We All Killed Grandma Read online

  “Did I know the guy who sideswiped me? Did he stop and report it?”

  “No. Hit-run. But you’re insured, so all it’ll cost you is the difference between what touching up the paint would have cost you and the all-over paint job you decided you wanted. Sorry I forgot to mention it—damn it, I still just take for granted that you know things, until they come up and I realize you don’t. Who mentioned it to you?”

  “Robin,” I said.

  We were stopped, waiting for a street light; he turned to me and frowned. “Rod, you shouldn’t have seen her. I told you that. You’re just going to make it bad for both of you. You were so God damn broken up when she left you—the fact that you forgot her is the only lucky thing about your amnesia, and now you’re like as not to try to start it all over again. And if it didn’t work once—”

  I said, “If it didn’t work once, it won’t work the second time. But don’t worry, she’s a complete stranger to me. And she was polite but cool.”

  “She’s a wonderful girl. It’s just that—I’m thinking of your sake, Rod.”

  The light changed; he let out the clutch too fast and almost stalled the car. I hoped that he was a better playwright than he was a driver.

  He turned in at the driveway of a big garage a few blocks farther on; he stopped by a gas pump inside. A little redheaded man with a faceful of freckles walked over toward us with a wide grin. “Joe,” Arch told me. “You know him.”

  So I said, “Hi, Joe,” and shook the hand he stuck out. His grin got wider. “Rod, you know me. The way I heard it—”

  “Sorry, Joe,” I told him. “Arch briefed me. I didn’t even remember I had a car here. How’s it coming?”

  “Fine,” he said. “Better than new. All done, and you could take it now but I think it’d be better if you gave it overnight tonight yet. Want maybe to look at it?”

  I wanted maybe to look at it, and we started off. Then he turned and said to Arch, “Oh, you want gas, Mr. Britten?” and when Arch nodded he called out to another mechanic to take over the pump and led me up a ramp to the second floor. It made me feel good, for some reason, that the little redhead had called me Rod and Arch Mr. Britten.

  We walked past a couple of other cars and there it was, black and shiny and looking as though it had just rolled off the assembly line—except these days they don’t have assembly lines that roll off cars like that one.

  No, I didn’t remember it. But I was in love with it now, love at first sight. I walked around it, admiringly. I looked through the glass of the door at the instrument panel—the speedometer showed only 56,000 miles—and inside and out it looked better than new.

  “A beauty,” Joe said. “You don’t get ’em like that nowadays. I wouldn’t trade this for three or four like your brother’s, and his is a forty-nine. This baby’s got stuff. That engine’s tuned like a Swiss watch.”

  I was suddenly worried. “The crash didn’t jar it any, did it, Joe?”

  “Nah. Just the fender and door, and bet you can’t even tell which fender it was.” I couldn’t. Joe said, “Look, we’re charging all the traffic will bear for the body work, since that’s on the insurance, and going as light as we can on the paint job.”

  “Swell of you, Joe. Always stick an insurance company.”

  He grinned. “And always give a good customer, and a guy who knows cars, a break. You got a honey there, Rod.”

  I thought so too. My fingers itched to lift the hood and count the horses, but if I wasn’t going to drive it off I wasn’t going to touch it either—and I wasn’t going to drive it off if Joe thought another night’s drying would be good for the paint.

  I said, “It’s a swell job, Joe. I’ll be in for it sometime in the morning. Will you see she’s full of gas and ready to go—and check the oil and the water and everything and—is there anything else you can do to her?”

  He laughed. “That’s why you’ve got a good car, Rod. You never want to know whether anything has to be done to it; you just want to know whether anything can be done to it. Okay, I’ll check everything as soon as I come on at nine; get it any time you want after that.”

  I said, “You are speaking of the woman I love. Do not call her an it.”

  When we got back downstairs, Arch had had to pull the convertible out of the way to let another car at the pump and he was looking impatient. So I got in without trying his patience any more.

  “Where do you want to go?” he asked me, when we turned onto the street again.

  I said, “I don’t care.” I didn’t. I was just living until tomorrow morning when I could get the Linc out and go somewhere, anywhere, for a long drive. And listen to it purr; I knew damn well it would purr.

  Funny, I thought, I’d loved Robin once and apparently it had hurt me to lose her. But I hadn’t fallen in love with her all over again at first sight, like I had the Linc. My fingers had itched to lift the car’s hood, but they hadn’t itched to lift Robin’s dress. Well, not much.

  Arch stopped the car in front of a swanky apartment building on Renslow Boulevard. He got out on his side and said, “Come on.”

  “Come on where?”

  “A guy I want you to meet.”

  Something about the way he said it made me suspicious. “What’s his name?”

  “Krieger.”

  “Dr. Krieger? Isn’t that the psychiatrist you mentioned? I’m not going to a psychiatrist, Arch, even to meet him socially. I told you that and I meant it.”

  He said, “Listen—” and then, “Oh, hell, I’m not going to stand here while we talk.” He got back in the car. “How’d you go for a drink?”

  “No,” I said, and then reconsidered. “Well, a beer maybe. If you insist on arguing.”

  He drove on a few blocks and parked again, this time in front of a tavern. We went in and took a booth. I said, “Listen, Arch, I want to ask you a question. How well did we get along? Were we close to one another?”

  “No, not especially. But we didn’t quarrel either. We just didn’t see a lot of each other because we didn’t have much in common. You probably think I’m a loafer and a lousy playwright—although you’re too damn polite to say so. I think you’re a Rotarian and a dope to have been working when you didn’t have to—or at least you could have picked out something more respectable to shoot for than writing advertising. You’ve always admitted it’s a lousy racket.”

  “Have I?” I thought it over and then said, “Well, why shouldn’t I have? I guess it is. But it’s a legal and reasonably honest way to earn a living and if I don’t write it somebody else will—and maybe worse.”

  He snorted. “Maybe you’ve forgotten the facts of your life, but not your corny opinions. You’ve said that before, almost word for word. Listen, how’d you like to go hunting with me tomorrow? Shoot some rabbits, maybe.”

  It was such a sudden change of topic that I had to read just my mental processes to think about it. Then I said, “I don’t think so, Arch. What have I got against rabbits that I want to shoot any of them?”

  “I knew you’d say that, and in almost those words. Just wanted to test you, Rod. Your—”

  The bartender came over and took our order and when he left, Arch went on. “Your opinions are the same on everything. You never did like hunting, even fishing.”

  I opened my mouth to give him an argument against them and then decided I’d probably already done so. Instead I said, “Why the hell would my opinions change? I’m the same guy that I was, no matter what I remember or don’t remember.”

  “You sure are. I’ll bet you’ve decided to go back to your job, despite that inheritance.”

  “Why not? I can’t live the rest of my life on nineteen thousand dollars or whatever it’ll be. I’ve still got to make a living, don’t I? Oh, with a backlog like that I might decide eventually to go in business for myself in something or other—but I sure as hell wouldn’t decide on anything like that while I’m all mixed up and disoriented. And meanwhile—hell, I’d rather have something to do
than sit on my tail.”

  Arch sighed. “Yes, the same guy. You’re the same guy.”

  Our drinks came and when the bartender had gone away, he said, “I guess that answers your question as to why we weren’t close, Rod. We’re so damn near opposites. Now me, I’m going to stretch my share of the inheritance to live about five years on—and keep on writing plays. I’ll be able to do it better, too, living somewhere alone, out of that house and out from under Grandma’s thumb.”

  “And after the five years, what?”

  “Your faith is touching. I might be in the big time by then. If not—” He shrugged. “—well, if I have to go to work, I will, but I’m damned if I work until and unless I have to.” He grinned. “You’ve heard my opinions before, and even if you don’t remember them you’d disagree with me just as strongly about them as you did before. So let’s not go into that again. Let’s get to the main point. Why won’t you be sensible and see a psychiatrist?”

  “I’m not sure myself,” I said. “But I know damned well I’m not going to, so can’t we just lay off the subject?”

  He sighed deeply. “All right, I know that if you get stubborn about something I might as well argue with a lamp post. But tell me, and be honest, why don’t you want your memory back?”

  “I do. I just don’t want to go to a psychoanalyst.”

  He didn’t say anything and I didn’t. We sat there and sipped our drinks, concentrating on them as though it was important that we drink them attentively.

  Then Arch ran a hand over his crew cut and looked at me again. “Damned if I know what to do about you, Rod.”

  “Why do anything? Look, maybe there’s something I want to forget, so why not let me forget it?” I made circles on the table with the bottom of my glass. “And maybe I simply have psychoanalophobia—and wouldn’t that be something to cure if psychoanalysis is the only thing that would cure it?”

  That got a grin out of him. “I should write a play about that. But, seriously, how about your having a talk with Pete Radik?”

  “Who’s Pete Radik?”

  “A friend of yours. And he isn’t a psychoanalyst, but he knows quite a bit about it. I’ve pumped him a few times for material for my work, and he knows his stuff. He’s an instructor—working for a professorship—at the university. In psychology—experimenting with Rhesus monkeys, that kind of psychology research. But he’s got a better than lay knowledge of psychoanalysis. How’s about talking to him?”

  “If he’s a friend of mine I’d like to meet him. But he’s not going to get me on a couch. Lay knowledge or no lay knowledge, I won’t be laid.”

  Arch said impatiently, “I told you he’s no psychoanalyst. Incidentally, he’s called up for you a couple of times. Once when you were out walking, once when you were asleep. I stalled him—I’ve stalled some others—because I figured you’d want to remeet people one at a time and not too many all at once. How about my calling him now and seeing if he’s free this evening?”

  “Make it tomorrow and it’s a deal. I don’t want to see anybody this evening.”

  He nodded and went to the back of the tavern to a phone booth. I watched a big electric fan on the ceiling go around and around until he came back.

  He said, “Says you should pick him up for lunch tomorrow. Get there around noon and he’ll take you out somewhere.”

  “He married?”

  “No. So he has to go out to eat lunch anyway and you might as well tag along. He’s a nice guy, by the way. Smarter than most of your friends.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Okay, I’ll pick him up. But where?”

  He told me the address and I wrote it down on the back of an envelope that contained a bill for some shirts from a haberdashery I’d never heard of. But I’d pay the bill when I got around to it. It had come in the morning’s mail and I’d thought what a beautiful chance that newspaper story of my amnesia would give anyone who wanted to send me bills for stuff I’d never bought. But I’d worry about that if and when the bills got hot and heavy, and they hadn’t yet.

  Arch glanced at his watch. “Time for me to head home for dinner. Want to come along and take pot luck?”

  I turned it down. I wanted to be alone for a while; that’s why I’d told Arch I’d look up Radik tomorrow but not this evening. I gave the stall that I wanted another beer and sat there after Arch had gone out. But I didn’t order another one; I just sat there thinking. Making bricks without straw.

  When I was sure Arch would be out of sight I went outside into the early warm dusk and strolled toward downtown. I didn’t know where I was going until I found myself in front of the garage that held the Lincoln.

  I went in. Joe, the guy with the red hair and freckles, came to meet me. He grinned first and then looked a bit disappointed. “Did you decide to take the Linc tonight, Rod?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “I can wait till morning. Do you get off at six, Joe? You said you started at nine in the morning.”

  “Sure, I get off at six.”

  “It’s almost that now. How’s about having dinner with me?”

  “Why—I’d like to, but I’ll have to call the wife, see if she’s got any plans. Want to wait a minute?”

  I waited while he phoned. He came back leaving the receiver off the hook and said, “She’s got a pot roast just about ready. Says she’ll break my neck if I eat out, but why not bring you home with me. Okay?”

  I hadn’t thought of the possibility of Joe’s being married, for some reason. But there wasn’t any way out now, so I said okay. I waited around until he’d washed up and then we went out the back way and got in an old Buick in the lot back of the garage. I wasn’t too crazy about the idea; I’d just wanted to talk cars with Joe.

  It was all right, though. Joe had two kids, but they were nice kids and I liked them. His wife knew something about cars and even the kids knew more than, say, Arch did. We talked cars and ate pot roast and then Jane, Joe’s wife, took the kids upstairs to put them to bed and then Joe broke open the bottle I’d insisted on buying on the way out and we drank brandy and talked cars some more. Just what I’d been looking for, an evening with someone who hadn’t known me well enough to make me feel strange in not remembering them. I had a hunch I knew Joe now as well as I’d known him before—and I was genuinely meeting his wife for the first time. Pretty soon she came back down and joined us and we talked cars some more; it turned out she knew a Continental from a Zephyr and knew my Lincoln was a Continental because Joe had told her about it. It turned out, too, that she knew more about cars than about drinking; two brandies made her sleepy and she went upstairs to turn in at nine o’clock. What seemed like a few minutes after that I saw that it was eleven. I tried to phone for a taxi, but Joe insisted on driving me home.

  It wasn’t until after he’d left me that I realized that I still didn’t know his last name. It didn’t matter. Maybe I hadn’t known it before.

  I slept that night for the first time since Monday night without dreaming vague dreams that I couldn’t remember even in the instant of awakening, only that I had been dreaming and that the dreams had been bad.

  I got up so early that I had to kill time drinking four cups of coffee so I wouldn’t get to the garage too early. Joe would be on at nine and I allowed him half an hour to have the car checked and ready and my timing was right The Linc was downstairs at the gas pump. It looked new and shiny and like a million dollars.

  I spent the morning driving sixty miles toward nowhere and then sixty miles back and at a few minutes before noon I parked in front of the address Arch had given me for Pete Radik. It was an old building that had once been a rich man’s mansion and was now a rundown rooming house. It had probably once had a spacious yard, but now it crouched, cowering, between two tall new apartment buildings.

  I went up the steps and through the door. There was a hall and a table at one side of it on which lay incoming mail and there was a bell button with a card beside it that said “Ring for Landlady.” I had neglect
ed to ask Arch about the location of Radik’s room so I was about to ring for landlady when a door opened across the hall behind me and a voice said, “Rod. Come in.”

  He was short and plump and cheerful looking. He grinned at me and said, “From what I hear, I should introduce myself. I’m Pete.” He stuck out a hand and I took it. I liked him.

  His room wasn’t big, but there were two overstuffed chairs in it. I took one and he sprawled himself in the other, throwing his legs up over the arm.

  He said, “Let me brief you. Peter John Radik, Pete to you. Twenty-seven, single, unattached. We’ve known one another four years. Don’t remember where or how we met first time—touch of amnesia on my part, although I could probably remember if I tried hard enough. We’ve been fairly close friends for about three years—seen one another an average of once a week or thereabouts. I had dinner with you and Robin, sometimes bringing a current girl friend, maybe once a month. Sometimes repaid by having tickets for a show for the three—or four if I was dragging a femme—of us. Principal mutual interest, conversation—about practically anything. Details later, when and as they come up—unless you want to ask me any specific ones now.”

  “Not right now,” I said. “That’s the most sensible way anybody’s introduced himself to me yet, Pete. I’ve got a hunch we’ll be friends again—even if I never remember the first time. What did Arch tell you on the phone? That you’re to talk me into going to a psychiatrist?”

  “He kind of hinted at it. Why don’t you want to?”

  “Well—there’s only one way he’d treat me, isn’t there? Hypnosis.”

  “Probably the quickest, if it works. It doesn’t work in all cases, and you’d have to get a man who was good at it.”

  “What the hell else would he try? There’s no other angle of attack that I can think of. I mean, he can’t put me on his couch and make me go over my early life. I don’t remember it. I’m a little less than four days old. Those four days wouldn’t give him much to analyze—and anything before that would be hearsay evidence.”

  “He still might be able to do it. You say there’s no other angle of attack. There are several. One is your current aversion to psychoanalysis in general and hypnosis in particular. He could make you realize the reason for them.”