A Stir of Echoes (17 page)

  I stared at him a moment.

  "Frank has a Luger," I said. "He got it in Germany."

  "Let's hope it's been inactivated," Alan said.

  "Well…" I shook my head. "Which of their minds was I reading then in seeing what I did?"

  "Elizabeth's perhaps," he said, "or, since you don't think that she knows about her husband's affair, her husband's mind. The fear of guilt. He thinks about his wife shooting him for revenge. You pick it up and your aggravated mind composes a scene in which that very thing has occurred. You 'see' this scene."

  I leaned back in the chair.

  "It all sounds so damned simple," I said.

  "Not at all," Alan said. "You've been the intimate witness to some wonderful things, Tom-itemized proofs of telepathy and its several manifestations. This is no little thing."

  I sat silently a few moments, trying to come up with something. It seemed impossible that all that terror, all that incredible experience could be so easily explained, so quickly written off. Maybe I was a little disappointed. On the surface I agreed with him; it was more harm than good. Underneath there was still that childish, half longing for it to be something unusual. Something magic.

  "And the woman?" I said.

  "Telepathy," he said, "which, doubtless, came from this woman-what's her name?"

  "Helen Driscoll."

  "Exactly. You're probably right in your assumption that she wishes she were in that house again and you're picking up the desire. Then, too, it is just possible she left in the house a sort of energized memory which you've tapped. But that's only a shot in the dark. The other answer is much more feasible."

  "No ghosts then," I said, smiling wryly.

  "No ghosts," he said.

  I sighed. I confessed to him that I had, for a short time, believed that I'd come across proof of life after death. Alan, smiled.

  "It would be comforting," he said, "if such proof existed. Unfortunately, it doesn't-no matter what our avid spiritualist friends claim. Telepathy is still the answer as far as I'm concerned. For
all
paranormal phenomena."

  He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

  "Yes," he said, "it would be very nice to believe in a simple, contiguous pattern. A continuous life force existing in an endless cyclic phase between latency and activity, action and withdrawal, incarnation and non-incarnation, life and-as we put it-death. Nice to think that the word is a misnomer."

  He shrugged.

  "We can't do that, I'm afraid," he said. "Not, that is, with assurance, not with scientific honesty. It may seem a beautifully unencumbered theory, simple and right. But that doesn't make it provable." He smiled. "It isn't provable," he said.

  He took down his hands and picked up his glasses again.

  "Now," he said, "let's hypnotize you again and get those bugs out of your head."

  I repeat: Famous last words.

SIXTEEN

  ANNE MET ME AT THE DOOR When I got home from work the next afternoon. She kissed me and looked inquiringly at me. I smiled.

  "I guess it worked," I said.

  There was a moment's suspension. Then she pressed close and hugged me. "Thank God," she murmured.

  We went into the kitchen and, while she continued making supper, I told her that, as far as I could see, Alan had removed whatever it was that had been plaguing me. I'd not only not dreamed the night before, I'd slept peacefully and waked greatly refreshed. In addition, the day had been spent at work without one intrusion on my mind. In that respect, at least, I was an island unto myself again.

  "It's still hard to believe," Anne said, "that just one visit to Alan could stop it."

  "It only took one visit with your brother to start it," I said.

  "I guess," she said. "Well, I think Alan is marvellous."

  "He'd deny that," I said. "You know what he said."

  I'd told her how Alan had, quickly and efficiently, put me under hypnosis and "smoothed out a few psychic wrinkles with the palm of suggestion." I'd been conscious of a decided change as soon as I came out of the trance. The tension was gone; there was only a sense of abundant well-being. Which still remained with me and, quite obviously, was removing a weight from Anne's mind.

  "He'll never know how relieved I am," she said. "I really don't know how long I could have taken it. I'm-still not over mother's… death. And-"

  I got up and went over to her. I put my arms around her and she leaned against me tiredly.

  "It's been a terrible week for you," I said. "I'll try to make it up to you."

  She smiled and patted my cheek.

  "You're back," she said. "That's the most important thing."

  "I'm back," I said.

  While I changed clothes I told her how Alan was going to write up the case in one of the psychiatric journals ("using only your initials, of course"). The entire matter had been intriguing to him.

  I was going into the bathroom when Anne called.

  "If you're going in there to wash up," she said, "don't. The sink's clogged up. It just finished emptying about half an hour ago. It took all day."

  "Did you tell Sentas?" I called back.

  "I've been phoning him all day," she said, "but they've been out. You want to try again?"

  "All right." I went back into the hall and dialled Sentas' number.

  His wife answered. "Hello?"

  "Mrs. Sentas, this is Tom Wallace next door," I said. "Is your husband there?"

  "One moment, please," she said. She set down the receiver and I heard the muffled sound of her receding footsteps. Faintly, I heard her call, "Harry!"

  In a few moments, Sentas picked up the receiver.

  "What is it?" he asked.

  "The, uh, bathroom sink is clogged up, Mr. Sentas," I said. "It takes hours and hours to empty."

  "Your kid drop something in it?" he asked.

  "I don't think so," I answered, "and… we'd appreciate it if you'd take a look at it-or have it fixed; either one."

  "I just got home," he said. "I haven't even had supper yet."

  "Well… after supper then?" I asked. "We're really in a fix without the use of it."

  In the short period of silence that followed I could almost see the hard and irritated expression on his face.

  "I'll stop by later," he said.

  "Thank you," I said. But he'd already hung up.

  I went into the kitchen.

  "As cordial as ever," I said. "He's really a charmer."

  Anne smiled a little.

  "Maybe he's got troubles too," she said.

  "Maybe." I went to the window and looked out. I saw Richard and Candy in the next yard. They were sitting in Candy's sand box, digging with spoons.

  "They play together very well, don't they?" I said.

  "Huh," was my wife's quiet comment.

  "What is the meaning of
huh?"

  "The meaning is they fight so much all day that, by the time you get home from work, they're too weak to fight."

  "Richard fights?"

  "Well, I'll use my parent's prerogative and say that it's usually Candy's fault. As a matter of fact, it usually is. She gets no disciplining at all."

  "That's too bad," I said, watching them play. "Tom, when do you want to go to the store," Anne asked, changing the subject, "tonight?"

  "Got much to get?" I asked.

  "Quite a bit," she said. "We missed last week. When I got hit on the head."

  "Oh, that's right. Well… how much time is there before supper?"

  "I'm making beef pie. So it'll be another hour at least."

  "Okay. I'll go now, then. Incidentally, how is your head?"

  "Fine."

  "Funny if
you
started reading minds now," I said.

  "Hilarious," she said.

  I patted her back as I walked past her. I got the grocery pad and pencil from the drawer and took it back to the table. I sat down and opened it.

  "What'd you do with my scribblings?" I asked.

  "I have them in a box," she said.

  "We'll show them to our grandchildren," I said.

  Anne tried to smile. I realized that she was still mourning for her mother so I said no more. I picked up the pencil and drew six thin rectangles to represent the counters of the market. I'd write the items Anne named off on the counter which displayed it. It was a habit I'd picked up the first year of our marriage. It saved retraced steps and, in the vastnesses of the L.A. supermarkets, that can add up to miles and minutes.

  "What first?" I asked.

  "Let's see," she said. "Well, we need sugar, flour, salt, pepper."

  "Hold it." I wrote them down in their appropriate places. "Go on," I said then.

  "Butter. Bread."

  I wrote them down. "And?" I said.

  "Orange juice. Eggs. Bacon."

  "Got it."

  "A variety of soups," she said, "a variety of cereals."

  I wrote them down. I looked up at her. "Yes," I said, "what el-?"

  I stopped dead and looked at my hand. It was writing.

By itself.

  I felt sure my hair was rising. I sat there gaping at the moving pencil, at what it was writing. Only vaguely did I hear what Anne was saying.

  The pencil stopped.

  "Huh?" I started sharply and looked over at Anne.

  "I said did you get that last?"

  "No. No. I was-still on the other." She hadn't seen then.

  "You asked me what else," she said.

  "I know. I just-forgot one."

  "I said soda crackers, butter, cookies and peanut butter," she said.

  "All right." I managed to keep my voice calm.

  While Anne was looking into the cupboard to see what else we needed, I quickly crossed out the words I'd written across the page-realizing, as I did, that it wasn't my handwriting. Then I went on transcribing the groceries she named. I didn't tell her; I knew I mustn't. It's an accident, I kept telling myself. It's just a faint carry-over. It doesn't mean a thing.

  Ten minutes later I was in the car heading for the market; staring straight ahead and thinking about those words I'd written; unable to efface them from my mind.

I
am Helen Driscoll.

  Sentas didn't come till past nine.

  Before then I stayed out in the garage working on Richard's wagon which needed new bolts and repainting. I didn't feel like doing it; I'd put it off for weeks. But I couldn't stay in the house. I was afraid something else might happen.

  I say "afraid" yet it was different somehow. It was not for myself that I feared now. It was Anne. It didn't take telepathy or anything approaching it for me to be fully aware of the state of her nerves. She'd had more than her share of shocks that past week. Even under normal conditions the death of her mother- to whom she was very close-coupled with the pressure of living with a man who'd gone through what I had was enough to break the sturdiest spirit. That all this should have taken place during a period of pregnancy marked by extreme nervous tension had made it five times as bad. I simply couldn't tell her what I'd written down. I was afraid to.

  While I painted the wagon I kept thinking about those words.

  I couldn't imagine what they signified. That I had seen Helen Driscoll was one thing and, in the way Alan had put it, very explicable. But to receive what appeared to be a message from her-and in, apparently, her own handwriting-this went far beyond credulity.

  Yet, I was not so much alarmed for myself as for Anne. For some reason (my visit to Alan, of course) I sensed a difference in myself. That wary, glancing-over-the-shoulder condition was gone. Being concerned for Anne, however, was quite enough. I hoped, for her sake, there would be no more incidents.

  There were, of course. And not long in coming either. At least she wasn't there when the first one occurred. I'll always be grateful for that.

  It was about ten minutes before nine when she came out into the garage and told me that Richard was asleep and would I keep an eye on him while she went over to help Elizabeth get a bobbin threaded in her sewing machine? I said I would and, after she'd gone, I went back in the house. It was just dark.

  I sat in the kitchen, the grocery pad in front of me.

  I kept picking up the pencil and rolling it tentatively between my fingers. As had been the case from the start of all this, curiosity was still an important factor. I think you may understand that. No matter what had happened, the interest was still there. It was unavoidable.

  I had just decided to try the writing again when I heard a thump on the front door. I started and put down the pencil quickly. Then, thinking it might conceivably be Anne carrying something and unable to open the door, I put the pencil into its little holder on the side of the pad and dropped them both back into the drawer.

  It was Sentas, looking jaded and put upon.

  "Hello," I said.

  "Still clogged?" he asked brusquely.

  "Still." I stepped aside so he could come in. He entered as if I were an intruder in his house; not its tenant.

  He went right into the bathroom and started running the water. The sink began to fill up; it didn't drain at all. Sentas kept running the water, staring fixedly at its mounting surface. Don't you think it might be a good idea to turn it off now? I thought. He didn't. He kept it running until the bowl was almost full. Only then did he twist off the faucet.

  "Hmmm," he said. He looked at the water. He reached under its surface and tapped a big finger on the drain hole. He looked disgusted.

  "Your wife wash her hair lately?" he asked.

  "I don't know," I said.

  "Hair clogs it up," he said.

  "I see. Well… what are we going to do?"

  He blew out a weary gust of breath. "I can't do anything now," he said.

  You managed to fill the damn sink, I thought irritably.

  "I'll… call a plumber in the morning," he said reluctantly.

  "Is it too late to get one now?" I asked.