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IF THIS IS WINNETKA, YOU MUST BE
JUDY
by F.M. Busby
The ceiling was the wrong colour – grey-green, not beige. Alert,
well-rested, but still unmoving after sleep, Larry Garth thought: It could
be the Boston apartment, or possibly the one in Winnetka – or, of course,
someplace new. Throwing off the covers and rolling over, he put his feet
over the side of the bed and sat up. His back did not protest; cancel
Boston.
The walls were grey-green also, the furniture stained walnut. Yes,
Winnetka. As a final check before going into the bathroom, he raised the
window shade and looked out. It had been a long time, but he recognised
the details. Winnetka for sure, and he was thirty-five or thirty-six; there
were only about two years of Winnetka. One question of importance
remained: Judy, or Darlene?
The bathroom mirror agreed with him; he was at the time of the small
moustache; he’d seen the thing in pictures. He didn’t like it much, but
spared it when he shaved; it was bad policy, at beginnings, to introduce
unnecessary change.
He went back to the bedroom and got his cigarettes and lighter from
the bedside stand, hearing pans rattle in the kitchen. Judy or Darlene?
Either way, he’d better get out there soon. As soon as he checked his wallet
– first things first.
He lit a cigarette and leafed through the cards and minutiae that
constituted his identity in the outside world. Well … knowing himself, his
driver’s permit would be up-to-date and all credit cards unexpired. The
year was 1970. Another look outside: autumn. So he was thirty-five, and
the pans clattered at the hands of Judy.
Just as well, he thought. He hadn’t had the break-up with Darlene, but
he knew it was, had to be, hectic and bitter. He’d have to have it
sometime, but ‘sufficient unto the day …’ Now, his wedding with Judy was
only days or weeks distant – but he didn’t know which way. The trees
 across the street were no help; he couldn’t remember when the leaves
turned colour here, or began to fall. Well, he’d listen; she’d let him know …
In a plastic cover he found an unfamiliar card with a key taped to one
side. He drew it out; the other side was more than half-filled with his own
small, neat printing, mostly numbers. The first line read: ‘1935-54, small
misc. See chart. 8/75-3/76. 2/62-9/63. 10/56-12/56.’ There was much
more: wonder rose in him. And then excitement, for suddenly the
numbers made sense. Months and years – he was looking at a listing of
the times of his life, in the order he had lived them. ‘9/70-11/70’ caught
his eye – that was
now
, so he wasn’t married to Judy yet, but would be
before this time ended. And the crudely dated record listed six more life
fragments between this one he was beginning and the one that had ended
yesterday! He scanned it, scowling with concentration. Automatically he
took a ball-point from the stand and completed the final entry, so that it
read: ‘12/68-9/70.’
He’d never kept records before, except in his head. But it was a good
idea; now that his later self had thought of it, he’d continue it. No, he’d
begin
it. He laughed, and then he didn’t laugh. He’d begin it because he’d
found it; when and how was the actual beginning? He grappled with the
idea of circular causation, then shrugged and accepted what he couldn’t
fully understand – like it or not, it was there. He looked again at the card,
at the signposts on his zigzag trail.
A short time, this one, ending a few days after the wedding. Then about
seven months of being twenty and back in college; probably it would be
when he found the sense to quit that farcical situation, in which he knew
more of many things than his instructors did, but very little of what his
exams would cover. He looked forward to seeing his parents again, not
only alive but in good health. They’d nag him for quitting school, but he
could jolly them out of that.
And next – no, he’d look at it again later; Judy would be getting
impatient. A quick look at the other side. Below the key was printed
First
Mutual Savings
and the bank’s address. The key was numbered: 1028. So
there was more information in a safety-deposit box. He’d look at it, first
chance he got.
He put on a robe and slippers; the last time with Judy, in 1972-73, her
freedom from the nudity taboo was still new and strange to her. Shuffling
along the hall toward breakfast, he wondered how the record he’d just
seen was lost, wiped out, between now and that time. Did he later, in some
time between, change his mind – decide the knowledge was more harm
than help? He came to the kitchen and to Judy, with whom he’d lived
 twice as husband, but never met.
“Morning, honey.” He moved to kiss her. The kiss was brief; she stepped
back.
“Your eggs are getting cold. I put them on when I heard the water stop
running. There’s a cover on them, but still … what took you so long,
Larry?”
“It took a while to think myself awake, I guess.” Looking at her, he ate
with little heed to temperature or flavour. She hadn’t changed much,
going the other way. Red-gold hair was pinned up loosely into a swaying,
curly mass instead of hanging straight, and of course she was bundled in a
bulky robe rather than moving lithely unencumbered. But she had the
same face, the same ways, so different from his first time with her. That
was in the late, quarrelling stages, five years away, when she drank heavily
and was fat, and divorce was not far off. He did not know what went so
wrong in so short a time between. Now at the start, or close to it, he
wished he could somehow rescue the fat drunk.
“More coffee, Larry? And you haven’t even looked at the paper.”
“Yes. Thanks. I will, now.” Damn! He had to get on track better, and
fast. “Well … what’s new today?”
He didn’t care, really. He couldn’t; he knew, in large, how the crises and
calamities of 1970 looked in diminishing perspective. The paper’s only use
was to orient him – to tell him where in the middle of the movie he was,
what he should and should not know. And today, as on the first day of any
time, he looked first for the exact date. September 16, 1970. His wedding
was six weeks and three days ahead of him, on Halloween. And this day
was Wednesday; the bank would be open.
As if on cue, she asked, “Anything special you need to do today?”
“Not much. I want to drop in at the bank, though. Something I want to
check on.” That was safe; she’d know about the bank. He kept only
essential secrets. “Anything you’d like me to pick up at the groshry?” He
remembered to use their joke-pronunciation.
“I’ll look. I have a couple of things on the list, but they’re not urgent.”
“Okay. Come here a minute first, though.” Short and still slim, she fit
well on his lap, as she had two years later. The kisses became longer.
Then she pulled back. “Larry. Are you sure?”
“Sure of what?” He tried to bring her to him, but she resisted, so he
relaxed his grip. “Something on your mind, Judy?”
 “Yes. Are you sure you want to get married again, so soon after … ?”
“Darlene?”
“I know you had a hideous time, Larry, and – well, don’t get on that
horse again just to prove you’re not afraid to.”
He laughed and tightened his hold; this time she came close to him.
“Proving things isn’t my bag, Judy. To myself, or to anybody.”
“Then why do you want to marry me, when you have me already? You
don’t have to – all you have to do is not change, stay the same for me. So
why, Larry?”
“Just old-fashioned, I guess.” It was hard to kiss and laugh at the same
time, carrying her to the bedroom. But he managed, and so did she, her
part.
She got up first; the ‘groshry’ list was ready when he was dressed to
leave. Their goodbye kiss was soft.
Downstairs, he recognised the car with pleasure – a year old Volvo he
knew from two and five years later; it was even more agile and responsive
now.
The drive to the bank gave him time to think.
In his early time-years the skips were small, a day or two, and his young
consciousness took them for bad dreams – to wake with unfamiliar
sensations, body changed and everything out of size. Much later, waking
in a hospital, he learned they were real.
“Do you use drugs, Mr. Garth?”
“No, I don’t.” A little grass now and then wasn’t ‘drugs.’ “I’d like to know
why I’m here.”
“So would we. You were found lying helpless, unable to talk or
co-ordinate your movements. Like a baby, Mr. Garth. Do you have any
explanation, any pertinent medical history?”
So this is where I was, he thought. “No. I’ve been under a lot of
pressure.” That was probably safe to say, though he didn’t know his
body-age or circumstances. But in some thirty consciousness-years he’d
learned to keep cover while he got his bearings in a new time. And
eventually, as he hoped and expected, they told him most of what he
needed to know about himself, and let him go. As sometimes happened,
his research into the parameters of now was largely wasted; the time
lasted only a dozen or so days. But the waste was not total, for when the
 following time came to him, he would still remember.
Once as a four-year-old he woke to middle age and panicked, screaming
for his mother. He remembered being taken to the hospital that time, and
did not look forward with pleasure to waking in it. But what had been
would be. And he was certain there was at least one more infancy skip to
be lived down someday.
At first he did not talk of these things in ‘home’ time because he had no
speech. Then he remained silent because he thought it was the same for
everyone. And finally he kept his counsel because he realised no one could
help or understand, or even believe.
Once in his seventh consciousness-year he woke with a throbbing joy at
his groin; the woman beside him overrode his bewilderment and fulfilled
his unrealised need. It was a time of a single day, and he hadn’t seen her
again. He didn’t know the time-year or where he was, but he knew enough
to say very little. He kept the situation as simple as possible by saying he
was tired and didn’t feel well, remembering just in time that grownups say
they’re not going to
work
today – he almost said
school
. He got away with
it, and his confidence improved.
There were other dislocations from his early time-years, but none major
until he went to sleep aged nineteen and woke to spend seven months as a
forty-year-old man, twice-divorced. He wondered what was wrong, that
twice he had failed in marriage. His unattached state simplified his
adjustment, but after a time he became convinced that he’d lost twenty
years and was cheated. But the next skip was to an earlier time, and then
he began to know the way of his life.
The changes came always during sleep, except for the one that came at
death. He didn’t know how old he died; his brain’s constricted arteries
would not maintain an attention-span of any useful length. Inside him, his
brief thoughts were lucid, but still the effect was of senility. How old,
though? Well, he’d once had a year that included his seventieth birthday
and golf, an operation for cataracts, a lawsuit successfully defended and a
reasonably satisfying state of potency. So when he came to the last, he
knew he was
damned
old.
Having died, he still feared death. It would be merely a different way of
ending. For he had no clear idea how much of his life had been lived, back
and forth in bits and pieces. One day he would use up the last unlived
segment, and then … he supposed he simply wouldn’t wake up. At his best
estimate, he had lived something less than half his allotted time-years. He
couldn’t be sure, for much of his earlier conscious time was unmeasured.
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