The Man Who Folded Himself (6 page)

I stopped in the act of unlocking the passenger-side door. (It seemed natural for him to take the driver's side; besides, I was unsure of the way to the track.) “Why didn't you let me explain?” I asked. “She's my neighbor.”

“She's my neighbor too,” he replied, giggling again. “Besides, what would you have said? At least I've been through this once before.” He opened his door and dropped into the driver's seat.

I got in slowly and looked at him. He was unlatching the convertible top. He didn't notice my gaze. I realized that I was feeling resentful of him—he was so damned sure of himself, even to the way he was making himself at home in my car. Was that the way I was? I found myself studying his mannerisms.

Suddenly he turned to me. “Relax,” he said. He turned to look me straight in the eye. “I know what you're going through. I went through it too. The way to do this is—at least, I think so—is the first time you go through something, just watch. The second time, you know what's going to happen; that's where the arrogance comes from. Only it isn't arrogance. It's confidence.”

“I guess this is happening a little too fast for me.”

“Me too,” he said. “I know this is a weird thing to say, but I missed you. Or maybe I missed me. Anyway, it'll work better this way. You'll see.” He pushed the button on the dashboard and the convertible top lifted off and began folding back. “Put on a tape,” he said, indicating the box of cassettes on the floor. He started to name one, then stopped himself. “Want me to tell you which one you're going to choose?”

“Uh—no, thanks.” I studied the different titles with such an intensity I couldn't see any of them. It would be impossible for me to surprise him—no matter what tape I chose, no matter what I did, he would already know, he would have done it himself.

Of course, he had been through all this before. He had every reason to be sure of himself. When I became him, I'd probably be cocky too. Perhaps a little giddy—you couldn't help but feel powerful if you knew everything that was going to happen before it happened.

Of course he should be the one to do the talking.

Later I'd get my turn; but right now I was feeling a little unsure, both of myself and of the situation. I could learn by following his lead. I put on a tape of Petrouchka and concentrated on the road.

I'd never been to the race track before. It was bigger than I'd expected. Don steered his way into the parking lot with surprising familiarity and arrowed immediately toward a space that shouldn't have been there, but was.

Instead of seats in the bleachers, as I expected, he bought a private box. Grinning at me, he explained, “Why not? We deserve the best.”

I wanted to point out that it wasn't necessary; besides, it cost too much. Then I realized he was right; the money made no difference at all. We were going to make a lot more than we spent, so why not enjoy? I shut up and let myself be awed by the great expanses of green lawn. Under the bright sun, the wide sweeping track seemed poised in midair, a curve of stark and simple elegance. The stands loomed high above us and I was properly impressed.

We ordered mint juleps from the bar—nouveau riche I thought, but didn't protest—and made our way to our seats. Don made a great show of studying the paper, which I thought was funny—it was today's race results he was poring over. He muttered over the names in feigned thoughtfulness, “Yes . . . I think Absolam's Ass looks good in the first.” He looked up. “Danny, go put a hundred dollars on Absolam's Ass. To win.”

“Uh—” I started fumbling in my pockets. “I only have sixty—” And then I broke off and looked at him. “A hundred dollars—?” On a horse? A hundred dollars?

He was eying me with cool amusement. There was a crisp new bill in his hand. “You want to get rich?” he asked. “You have to spend money to make money.”

I blinked and took the bill. Somehow I found my way to the betting windows and traded the money for ten bright printed tickets. The clerk didn't even glance up.

Absolam's Ass paid off at three to one. We now had three hundred dollars. Don ordered two more mint juleps while I went to collect our winnings and put them on Fig Leaf. This time the clerk hesitated, repeated the bet aloud, then punched the buttons on his machine.

Fig Leaf paid off at two to one. We now had six hundred dollars. And another mint julep.

Calamity Jane also paid off at two to one. We were up twelve hundred dollars, and the clerk at the window was beginning to recognize me.

Finders Keepers came in second, and I looked at Don in consternation. He merely grinned and said, “Wait—” I waited and Harass was disqualified for bumping Tumbleweed. Finders Keepers paid eight to one. Ninety-six hundred dollars. The betting official went a little goggle-eyed when I tried to put it all on Big John. He had to call over a manager to okay it.

Big John came in at three to one. Twenty-eight thousand, eight hundred dollars. I was getting a little goggle-eyed myself. The track manager personally took my next bet; with that much money at stake, I couldn't blame him. I made a little show of hesitating thoughtfully as if I couldn't make up my mind, partly to keep him from getting curious about my “system” and partly because I was getting nervous about all the people who were watching me to see which way I would bet. Apparently they were betting the same way. Word of my “luck” seemed to have spread. (I didn't like that—I'd heard somewhere that too much money on one horse could change the odds. Well, no matter. As long as I still won. . . .)

As I climbed back to our seats, I thought I saw Don leaving, but I must have been mistaken because he was still sitting there in our box. When he saw me, he folded the newspaper he'd been looking at and shoved it under his seat. I started to ask him about the odds, but he said, “Don't worry about it. We're leaving right after this race. We're through for the day.”

“Huh—? Why?”

He waited until the horses broke from the gate; the crowd roared around us. “Because in a few minutes we're going to be worth fifty-seven thousand, six hundred dollars. Don't you think that's enough?”

“But if we keep going,” I protested, “we can win almost a million dollars on an eight-horse parlay.”

He flinched at that. “There are better ways to make a million dollars,” he said. “Quieter ways. More discreet.”

I didn't answer. Evidently he knew something I didn't. I watched
as Michelangelo crossed the finish line and paid off at two to one. Don scooped up his two newspapers and stood. “Come on,” he said. “You go get the money. I'll wait for you at the car.

I was a little disappointed that he didn't want to come with me to collect our winnings; after all, they were as much his as they were mine. (I'm getting my tenses confused—they were all mine, but it seemed like ours.) Didn't he care about the money?

No matter. I found my way down to the windows to turn my tickets in—that is, I tried to turn my tickets in. There were some forms to be filled out first, and a notification for the Bureau of Internal Revenue. And I had to show my driver's license for identification and my credit cards too. The track manager was beaming at me and kept shaking my hand and wanting to know if I would please wait for the photographers and reporters.

At first I was pleased with the idea, but something inside me went twang—just a warning sensation, that's all, but it was enough. “I don't want any publicity,” I said; now I knew why Don had beaten such a hasty retreat.

I shook off the track manager and collected my check for $57,600 as quickly as possible. It felt like a mighty powerful piece of paper; I was almost afraid to put it in my pocket. I must have walked out to the parking lot like my pants were on fire. I was that nervous and excited.

Don was sitting on the passenger side, looking thoughtful. I was too giddy to notice. “You want to see the check?” I asked, waving it at him.

He shook his head. “I've already seen it.” Then he pulled it out of his pocket to show me—his check for $57,600. He'd had it with him all the time!

I blinked from one to the other. They were identical, even down to the last curlicue on the signature.

“Hey!” I said. “Two checks!” Why don't we cash them both?”

Don looked at me. “We can't. Think about it. If you cash yours, how do I get it back so I can cash it?”

He was right, of course. I wanted to hit myself for being so stupid. It was the same check. He—I—we just hadn't cashed it yet. He slipped it back into his pocket; I did the same with mine. Well, at least it was nice to know I wasn't going to lose it.

I drove home. Don was strangely quiet; I noticed it almost immediately because I had gotten used to letting him do all the talking. (There wasn't much point in my saying anything; he already knew it, and anything I needed to know, he would tell me.) But now he had lost his former exuberance. He seemed almost—brooding.

I was still too excited by the whole experience. I couldn't stop talking. But after a bit I began to realize it was a one-sided conversation. I trailed off, feeling foolish. (He'd heard it all before, I had to remind myself. After all, he'd said it too.)

“Well,” I said. “What happens now? Do you go back to your time?”

He looked at me, forced himself to smile. “Not yet. First we go out to celebrate. Like rich people.”

Of course. It's not every day you make $57,600.

We stopped at home to change clothes. (There was a bit of hassling over who was going to use the bathroom first and who was going to wear whose favorite sport jacket, but eventually we compromised. Even so, this was something I might have trouble getting used to—sharing my life. I like to live alone, and this business of another person—even when it's only yourself—sharing your apartment, your clothes, your bathroom, your razor, your toothbrush, and even your clean underwear, can be unnerving. To say the least.)

The restaurant was called simply The Restaurant. It's supposed to be one of the best places in the city, but I'd never been there before, so I didn't know. Don, of course, was quite familiar with the layout. He presented himself to the maitre d' and announced, “You have a reservation for Mr. Daniel Eakins…?”

Yes, he did—When had Don arranged that?—and led us to a table on a balcony overlooking a splashing fountain. Fancy.

We started off with cocktails, of course, and an hors d'oeuvre tray that was a meal in itself, and then had another drink while we studied the menu and wine list. I went goggle-eyed at the prices, mostly out of habit, but Don merely announced, “Last night I had the steak. Today I'm going to try the lobster.”

His “last night” was my tonight. I had steak.

It was still early in the evening. We were in a quiet and empty corner. Somewhere a violinist was teasing a Bach concerto until it giggled with delight. I sipped my drink and studied Don; I was beginning to find his self-assurance attractive. (I knew what that meant. I wanted to be the same way and I'd begin to imitate him.)

He was studying me too, but there was a detached smile on his lips. I could tell his thoughts were not running the same course as mine and I wondered what he was thinking about. I kept looking at him and he kept looking back at me.

Finally I had to break away. “I can't get used to this,” I said. “I mean, I thought I'd be doing all this alone. I didn't realize that you'd be here—”

“But why should you have to be alone?” He'd started to answer my question before I'd finished asking it. “You'll never have to be alone again. You'll always have me. I'll always have you. It makes more sense this way. I don't like being alone either. This way I can share the things I like with somebody I know who likes them too. I don't have to try and impress you, you don't have to try to impress me. There's perfect understanding between us. There'll never be any of those destructive little games that people play on each other, because there can't be. I like me, Danny; that's why I like you. You'll feel the same way, you'll see. And I guarantee, there are no two people in this world who understand each other as well as we do.”

“Um—” I said. I studied the pattern of bread crumbs on the tablecloth. Don's intensity scared me. All my life I had been a loner; I wasn't very good at talking to people, and when they tried to get too close to me, I backed away in a hurry.

(Uncle Jim had arranged for me to visit an analyst once. It hadn't worked. I wouldn't even open up for him. The most I would admit was a feeling that I wasn't living my life, only operating it by remote control.) So now, when Don opened his thoughts to me—

—but I couldn't reject him. He was me. How could I put up a psychological barrier between myself? I couldn't, of course, but it was the candidness of Don's admissions which made me uncomfortable.