Ken Grimwood (37 page)

He found an overcoat in the tiny hall closet, pulled it on, and left the apartment. Not a word passed between them as he went.

Outside, the snow was grimy, patchy, as unlike the pristine sheets of white the television had shown from Innsbruck as the woman in that kitchen was from the Linda he had loved these past nineteen years.

He'd make the money fast this time, he decided, and see to it that she had enough to keep her comfortable for the rest of her life, but there was no way he could bring himself to stay, not now. The only question was what to do with himself until Pamela arrived, whenever that might be.

NINETEEN

The blue jay, darting and flitting outside the kitchen window as it built its nest in the backyard elm tree, was the first thing Pamela saw. She watched the bird's colorful aerial dance, took several long, deep breaths to calm herself before she looked around or moved.

She was in the process of making a cup of coffee, had been just about to insert the filter in the machine. The kitchen was cozy, familiar. Different than it had been last time, but she remembered it well from her first life, before the replaying had begun. Last replay she hadn't spent much time in here, had been too busy in her studio, painting and sculpting; the room had taken on the character of the maid they'd hired more than of herself. This kitchen, now, bore the stamp of her own personality, or at least the personality she'd had that first time around.

There was a Barbara Cartland novel lying open on the table, and next to it a copy of
Better Homes
and Gardens.
Various clippings and notes to herself were stuck to the refrigerator door with little magnets shaped and painted like tiny ears of corn or stalks of celery. A drawing she'd done of the children—well executed, but without the finer skills of lighting and composition she'd acquired through years of practice in other lives—was taped to one of the cabinets. A large kitchen calendar hung above the table. It was open to March 1984, and the dates were neatly crossed off almost to the end of the month. Pamela was thirty-four. Her daughter, Kimberly, would have just turned eight; Christopher would be eleven.

She set the coffee filter aside, started to leave the kitchen, but then stopped and smiled as she recalled something. She opened one of the lower drawers beneath the counter, rummaged behind the boxes of flour and rice … And sure enough, there it was, right were she'd always kept it hidden: a Zip-Loc plastic bag containing most of an ounce of grass and a packet of E-Z Wider rolling papers. Her lone vice in those days, her one real escape from the tedium of housework and "parenting," as it had come to be called.

Pamela put the marijuana back where she'd found it, walked into the living room. The family photographs were hung there, along with two of her paintings from college. The promise that they showed had never been developed in this lifetime. Why had she ever let her talent go to waste for so long?

She could hear muffled music from upstairs: Cyndi Lauper's cartoonishly bouncy voice singing "Girls Just Want to Have Fun." Kimberly must be home from school; Christopher would probably be in his own room, playing with the Apple II computer they'd bought him that Christmas.

She sat on the chair in the foyer, took a pencil and a pad of paper from the telephone table, and dialed information for New York City. There was no listing for a Jeff or Jeffrey Winston in Manhattan or Queens. No Linda or L. Winston, either. It had been a long shot, anyway; there was no reason to think he might be back in New York. Pamela tried information again, this time in Orlando. His parents were listed. She called, and Jeff's mother answered the phone.

"Hello, my name is Pamela Phillips, and—"

"Oh, my goodness! Jeff told us you'd be trying to get in touch with him, but Lord, that was ages ago.

Three
years
ago, I think, or maybe even four." The woman's voice faded as she apparently turned away from the mouthpiece, called in an aside: "Honey! It's that Phillips girl that Jeff said might call, remember?

Could you find me that envelope he sent?" She came back to the phone.

"Pamela? Hold on just a minute, dear; there's a message for you here from Jeff. My husband's getting it."

"Thank you. Could you tell me where Jeff is, where he's living now?"

"He's out in California, in a little town—well, right outside it, he says—called Montgomery Creek, up close to Oregon."

"Yes," Pamela said. "I know where it is."

"He said you would. You know, he doesn't even have a phone out there, can you imagine? It worries me sick, thinking what could happen to him in an emergency, but he says he's got a shortwave radio for that kind of thing. I just don't know what came over him, a grown man quitting his job and leaving his wife and—Oh, I'm so sorry. I hope I wasn't speaking out of turn, to—"

"It's quite all right, Mrs. Winston. Honestly."

"Well, it was just the strangest thing, anyhow. You might expect that kind of foolishness from a college boy, but for a man his age—he'll be forty before too very long, you know—Oh, thank you, honey. Pamela? I've got that envelope he sent us for when you called. He said we ought to just open it up and read it to you. Do you want to get a pencil or something?"

"I'm all set."

"O.K., then, let me see … Hmmph. You'd think after all this time and so much mystery, there'd be more to it than this."

"What does it say?"

"It's just one line. It says, 'If you're coming, be sure to bring the children. I love you. Jeff.' That's all there is to it. Did you get that? Do you want me to read it again?"

"No," Pamela said, a grin spreading wide on her suddenly flushed face. "Thank you so much, but I understood it perfectly."

She set the phone down, looked toward the staircase. Christopher and Kimberly were old enough now. They wouldn't like the idea of leaving home at first, but she knew they'd soon grow to love Montgomery Creek and Jeff.

Besides, Pamela thought, biting her lip, it wouldn't be for long.

They'd be back here in New Rochelle, back with their father, before they started high school.

Three and a half years. Her final replay; the last months and days of her phenomenally protracted life.

She planned to enjoy them all, to the fullest.

It was one of those rains that will neither cease nor get on with it and be done, but simply keeps on falling with a dull and intermittent insistence.

They'd been stuck inside the cabin like this for two days now; it was getting musty, the air dank with the smell of mildew from a leather vest that Christopher had left hanging on the porch railing overnight and had brought inside the next morning to dry by the stove.

"Kimberly!" Pamela said with exasperated dismay. "Will you please stop drumming on that plate!"

"She can't hear you," Christopher said, and leaned across the table to lift the miniature foam headphone away from his sister's left ear. "Mom says to cut it out," he yelled over the tinny sounds of Madonna's "Like a Virgin."

"As a matter of fact, just turn that off," Pamela said. "It's rude to listen to music by yourself while we're all having lunch."

The girl put on her most aggrieved grimace and pout but took the headphones off and put the Walkman away, as she'd been told. "I want another glass of milk," she said in a petulant tone.

"We're out of milk," Jeff reminded her. "I'm going into town tomorrow morning; I'll bring some back then. You can ride in with me, if you'd like; it may have stopped raining, and we could walk down by the falls."

"I've already seen the falls," Kimberly whined. "I want to watch MTV."

Jeff smiled tolerantly. "Out of luck there, kiddo," he said. "We could listen to the shortwave, though; see what they're saying in China, or Africa."

"I don't care about China or Africa! I'm bored!"

"Why don't we just talk, then," Pamela suggested. "That's what people used to do, you know."

"Yeah, sure," Christopher muttered. "What'd they ever find to talk about so much?"

"Sometimes they told each other stories," Jeff put in.

"That's an idea," Pamela said, brightening. "Would you like me to tell you a story?"

"Oh, jeez, Mom, come on!" Christopher protested. "What do you think we are, in kindergarten or something?"

"I don't know," Kimberly said, turning thoughtful. "Maybe it would be fun to hear a story. We haven't done that in a long time."

"You willing to at least give it a try?" Pamela asked her son. He shrugged, didn't answer.

"Well," she began, "thousands and thousands of years ago, there was a dolphin named Cetacea. One day a strange new awareness suddenly came into her head, as if it had come from the sky above her ocean and beyond. Now, this was in the days when dolphins and people sometimes spoke to one another, but … "

And with the gentle summer rain in the background, she told them the story of
Starsea
, of the common bond of loving hope that linked the intelligent creatures of the earth, the sea, the stars … and of the catastrophic loss that ultimately brought humanity to the sorrowfully exalted moment of first full contact with its ocean kin.

The children fidgeted a bit at first, but as the tale wore on they listened with increasing fascination while their mother verbally recreated the film that had once won her worldwide acclaim and had brought her together with Jeff. When she had finished, Kimberly was weeping openly, but with a glow of otherworldly rapture in her young eyes; Christopher had turned his face away to the window and didn't speak for a long time.

Just before dusk, a single shaft of sunlight broke through the overcast sky, and Jeff and Pamela stood outside on the porch to watch it slowly fade. The children chose to stay inside; Kimberly had borrowed some of Pamela's watercolors, and was painting images of stars and dolphins, while Christopher was absorbed in one of John Lilly's books.

The shifting light played vividly across the rain-soaked meadow, the billion droplets beaded on the fresh-cut grass shimmering like unearthly jewels in a field of green fire. Jeff stood quietly behind Pamela, his arms around her waist, her hair against his cheek. Just before the light failed, he whispered something in her ear, a line from Blake: " 'To see a world in a Grain of Sand,' " he murmured, " 'and a Heaven in a Wild flower.' "

She pressed her hands to his, softly completed the quote: " 'Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,' "

she said, " 'and Eternity in an hour.' "

The towplane taxied into position, and when it had come to a stop, engine still turning, the line boy ran out to attach the two-hundred-foot nylon rope from the sailplane to the hook at the tail of the idling Cessna up ahead.

"Christopher, you want to check out the controls for me?" Jeff said to the boy who sat in the student's seat in front of him.

"Sure thing," Pamela's son answered, his tone serious with pride at being part of the preparations, not just someone who was along for the ride. The boy wiggled the glider's stick left and right, and the ailerons at each wing tip responded; then he pushed back and forth on the stick, and Jeff turned back to see the elevator at the tail of the craft flap up and down, as it should, followed by the shimmy of the rudder as Christopher moved his feet on the pedals. All the controls seemed to be in good working order, and Jeff smiled his approval.

The towplane ahead of them began to inch forward, slowly taking up the slack in the rope. Its rudder waggled the pilot's "Ready?" query, and Jeff answered with a matching right-and-left movement of his own rudder. The Cessna moved down the runway, pulling the sailplane behind it. The wing boy ran alongside, holding the craft level and keeping it headed into the wind. Jeff kept his eyes on the tow plane, judging the level of his wings by the horizon line ahead. They picked up speed, the ground crew boy dropped back, and Jeff eased back slightly on the stick; they were airborne.

Out of the corner of his eye Jeff noted low swirls of puffy white clouds near the base of the mountain ahead. Good sign; that meant unstable moist air and thermals already developing. No time to look for them now, though; he stared intently at the towplane and the line, kept the nylon rope rigidly straight, and turned smoothly as the Cessna turned.

They reached altitude, three thousand feet above the lower slopes of the mountain. Jeff pulled the release knob, waited a moment to see the undone tow line snap forward like a rubber band, then went into a climbing turn to the right as the tow plane veered off and downward to the left. The Cessna's engine faded away as it returned to the little airport they had left, and soon there was no sound at all but the smooth rushing of the air against the Plexiglas canopy. They were in steady, powerless flight.

"God, Jeff! This is great!"

Jeff smiled, nodded as Christopher turned in his seat to look back at him, the boy's eyes wide and gleaming. He held the sailplane in a long, looping turn, using the leftover energy of their tow speed to gain as much working altitude as possible. The unearthly white cone of Mount Shasta slid by on their left, then reappeared in front of them, a sun-bright beacon urging them ever upward.

Jeff looked back toward the southwest, where the town named after the mountain lay nestled in the great surrounding forest of ponderosa pines. A second single-engine Cessna, towing another white-and-blue sailplane, was approaching. Jeff circled lazily, his speed beginning to drop to the normal cruising range of forty to fifty miles per hour, as he waited for the other craft to join him.

When it was a mile or so away, the second glider broke free of its umbilical and swept up and away from the powered tug in a maneuver exactly like the one Jeff had just performed. Christopher pressed his face to the side of the clear canopy, watching the new arrival as it swooped toward them and drew alongside in smooth formation.

Pamela smiled and gave a thumbs up from the rear control seat of the other sailplane, and in the front seat Kimberly beamed ecstatically, waving at Jeff and her brother.

Jeff gently touched his left rudder pedal as he banked the wings leftward with the stick, breaking the loop they were in and turning toward the great symmetrical bulk of the mountain. Pamela followed suit, staying just behind and to the right of him.