It was the voice of the woman. I didn't say anything.
"Who is it?" she said. Then she chuckled. "I know who it is. You don't
need to worry, Ben. He isn't home. It _is_ you, isn't it Ben?"
I hung up. Her voice had been unreal. Even her words. The pattern
surrounding this Orville Snyder was too trite and too unbelievable. A
wife--or was this woman his wife?--who used the grocery money to get
drunk, and who consorted with men named Ben, and stupidly gave herself
away over the phone.
I went back to my bench again and studied the identifications in the
wallet. One of them had fingerprints on it. I didn't know much about
fingerprints. Still....
I lit a bunsen burner and adjusted it until it was giving off smoke. I
let a film of black coat a piece of glass. When it was safely cool I
touched it with my right index finger and placed my fingerprint on a
sheet of paper.
In the desk I found a magnifying glass. With it I examined my print
and that on the identification, for the right index finger. In every
respect they seemed identical.
I laid the magnifying glass down slowly. Things were adding up.
Things that couldn't be denied. The driver's license was a photostat
copy and seemed authentic. The government identification card with the
fingerprints on it was encased between sheets of plastic that sealed
it. The Rexlo identification was on a printed card. And there was a
hospital card giving blood type.
All this added up to my being Orville Snyder. I hadn't ever heard the
name before. I'd never seen that woman before. I was Fred Martin. I was
as certain of that as I could ever be of anything.
But I had to be Orville Snyder. I couldn't get out of it. The
fingerprint, the man next door who had called me Orville, the woman who
ranted at me as only a wife of that type can rant to a man.
I was Fred Martin and I knew I was Fred Martin. But I was Orville
Snyder. I couldn't go any further. I didn't see how anyone could go any
further.
Suppose I went to a psychiatrist and told him all this? What
explanation would he give? He would obviously say I was insane. Perhaps
I was, but it didn't seem so.
The thing didn't seem to fit conventional patterns. The only thing a
psychiatrist might sink his teeth into was Orville's impossible marital
situation. The psychiatrist might say the situation was so intolerable
that Orville Snyder was becoming a schizo, and retreating into an
identity called Fred Martin.
But that was absurd. Such an identity would be fictitious. It wouldn't
hold up under critical examination.
"To hell with the work I was going to do," I said. I snapped off the
lights over my bench and returned the magnifying glass to the desk,
switching off that light, and left the lab.
* * * * *
Outside, I found my car where I had left it. I took out my keys and
unlocked it, and slipped in behind the wheel. A moment later I was
gliding along familiar streets, taking familiar turns.
I put my car in a familiar garage behind an apartment house. I climbed
familiar steps to a familiar door, unlocked it, and went in, turning on
the lights.
This was where I lived. I went to the bookshelves and picked a book
at random and opened it. There was my bookplate pasted in it, with my
name, Fred Martin, in Gothic letters. I put the book back, and went
into the kitchen. I was hungry.
I took the last of a beef roast from the refrigerator and cut some
slices for a sandwich or two. I took them to the table and went back to
the refrigerator for a glass of milk.
I sat down and bit into a sandwich. This was where I lived. I was Fred
Martin. This business of Orville Snyder was crazy. I took a swallow of
cold milk and felt better.
I took another bite of the sandwich and laid it down on the plate, and
reached for the newspaper--then stopped.
Where had the newspaper come from?
I hadn't stopped on the way from the lab to buy one. I hadn't brought
one up with me from the car--or had I?
Suddenly I wasn't sure. I _could_ have. If it wasn't for this other
business I wouldn't have thought anything of it.
I stared at the folded newspaper, and it lay there on the plastic
tablecloth with abnormally sharp detail, the most bizarre element of
the day's mad events.
I relaxed. There was something in the paper, of course. If I spread it
out and looked at the headlines I would probably go screaming mad....
That must be it, because I didn't want to open up the paper. Instead,
I wanted to get up and go down to the car, and drive out of the city,
away from everything, and forget everything.
The other things were strange and inconsistent, but not insane. This
feeling was irrational. Maybe it was caused by the other things.
Just leaving the newspaper there and running away wouldn't resolve
anything. I had to open it up and read it. And of course I knew what
the headlines would be. There was only one thing they could be to fit
the insane pattern. MRS. ORVILLE SNYDER FOUND SLAIN. And the subhead
would be, POLICE SEARCHING FOR MISSING HUSBAND.
But it was absurd. I took another bite of sandwich and a swallow of
milk and stared at the folded newspaper. An idea was forming in my
thoughts. It was vague and almost unreachable, but it was there.
I turned it over slowly. Somehow there must be an explanation for all
this. I was Fred Martin and I couldn't be Orville Snyder, but I must
be. Somewhere in that lay the key to something. And if I could _reach_
that key I wouldn't have to open the paper and read the headlines. Why?
Because the newspaper wouldn't be there. Neither would I. I could
be--where would I want to be? Back in Mr. Kaseline's store? Definitely
not. Back in college? Why did I think of escaping into the past? As
soon as I asked myself the question I knew why. It was because I
couldn't think of any place else to mentally escape to.
Physically--I could get up and go down to the garage and get in my car
and go anywhere.
And neither alternative was what I felt lay there, just under the
surface. Perhaps neither was possible. How could I go back into the
past and make it anything more than just memories of the past? And if
I were wanted for murder it would be highly improbable that I could
escape the police for very long. Not when my fingerprints were those of
Orville Snyder.
No. What I was sensing, but not quite able to reach, was something
else. And I didn't know what it was.
* * * * *
I finished my two sandwiches and glass of milk. Leaving the newspaper
untouched on the table, I undressed and took a hot bath. In bed, I lay
in the darkness, my eyes open, thinking.
I was Orville Snyder, and I had killed my wife. After I had killed
her something had snapped, blotting out all memory of the deed. I
definitely couldn't remember killing that woman! When that something
snapped I became a schizo and took the identity of Fred Martin.
Unfortunately I couldn't make the schizo switch perfect.
On the other hand, I was Fred Martin. I lived in a bachelor apartment
and had been living there for three years. My car was down in the
garage in back of the apartment house. My books with my name in them
were on the bookshelves gathering dust. I had never heard of Orville
Snyder until today.
I turned over on my side and watched the vague light seeping past the
drapes over the window. A slight breeze was tugging at the drapes,
sending a breath of fresh air into the room. I had bought those drapes
three years ago. They'd been cleaned twice since then, and would need
cleaning again soon. Mrs. Bricher was the landlady and her husband Ed
ran a beer truck.
And I didn't know a damned thing about Orville Snyder.
I sat up and put my feet on the floor, letting them grope for my
slippers and get into them without turning on the light. I padded out
of the bedroom and across the living room where the moonlight made
things quite visible but indistinct.
In the kitchen I turned on the light and got a glass of milk. Then I
stood by the table looking at the folded newspaper, drinking the milk
in sporadic gulps.
"To hell with it!" I said.
Purposefully I went to the sink and rinsed out the empty glass. Then I
put it in the drying rack and went back to the table. I picked up the
newspaper and unfolded it. My eyes went to the headlines. The letters
were big and black and sharply distinct.
I started to read, and the first word became indistinct. The letters
were still clear and sharp, but I could not read them.
I grinned. I had had dreams where I tried to read, and the words did
that. Maybe I had gone to sleep and was just dreaming I was in the
kitchen trying to read the headlines.
Of course that was it. I had to wake up. How did you wake up when you
knew you were asleep and wanted to wake up? I had done that, too, and
it was easy. You just woke up.