Mother Aegypt and Other Stories Part 14

That Christmas Eve Dolliver found himself walking south on Highway 1, frying to hitchhike back to San Francisco, in a very unpleasant frame of mind.

He kept frying to find some reason, some pattern of events that had resulted in the present moment.

He'd made one stupid decision about living off his unemployment for a while; had that been all it took to bring him here?

That had been all it took. As he trudged along the narrow two-lane above the cliffs Dolliver made another discovery: there wasn't much traffic along that road on Christmas Eve, and what there was wouldn't stop for somebody in a c.r.a.ppy old stained coat. All that long afternoon the sky got graver and the pa.s.sing cars got fewer and the dull cold penetrated more deeply into his bones.

It didn't help that the scenery was breathtaking, looming green redwood forests that breathed out a nice seasonal balsam fragrance. In the couple of cliff-perching little bed-and-breakfast towns Dolliver pa.s.sed, people looked right through him, dressed as he was, though he made no attempt to beg for change. The dogs alone acknowledged his presence, barking and threatening; and the grandeur of the surf beating against the black cliffs began to lure him, as time and the miles went by. Only the thought that suicide during the holidays was a cliche kept him from jumping right over.

Pretty soon it got dark and Dolliver had all he could do to keep from wandering over the edge in the pitch-blackness. The only thing he had to orient himself was the sound of the sea and, miles out on an invisible horizon, the spark of light that was some fishing boat or tanker. He made up his mind to stay at the next little town if he had to break a window and get himself arrested.

He came around a high curve and saw a blaze of light. Following it to 709 the edge of the road, he found himself looking down a hillside into a river gorge. There were buildings down there, where the river met the sea. Right below was the roof of a big gabled place. Painted on its slates in squared black letters, just visible by the reflection of the floodlights, were the words NAVARRO LODGE.

So he followed the road around and down, and found the turnoff from the highway: a gravel drive cutting away through the silver-barked alder trees, following the river bank. Then the gravel was lit up by headlights behind him, and Dolliver looked over his shoulder and had to scramble out of the way of the oncoming car.

He saw that it was an antique, something from the twenties maybe, beautifully restored. Somebody had money. He reflected that he should have let it hit him, and then he might have sued. He felt ashamed immediately, but reflected on the injustice of wealth and felt better.

Dolliver trudged on, beside the river that roared white over boulders, and a few hundred yards farther along he came out into the glow of the lights. There were the parked cars, lined up on the gravel; there were the lit windows of Navarro Lodge, each with its flickering red taper and festoon of evergreen.

It was a rambling two-story building with dormer windows looking out on the river and the alder forest.

All the cars were antiques. Gleaming bra.s.s and chrome, bug-eyed headlights, green and black and mustard-yellow paint, leather trunks on the back. Oh, thought Dolliver, some cla.s.sic car club's having a rally. How nice for them. His envy intensified.

He paced along outside, indecisive about going in. Through the windows he could glimpse people moving-the car enthusiasts, probably, he thought, because they all seemed to be wearing costumes for the occasion. There was a smell of wood smoke sweet on the night air, a bite of frost, and how brilliant and chill the stars were! Dolliver could hear slightly drunken laughter and the tinny sound of what he guessed was a television. He could hear the crash of waves in the black winter night, dragging on the shingle beach. Distant on the horizon, the light from the ship was still there.

It occurred to Dolliver that if he took off his coat before he went in, he'd make a better impression, so he hung it on the low fence that ran along the driveway. The cold bit into him at once. Hugging his arms he sprinted up the front steps and shouldered through the doors, rehearsing what he'd made up to say, which was: Excuse me, I'm afraid I've had something embarra.s.sing happen. My lady friend and I were having an argument and she stopped the car and asked me to get out and look at the right front tire.

When I got out, she drove off--she's got my coat, my wallet and all my credit cards, my cell phone-I wonder if I could throw myself on your mercy, since it's Christmas Eve? I'd be happy to sleep in the lobby- He went up to the desk, dark wood decorated for the holiday with swags of holly branches. There was a man there writing in a ledger. Dolliver cleared his throat and said, "Excuse me-"

The man didn't look up. Dolliver moved in closer and tried again. "Excuse me-"

Still, the man ignored him. He looked about twenty-five, wore a plain brown sweater over an oxford shirt, wore steel-rimmed gla.s.ses: nothing to tip Dolliver off that anything strange had happened, and after all people had been pretending they didn't see him all day.

What did seem weird was the fact that the man was writing in the ledger book using a long wooden pen with a steel nib, and dipping from a little fireplug-shaped bottle of Schaefer's Ink. No computer terminal, there on the desk. No telephone.

Dolliver stepped forward, put both hands flat on the desk and said, as loudly as he could, "EXCUSE ME!".

The man wrote on, with a calm and pleasant expression on his face, giving no acknowledgment Dolliver was there at all.

After a moment of staring Dolliver said huffily "Well, fine then!" and drew himself up and marched into the main lobby.

There was a big fireplace in there, made of river cobbles, with a bright fire of alder and cottonwood logs. He went straight to it and warmed himself, and as he turned he prepared another speech: Er--excuse me, but is the person at the counter hearing-impaired? I've been trying to get his attention....

But as he looked out at the room, he knew.

The people in this room were also oblivious to his presence: a young girl with a powdered face and black pageboy bob sitting on a couch before the fire, right there in front of him, and a young man sitting beside her, leaning close and whispering intently in her ear. A couple of older gentlemen arguing under the deer's head mounted on the wall, as they drank from little gla.s.s punch cups. Another old man sitting in a Morris chair, reading a hardcover book and from time to time tipping cigar ash into the smoking stand, with its thick amber bowl.

Dolliver had seen enough movies and Outer Limits episodes to guess that he'd fallen into some kind of time slip. He wondered bitterly why couldn't he have been abducted by aliens, which at least would give him a story to sell to the tabloids.

The girl wore '20s flapper garb. The men might have stepped out of an old L. L. Bean catalogue, all hunter flannels. All the details of the room were perfect for the period too, the wainscoting in polished dark wood, the wallpaper with its sporting motif, the duck-hunting print patterns in which the chairs were upholstered. There was a little spruce Christmas tree in one corner with a string of old-style light s, thick mold-blown gla.s.s in shapes of fruits, painted in colors, the electrical cord wrapped in woven fabric.

A clock ticked on the mantel, which Dolliver only heard because he was standing right in front of it; otherwise it'd have been drowned out by the Victrola in the corner, on which a scratchy recording of "Adeste Fideles" was playing. He could see the old black phonograph record spinning, just as fast as a CD does now.

The song ended, and the girl jumped away from the young man and got up to change the record. She put on "The Saint Louis Blues" and amused herself by doing a little dance step alone, watching the young man from under her long lashes. She had a piquant little face, but her eyes were rather cold. The young man looked sad and stared into the fire, right through Dolliver's legs.

Interesting as this was, Dolliver was more intrigued by the smell of dinner coming from the dining room beyond. He crossed the room, drawing no attention to himself. One of the two men drinking punch was saying belligerently: "Sure you could. Say, you could put a radio tower up on that hill that'd pull in China, and he's crazy if he doesn't do it. I told him...."

The dining room had the same sporting decor, except that there were small round tables here and there on the wide plank floor, and a buffet on the far wall. There were a few couples at the tables, girls in bright beaded gowns chatting gaily with more men in plaids and checks. Somebody's little fox terrier was wandering about begging. There was a stockbrokerish guy at the buffet, listening to a thin youth in a waiter's jacket who was affirming: "Yes, sir, all our own. The salmon's smoked right up the hill in our smokehouse. And that's local venison, sir, and the roast beef too. No, sir, the plum pudding came out of a can, but...."

"h.e.l.l with the plum pudding," yelled another stockbrokerish type, bounding up with a cup of punch.

"What's in this stuff? It's got plenty of pep, and I mean plenty!" He raised his cup and winked broadly.

"Applejack, what do you think?" said the other stockbroker. "They make their own in the cellar, don't they, kid?"

"Yes, sir. We have the apples brought over special from Sebastopol," agreed the youth.

"Well, say, I think I'll just take a room here permanently," chortled the drinker, and drank. "h.e.l.l with the Volstead Act!"

There was somebody else standing at the buffet too. He was helping himself, filling a plate with meat and some of the other fare that was laid out: asparagus, oysters, Stilton cheese and crackers, hot biscuits.

He looked up, saw Dolliver and grinned.

"Hey, bro," he said, chewing. He wore blue jeans, a Metallica T-shirt, a down vest; John Deere cap and sneakers. He had a thin beard, long hair. Dolliver was wearing jeans and Nikes, which was presumably how this other person from the present recognized him for a fellow time-traveler.

Dolliver stared, and the other man swallowed and said "Welcome to the Twilight Zone, huh?

Doo-de-doo-doo, doo-de-doo-doo!"

"The food's real?" said Dolliver, but he was already crossing the room and reaching for one of the plates.

"Ghost food, I guess, huh? Tasty, though," said the other, stuffing a wad of sliced roast beef into his cheek. Dolliver picked up the plate, weighed it in his hand. It was substantial. There was a green pattern of alder cones and leaves around the rim, and the words NAVARRO LODGE in rustic letters. He took the plate and waved it slowly in front of the face of the nearest stockbroker, who never blinked; in front of the waiter, who never paused in his recitation: "...and the blackberries in the pie were picked right from our own brambles here, our cook makes all our preserves...."

"They ain't gonna see you ," said the other. "Really. I've been here since this morning, and n.o.body's noticed me vet."

"But we can affect their reality," said Dolliver, picking up a sliver of turkey and tasting it experimentally. It was substantial too, and he was famished, so he set to piling food on his plate. "Their buffet's reality, anyway. What's going on?"

"Beats me, friend," said the other. "I figure it's one of those things like on TV. Jesus, don't you wish you had a camera? We could get on one of those programs and make a fortune." He chewed and swallowed and looked Dolliver up and down. "You hitchhiking, huh?"

"Yes," said Dolliver, betting the man lived in a trailer park.

"Where you from?"

"New York."

"Wow," said the other. He lifted a punch cup and drank with relish. "You should try this stuff.

Smooth, man!"

"Okay," said Dolliver, spotting the wa.s.sail bowl. He filled a punch cup and had a sip. It burned all the way down. He set it carefully aside and began to eat, grimly and seriously, right where he was standing.

He hadn't eaten in two days.

"I'm from Navarro, myself," said the other. "Back up the river. So, how'd you come to be here?

Long way from home, huh?"

Dolliver introduced himself and told his story in all its humiliating detail: the company layoff, the unemployment error, the closed-out savings account, the eviction; then the ultimate finger from Fate, the old girlfriend who'd invited him out to spend Christmas with her. By the time Dolliver had blown his last cash on bus fare and got to Mendocino she'd made up with her husband and changed her mind about the invitation.

"Wow, man, that happened to me," said the other, looking delighted. "Mv old lady threw me out of the trailer this afternoon." Bingo, thought Dolliver. "This guy at the Christmas tree lot f.u.c.ked with me about my bonus, so there was like-no money I just started walking and wound up here. Verbal Sweet,"

he said, and Dolliver was mystified until the other extended his hand for a shake and he realized that Verbal Sweet was the man's name.

"Nice meeting you , Verbal," he said.

"You're a college grad, huh?" said Sweet.

Dolliver admitted he was, for all the good it was doing him now, and Sweet closed one eve and nodded shrewdly. "Bingo! I thought so, the way you talk."

Meanwhile the stockbrokers had sat down and begun to eat. The waiter sighed and folded his hands in front of him. Then he looked up sharply: the girl with the black pageboy bob had come in and was approaching the buffet, alone.

"h.e.l.lo, Billy," she said, picking up a plate.

"I was wondering if you were even going to notice me," said the waiter quietly He looked anguished.

"I've got a lot to say to you, actually, but this isn't the time," she said, glancing over her shoulder. She tilted her head, staring down with a coy expression at the platters of beef and venison, as though she couldn't make up her mind. She swung a finger to and fro over the dishes. The waiter's eyes widened.

"If you're going to insult me-"

"No." She looked up, and there was nothing playful about her now. "Don't take it like that. So much has happened, Billy. I've been thinking a great deal about this. If we could talk-"

The waiter had looked incredulous, but he glanced up into the room and then hissed: "What good will it do to talk now?" Out loud he said: "Yes, Ma'am, that's a thirty-pound turkey. We had it in a pen behind the smokehouse. It's been fed apple mash, so the meat's very rich-"

"Helene." The other man, the one who'd been whispering in her ear, approached and put his hands on her shoulders. "Dear, I'm sorry. But this means an awful lot to Dad."

"Whoa! Lovers' triangle," said Sweet. "What do you want to bet she's cheating on him?"

Dolliver just shrugged and kept eating. The waiter stared straight ahead, expressionless and pale, as the girl sighed and leaned back against the other man. Her voice was querulous as she said: "What does it mean to you, Edgar?"

"Well, I-of course I want it too, you know that!" he said.

She just pursed her lips. Beef or venison?

"Dessert time," said Sweet happily, and served himself a piece of blackberry pie. "And you know what's over there at the bar? Honest-to-G.o.d French Champagne. I'm getting me a gla.s.s. You want any?"

"Sure," said Dolliver. "Thanks."

"Edgar, I don't care to discuss this right now," said the girl, stepping away and selecting the beef at last. Edgar said: "All right. But think about Christmas, Helene. Think what it could be like in a couple of years. The little tree, a little stocking, toys. Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

"Sweets to the sweet," she said cryptically, and the man smiled. The waiter coughed and excused himself, fleeing through a side door into what was probably the kitchen.

"Here you go," said Sweet, returning from the bar. He handed Dolliver a gla.s.s of champagne.

Dolliver set down his plate and drank gratefully. Sweet looked furtive and raised two fingers to his lips, miming smoking a joint. He said, "So, uh, you got any-?" Dolliver stared a moment before he got it.

"Oh! No, sorry."

"d.a.m.n. Well, okay. Maybe it's not a good idea to get too messed up, what with us being here and all. We might slip through a time warp or something and I ain't in any hurry to go back yet, are you?"

Dolliver set down his gla.s.s and reached into the fruit bowl for an orange. He said, "Not especially.

It's not as though I've got anything I'd miss."

"Me either," said Sweet. "But it's kind of a shame we're invisible."

"We were already invisible!" Dolliver snapped. "You think anyone back in our own time sees people like you and I? Even at this time of year? A run of bad luck and a dirty coat makes you a phantom, man."

Sweet listened patiently to his tirade and then went on: "Yeah, but wouldn't it be great if we could wow everybody with computers or something? We could, like, invent TV ahead of its time and get rich."

"Do you know how to make a television set?" Dolliver asked him. Sweet's face fell.

"No."

"Then that wouldn't work, see? But you could buy stock that'll do well," said Dolliver. "Like International Business Machines."

Sweet looked blank. Dolliver tried again: "Or Coca-Cola, for example."

"Oh, yeah," exclaimed Sweet. He warbled a few bars of the latest c.o.ke jingle, then frowned. "Wait a minute, you mean like the stock market? Oh, no way. You can lose money like that, I always heard.

But I got an idea. If this goes on-" At this moment the two men who'd been arguing about radio reception came to the buffet and shouldered Dolliver aside, completely unconscious of his presence.

"No, it was the d.a.m.nedest thing you ever saw," said one of them, setting down his punch cup and reaching for a plate. "Why, it was nothing like the movies, and all in color, too. But you'd need a lot more than a radio tower for reception, yes, sir!"

"The fellow's name was Baird, you say?" inquired the other. "Say, this could be big! I wonder if he's looking for investors over there?"

"Let's go back to the fireplace," suggested Sweet, and he and Dolliver took their desserts and drinks and went into sprawl on the sofa.

"Here's what we do," said Sweet, forking blackberries into his mouth. "We go upstairs to the rooms where everybody's suitcases are, right? And we help ourselves to whatever they got, same as we did with the food."

"Steal?" Dolliver stopped peeling the orange. He thought about it a moment and slowly his hands started moving again. "Why not? They're all a bunch of useless boozers, and dead anyway-I mean, by our rime. If they didn't notice the food disappearing, maybe they wouldn't miss jewelry. If they've got any."

"All these rich people?" Sweet looked scornful. "Of course they got jewelry with 'em. Didn't you ever watch any old movies? Ladies used to wear necklaces and stuff a lot more than now. And they'll have cash, too."

"No good," Dolliver told him, having another sip of champagne. "All their cash would be the big old Federal Notes." Sweet frowned at him in incomprehension and just at that moment one of the stockbrokers came to stand in front of them, warming his hands at the fire. "I'll show you ," said Dolliver, and feeling absurdly pleased with himself he leaned forward and slipped the man's wallet from his pocket.

"Smooth," laughed Sweet, applauding. Dolliver opened the wallet and fanned the outsized bills.