn't as emotionally ready for that as she'd thought. No, she'd hedge. She'd ease into it. She'd start by some probing around. "Tommy," she finally continued, "I'm adding a surprise. I'm trying to find Marty's old friends and teachers, and have them give remembrances."
"Fantastic."
"So…you know any?"
"Gee," Tom replied, "old friends and teachers."
"Righto, Thomas, that's what I said."
"Let me think." Tom pondered for a few moments. "Harold Tyler."
"Tom, Marty knows Harold now."
"But don't they go way back?"
"Yeah, but I want people he's lost touch with."
"Oh, I get the picture. Well, let's see. There's…no, he knows him now too."
"Teachers from Northwestern," Samantha suggested, probing to see how Tom would react, "or people from Elkhart."
"Sam, I just don't know any," Tom finally admitted. "You know, Marty and I have only been buddies about five years. We never talk about the old times. I know that sounds strange, but it's true. His only friends I know are the ones you know, with maybe a couple of exceptions."
"Tom, you're not telling me that Marty never mentioned anyone, are you?"
Tom laughed, a bit nervously. "Well, maybe some old girlfriends."
"Okay, fair enough. Let's have the names."
"Sam," Tom explained, "all I have is first names…and certain characteristics. That's the way guys talk."
"So I'm batting zero," Samantha said, slightly disappointed in Tom.
"Well, I could give you names of Marty's current friends—the ones you don't know, I mean."
"We'll get to that. I really need the old crew."
"There's no other way you can get names?"
"How? I don't want to tip Marty. And he doesn't have many…links to his past."
"Well, it wasn't the hottest upbringin
g."
Samantha decided to try a slightly different tack. "You were in the Army, weren't you, Tom?"
"Yeah."
"Surprising you two don't trade war stories."
"Maybe. But look, why don't you concentrate on the here and now. Come to think of it, going back into Marty's past may not be that fantastic after all. Memories have strange effects."
"You really think so?"
"Well, who knows? But think it over. Marty has loads of friends now. They're the ones who matter."
"I'll think," Samantha promised. "Hey, you're working. I'd better buzz off."
"If you need help on the party, just whistle."
They hung up. Samantha had learned nothing. But Tom's lack of information did confirm one idea—that Marty's past was no open book. How, after all, does a man not discuss his early years with his best friend? That was unnatural, abnormal. The conversation with Tom simply increased Samantha's anxieties.
Samantha pushed on. She tried to invent some way to bring up Marty's past without provoking him. After all, he'd chided her the last time she'd probed. So, after dinner that night, as they relaxed watching an old Humphrey Bogart movie, she gracefully broached the subject. During a commercial she turned to Marty, who was slumped in an easy chair.
"You know, it just occured to me, we've got the guest list complete…except for people who have to be tracked down."
Marty was baffled. "Tracked down?"
"Well, I mean, you might want some people you've lost contact with. Tell me now because it takes time to get addresses. I wouldn't want the invitations to be late."
"There's nobody," Marty replied, hardly taking his eyes off the Coca-Cola ad.
"Sure?"
"Very. I know who I want."
"Not even Bose, from the Army? You've talked about him."
"Sam, that was years ago. It was a totally different time."
"But if you liked him…"
"Who knows if I'd like him now. Maybe he's got a pushy wife. Maybe he's a junkie. I don't like dredging people up."
"Okay. Case closed."
Then Marty turned to Samantha, smiling gently. "I appreciate the thought," he said. "I really do."
That made Samantha feel good, but it wasn't the "good" that she was used to feeling. Marty's words couldn't completely soothe her now, not with all those questions hanging over her head.
And then Marty did something that Samantha thought strange. He got up in the middle of the film—something he'd never done—and started walking out of the room. "You interested in the movie?" he asked.
"Not really," Samantha replied.
"Come with me."
Samantha followed Marty into their bedroom. He stood at one end for a few moments and surveyed the room, his eyes moving gradually from left to right, then back again.
"What's this about?" Samantha asked.
"I want to rearrange the room," Marty replied.
"Why? It's fine the way it is."
"Fine isn't great." There was a mildly contemptuous tone to Marty's voice that Samantha had not heard before. It bothered her, but she tried not to show it. "What'd you have in mind?" she asked.
"Something I saw in an architecture magazine. I liked it."
"You have the magazine?"
"No, I threw it away."
Why would he throw away a magazine that he wanted to use as a model? Samantha asked the question only of herself. She sensed Marty was in no mood to be challenged. "Let me show you something," he said. He took a package out of his attaché case and unwrapped it, revealing a gold-colored picture frame, gaudy and cheap-looking, made for a five-by-seven picture. "I bought this," he went on. "I think it should go here." He placed the frame over their bed.
"Well…" Samantha began to reply, utterly repelled by the frame.
"What's wrong?"
"You sure you want it there?"
"Yes," Marty answered. "You disagree?"
Samantha was becoming increasingly exasperated. "Marty," she said, "we've always bought things together."
"You don't like it," he said, seemingly deflated.
"Oh, I do. It's lovely. But if we're redecorating, I have some ideas."
Marty rushed over to Samantha and embraced her. "Hey," he said, suddenly the old Marty, "this is a partnership. Maybe I got a little excited. I want you in on everything. But, Sam, this is a great layout. It means a lot to me. Let's at least try it."
"Sure," Samantha agreed. How could she resist when Marty spoke so reasonably? Besides, she had more important worries than his sudden interest in interior decorating.
Without a word, Marty started rearranging the room, refusing help from Samantha. He had a determined, almost passionate look on his face, as if his deepest feelings were involved. She couldn't understand it.
Marty nailed the picture frame exactly where he'd wanted to. It looked awful, but he seemed to take a special pride in it. He moved the bed around so the headboard was against the radiator, something Samantha knew was absolutely wrong. She was sure Marty knew it too. And surely he knew that the bureau shouldn't be blocking a window. But when he was finished, it was. And what logic he saw in rolling up the area rugs and storing them was beyond Samantha. It was also beyond her that any architecture magazine would feature such an arrangement, or even allow it in its pages.
"There," he said after the job was done, the beads of sweat running down his brow, "I happen to like that."
Samantha said nothing.
"What about you?" Marty finally asked.
"Well," she replied, "it has its merits."
"I know it's unusual," Marty went on, "and our room isn't exactly the right shape. But let's give it a chance. If you decide you don't like it, I'll change it back."
"Fine," Samantha agreed. It was curious, very, very curious. She walked out of the room to make some notes for the party.
Martin Shaw slowly approached the bed, then lay down. He grabbed Samantha's pillow and clutched it to his chest, as one would a stuffed animal. He looked up. His lips began to form words. "Frankie wants a kiss," he whispered.
6
The shop was on West 15th Street, near the Hudson River. The area was crammed with warehouses and importers, and Samantha's cab could barely squeeze by the trailer trucks that filled the street, picking up and delivering. Her ears were assaulted by what seemed like one long honking diesel horn. It was the symphony of West 15th. People in the neighborhood were used to it.
The sign outside said SIMON'S FRAMING AND LAMINATING and when she walked in Samantha could feel the sawdust in the air. The front of the store was divided from the rear by a simple partition, in front of which was a metal desk and chair. No one was at the desk, so Samantha had to ring a little rusted bell for service. It wasn't regal, but if Simon had the answer to one critical question, nothing else mattered.
Howard Simon was a man in miniature—about five-three, well into his eighties, with a narrow face that made him look elflike. He came out from behind the partition in his usual outfit, blue coveralls over a white shirt and red tie. He had virtually no hair. When he saw Samantha he immediately smiled, almost deferentially. Most of Simon's framing business came from big department stores, shipped to his little shop by impersonal messengers, and getting a flesh-and-blood customer, especially an attractive one, was something of an event.
"May I help you?" Simon asked, bowing slightly in the old tradition.
"Yes," Samantha replied, feeling instant trust in the man, "I have a diploma."
"You want it framed?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?" Simon asked, throwing his hands up in mock, but gentle surprise. "Maybe I can help you decide."
"It's for a…business associate," Samantha went on. "But I have a question about it. I don't know if it's genuine. It might be a mistake or something."
Samantha was at her most awkward, and Simon could see right through her. The problem had come up before. "May I see it?" he asked.
Samantha had the d
iploma in an oversized handbag. She reached in. "This is in confidence, isn't it?"
"Who would I tell?" Simon replied.
Samantha slowly took the diploma out and handed it to Simon. "Northwestern," he said. "A fine university." He turned the diploma over and examined its back, running his hand along the surface. "Too bad this person never went there."
Samantha's whole body tightened. "What do you mean?" she asked, challenging Simon.
"The document is a fake," Simon replied with a shrug. "I've seen many, many diplomas from this school. They're all engraved. You can feel the letters through the back. This is printed. A very cheap job. The gentleman probably had it made up in one of those places that does things like this."
"You're… sure?" Samantha asked.
"Sixty years in business, madam."
"Thank you," Samantha whispered. Simon could see her eyes well up with tears. There was something about physical evidence that was so definitive, so final. Now there could be no doubt about Marty's Northwestern years. They had never happened.
Without another word, Samantha left the shop and took a cab back home. It was the saddest ride she'd ever had. She really didn't want to go home to face Lynne's incessant cheerfulness and Marty's…she still didn't know what to call it. He'd lied to her about Northwestern, and, she was beginning to understand, about many other things. He wasn't the Marty Shaw she thought she knew. He was someone else, and the marriage wasn't the dream she'd assumed it to be. It was becoming a nightmare.
She fought to remain in control, not to panic, not to go to pieces. If there was one thing the cold years before Marty had taught her, it was the futility of despair. And the defense mechanism that psychiatrists call denial was still working inside her. Even as she rode up Central Park West she began thinking that she must have overlooked the one logical, honorable, explanation for all she'd discovered, the one solution that would let her retain her love and respect for Marty. Until—unless—she found it, her feelings, her fears, her hopes would remain in conflict with each other.
As she re-entered her apartment she made one firm decision: She needed professional help. If there was something wrong with Marty, she couldn't diagnose it herself. A psychiatrist would probably be her best bet, and she knew exactly whom she wanted. She'd heard him lecture at the New School when she'd taken a psychology course there. He seemed articulate and learned, yet warm. His subject had been the stresses in men's lives. As soon as she took off her coat, Samantha grabbed the phone and made an urgent appointment with Kenneth S. Levine, M.D.
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