The Man Who Folded Himself Page 4

  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 wonder
ed 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.

  Abruptly, he was changing the subject. “Besides, there’s another advantage,” he pointed out. “With me along, you’ll never be taken by surprise. Whatever we do, I’ll have been through it before, so I’ll know what to expect, and you’ll be learning it at the hands of an expert guide. Whatever we do.”

  “I’ve always wanted to try skydiving,” I offered.

  He grinned. “Me too.” Suddenly he was serious again. “When you go, Dan, you have to take me. I’m your insurance so you can’t be killed.”

  “Huh?” I stared at him.

  He repeated it. “When you’re with me, you can’t be killed. It’s like the check this afternoon. If anything happens to the earlier one, the later one won’t be there beside it—it won’t exist. It’s more than me just being able to warn you about things—my sitting here across from you is proof that you won’t be killed before tomorrow night. And I know that nothing happens to me”—he thumped his chest to indicate which “me” he was talking about—“because I’ve got my memories. I’ve seen that nothing will happen to me tonight, so you’re my insurance too.”

  I thought about that.

  He was right.

  “Remember the automobile accident we didn’t have last year?”

  I shuddered. I’d had a blowout on the San Diego Freeway while traveling at seventy miles an hour. It had been the left front tire and I had skidded across three lanes and found myself facing the wrong way, with traffic rushing at me. And the motor had stalled. I just barely had time to restart the engine and pull off to the side. It had been fifteen minutes before my hands stopped trembling enough for me to attempt changing the tire. It was a mess. For weeks afterward I’d kept a piece of it on the dashboard to remind me how close a call I’d had. I still had nightmares about it: if traffic had been just a little bit heavier . . . the sickening swerve-skidbumpety-bump-screeeeeeech—

  I figured I was living on borrowed time. I really should have been killed. Really. It was only a miracle that I hadn’t been.

  I realized my hand was shaking. I forced myself to take a sip of my drink. I looked at Don; he was as grim as I was. “There’s too much to lose, isn’t there?” he said.

  I nodded. We shared the same memory. There was a lot we didn’t have to say.

  “Dan,” he said; his tone was intense, as intense as before. His eyes fixed me with a penetrating look. “We’re going to be more than just identical twins. We can’t help it. We’re closer than brothers.”

  I met his gaze, but the thought still frightened me.

  I’m not sure I know how to be that close to anybody. Even myself.

  We ate the rest of our dinner in silence, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. No, it was a peaceful one, relaxed.

  I had to get used to the situation, and Don was letting me. He sat there and smiled a lot, and I got the feeling that he was simply enjoying my presence.

  I had to learn how to relax, that was the problem. Other people had always unnerved me because I thought they were continually judging me. How do I look? What kind of a person do I seem? Is my voice firm enough? Am I really intelligent or just pedantic? Was that joke really funny, or am I making a fool of myself? I worried about the impression I was making. If I was shy, did they think I was being aloof and call me a snob? If I tried to be friendly, did they find me overbearing? I was always afraid that I was basically unlikable, so I wouldn’t give anyone the chance to find out; or I tried too hard to be likable, and thereby proved that I wasn’t.

  And yet—

  Here was this person, Don, sitting across from me . . . he wasn’t unlikable at all. In fact, he was quite attractive. Handsome, even. His face was ruddy and tanned (well, that was the sun lamp in the bathroom, but it looked good); his eyes were clear, almost glowing (that must be from the tinted contact lenses); his hair was carefully styled (that was the hair stylist, of course)—he was everything I was always trying to be. His voice was firm, his manner was gentle, and he was in good physical condition. Perhaps I had been too hard in judging myself.

  Yes, I liked the look of this person. He was capable, assured, and confident. He projected—likability. Friendliness.

  And something else. There was that same kind of longing—no, maybe desperation was the word—in Don; that feeling of reach out, touch me, here I am, please that I so often felt in myself. Under his assurance was a hint of—helplessness?—need? And I could respond to that. I enjoyed his presence, but more than that, I sensed a feeling that he needed me. Yes, he needed to know that I liked him.

  I realized I was smiling. It was nice to be needed, I decided. I was glowing, but not with the liquor. Not entirely. I was learning to love—no, I was learning to like myself. I was learning to relax with another person. No. I was learning to relax with myself. Maybe it was the same thing, actually.

  We spent a lot of time drinking and thinking and just looking at each other. And giggling conspiratorially. Our communication was more than empathic. We didn’t need words—he already knew what I was thinking. And I would know the rest, if I just waited. We simply enjoyed each other’s existence.

  After dinner we went to a nearby bar and played a few games of pool. It was one of the few things we could do that wouldn’t be boring the second time around. Most kinds of spectator entertainment, like a movie or a show or a baseball game, wouldn’t work two nights in a row, but participation activities would work just fine. Swimming, sailing, riding; I could learn from watching my own technique. (I wondered if I could get a poker game going—let’s see, I’d need at least five of me. I doubted it would work, but it might be worth a try.)

  We got home about eleven-thirty; we were holding each other up, we were that drunk. Don looked at me blearily. “Well, good night, Dan. I’ll see you tomorrow—no, I’ll see you the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow I have to see Don and you have to see Dan—” He frowned at that, went over it again in his head, looked back to me. “Yeah, that’s right.” He flipped open his belt buckle, set it, double-checked it, closed it, and vanished forward into time. The air gave a soft pop! as it rushed in to fill the space where he had been.

  After he left I stumbled through the apartment, wondering what to do next—another trip through time? No. I decided not. I was too tired. First I’d get some sleep. If I could.

  I paused to pick up the clothes that I’d scattered on the floor t
his afternoon when we’d changed for dinner; I realized I was picking up his clothes too—wait a minute, that meant that he’d left wearing some of my clothes.

  I looked in the closet. Yes, the good sport jacket and slacks that he’d borrowed were missing. So was my red tie. But the sweater and slacks that he’d discarded were still there.

  No, they weren’t—they were in my hand! I blinked back and forth between the clothes I was holding and the clothes in the closet. They were the same! I’d lost a jacket and slacks, but I’d gained a sweater and a pair of pants identical to the ones I already owned. I had to figure this out.

  Ah, I had it. The jacket and slacks he’d borrowed had traveled forward in time with him. They’d be waiting there for me when—no, that wasn’t right. I’d be going back in time tomorrow—that is, I’d be coming back to today, where I’d put them on and take them forward with me. Right. They’d just be skipping forward a few hours.

  And the sweater and the other pair of pants—the duplicated ones—obviously, that’s what I’d be wearing tomorrow when I bounced back, leaving only one set in the future. The condition of having two of them was only temporary, like the condition of having two of me. It was just an illusion.

  Or was it?

  What would happen if I wore his sweater and slacks back through time? The sweater and slacks that he brought from the future would then be the clothes that I would leave in the past so that I could put them on when I went back to the past to leave them there for myself, ad infinitum . . . and meanwhile, my sweater and slacks would be hanging untouched in the closet.