Then Again Read online

She blinked at me, her eyes going wide each time they opened, as if she expected me to continue. When I didn’t she said, “You should take that back with you, Rix. The emotion, I mean. The ability to show it outside your music.”

  “I’d love to, Aurie. But without you …” I started to choke up again, so she put her arms around me.

  After I regained my composure I kissed her, then reached over to pick up my guitar. “Anyway,” I said, playing a few bars of the song I’d been working on, “I’ve been thinking.”

  She looked apprehensive, perhaps wondering if I’d decided not to go ahead with the transfer. I let my words hang in the air for a while, but I’d already made up my mind.

  “I want to go back to when I was twelve,” I said. “Before most of the stupidity and the drugs and the alcohol. I know I’m going to be carrying the mental addictions with me, even the heroin—you know, once an addict, always an addict, and all that. But maybe if I start over before the physical dependence began I can marshal enough willpower to stay away from all the shit that fucked up my life.”

  “You can, Rix. I know you can. Not only will you be free of the physical addictions, but you’ll also carry with you the knowledge of how devastating they can be. So what made you stop worrying about the loss of creativity without the drugs?”

  “Remember when you told me I was recalling only the bad part of my time with Robin?” I said. She looked at me curiously, then nodded. “Well, that may have been what stood out in my mind, but after a while I did start thinking about the good things that happened while I was in Georgia. Specifically the burst of creativity that led to all those songs.” I played the intro to Robin’s Song.

  “Anyway, I knew it couldn’t have come from drugs, because I wasn’t taking any at the time. I’m sure a lot of it had to do with the natural setting and getting away from all the distractions of city life. But those things only served as an environmental incubator. There had to have been something else, something undefinable. A catalyst of some sort.”

  “Robin,” she said. “And what you’re talking about is a muse.”

  “Right,” I said. “A muse. Once I remembered it was Robin who inspired most of that musical bonanza, I started going back over all the other times I’d come up with ideas for songs. Not the run-of-the-mill tunes, but the ones I considered to be my best. And what I realized was that in almost all cases they were inspired by women I cared about. Which explains why I haven’t written anything worthwhile since Robin left me and I swore off all future emotional involvements.”

  “Are you serious?” she asked. “No affairs or serious relationships of any kind?”

  “Oh, there were tons of affairs, if you call getting laid having an affair. But, as one young woman I met many years ago put it, I was ‘emotionally unavailable.’ And I was. Right up until the moment I first saw you standing here in this room.”

  She went quiet then, staring out at the darkened forest, where a half moon peeked through wisps of dissipating storm clouds. It soon became obvious she wasn’t going to respond, so I decided to fill the silence by playing the new arrangement I’d been working on. As my fingers flew over the strings, I said, “You know what finally convinced me my best work required a muse?”

  She didn’t answer, except with a quick shake of her head. Then, as if compelled by the music, she turned and looked down at my hands. “That’s … That’s new,” she said, her voice quivering with emotion. “It’s beautiful, Rix. Are there words?”

  I smiled. “Some,” I said, softening my touch until the guitar was barely audible. “I haven’t finished it yet, but here’s what I’ve got so far …”

  She left me with an empty page

  Of tomorrow’s history

  She took all of my yesterdays

  And gave them back to me

  She left me thinkin’ everything

  I felt for her was wrong

  But at least the lady left me with a song

  Lonesome empty feelin’

  Rollin’ round my days

  Memories and reveries

  I’m goin’ down to stay

  But I’ve still got my music

  And I’ve still got my pen

  There always seems to be a song

  When love comes to an end

  A memory, a teardrop

  A broken dream or two

  A fantasy you realize

  Can never quite come true

  And all that’s left are paper words

  And melody and rhyme

  The epitaph in written verse

  And lonely chorus lines

  She left me with an empty page

  Of tomorrow’s history

  She took all of my yesterdays

  And gave them back to me

  She left me thinkin’ everything

  I did for her was wrong

  But at least the lady left me with a song

  Transmigration

  Despite the anxiety meds and comforting assurances Aurélie gave me, I almost backed out when we entered the transfer chamber. The first thing that hit me was the noise, which sounded like the screeching of a thousand tortured banshees, and was barely dampened by the molded earplugs we wore. Next there was the intimidating size of the room itself. The walls on either side of the entrance disappeared into the surrounding gloom, making it impossible to discern the chamber’s overall volume other than by the intuitive sense that it was enormous.

  In the center, suspended high above the floor, hung the huge beehive-like accelerator she’d shown me a holographic image of back when we first toured the lab. The only other feature visible from where we stood at the perimeter was a tiny circular glow beneath the accelerator. As we followed a narrow walkway toward the glowing circle, I realized we must have been hundreds of yards away, because it took us the better part of twenty minutes to approach it. Before we were halfway there, the accelerator could no longer be viewed as an object with specific shape; instead it hovered over us like a second ceiling, defined only by its boundary line around the edge.

  Another element of intimidating discomfort was the intense cold. We’d both been injected with some kind of human antifreeze; however, the fact that we were naked made the temperature almost unbearable. Earlier, she’d tried to explain the reasons why we both had to be naked, but I couldn’t comprehend a bit of it. She’d also warned me not to become aroused, which turned out to be unnecessary, since the cold and my fear made any thought of sex impossible. Besides, my libido was sated, because the night before, she had finally given in, and we’d spent a glorious five hours making love, talking, crying, and making love again, until I’d fallen into an exhausted sleep.

  About ten yards short of the center, the floor fell off into a circular indentation with three descending shelves around the perimeter that provided step-down access to the staging area. Seeing how cold I was, she stopped at the bottom shelf and signaled for me to sit. The noise eliminated any possibility of conversation, so all she could do was hold me while I tried to stop shaking.

  After the chemically-enhanced warmth of our touching bodies had subdued the worst of the shakes, she took my hand and pulled me to my feet, giving me one last hug before leading me to the glowing circle beneath the accelerator. Following her instructions of the night before, I removed the earplugs and tried to hand them to her, but the auditory blast buckled my knees, and I fell on the icy platform. Signaling me to cup my hands over my ears, she helped me up, making sure I was steady before climbing the perimeter shelves to stand outside the recessed circle.

  As the platform rose into the inky bowels of the accelerator, I kept my eyes on her face, watching her forced expression of bravado fade into contortions of anxiety. The last thing I saw before being swallowed into the screaming darkness, was her hand, fingers outstretched, raised in a solemn gesture of farewell.

  The image of Aurélie’s hand would sear itself into my memory, but I didn’t have time to give it much thought, because seconds after she disappeared, something explo
ded in my head, and my first life came to an end.

  THEN AGAIN

  Pain Free

  The first thing I noticed was the absence of pain. Over the years, as my body slowly decomposed under the onslaught of a lifestyle that would have challenged Wolverine’s healing powers, I’d apparently adapted to the accumulating deterioration and learned to accept it as a part of daily life. Only when I awoke completely pain-free was I able to appreciate the extent to which I had been dealing with an increasing cacophony of discomfort. The relief was palpable, giving me a weightless feeling, as if I could pull back the covers and float to the ceiling.

  For several minutes I tried not to move, savoring the sensation of residing in a body that seemed almost hollow, since there was no longer a way for my organs, bones or muscles to announce their presence. Taking inventory, I started at my feet, noting that the morning cramps and gout that had tortured me for years now resided only in my memory; then the left ankle, where nothing remained of the chronic ache from a fall some two years before. Two years before? What did that mean? In this life, I would have been ten years old two years before.

  Confusing.

  Back to the inventory.

  Next was the left knee and the cartilage I had destroyed while attempting to impress a couple of female admirers with youthful vigor I no longer possessed. I’d agreed to participate in a softball game and ended up on crutches for six weeks. No longer any pain there, nor higher up, as I realized the sciatica that had plagued me for decades was gone, along with the lower back pain, the constant sting of hemorrhoids, the groaning indigestion, the chest twinge from my heart attack, and the sore shoulder from years of supporting a guitar strap. Dozens of other minor injuries and metabolic insults had no-doubt added to my overall suffering, but the only way to discern them now was by the vacuum left in the wake of their disappearance.

  I was contemplating this new-found physical fitness when I noticed my hands were opening and closing as if squeezing two invisible breasts. Once conscious of this apparently involuntary exercise, I tried one finger at a time, curling them tightly into my palm, then stretching them out until they were almost bent backwards. No pain! Not even a hint of the arthritic deterioration that had threatened for years to put an end to my guitar playing. Fascinated with the slender, unwrinkled youth of those now-flexible appendages, I had resumed my air massage when Mom came bustling through the door with an armful of folded t-shirts.

  “Something wrong with your hands?” she asked, as she opened a dresser drawer and began rearranging the contents to make room for the shirts. For a moment, I couldn’t speak, remembering the morning ritual my mother always employed to make sure I was awake in time to get ready for school, or, in this case, church. After I turned ten or so, Mom never simply came in to wake me in the mornings; instead, she would find some pretense, whether it be to put away clothes, or bring me a cup of cocoa, or deliver a tidbit of news she’d read in the morning paper. Once I was old enough to look after myself, it seemed she thought it would be insulting to insinuate that I didn’t have enough self-discipline to respond to my alarm clock. That small display of thoughtfulness nearly overwhelmed me with emotion. It wasn’t so much the act itself, but that it made me realize there must have been thousands of other tiny examples I’d ignored in my first life; little things kids never think about: sacrifices, anticipations, subtle, almost secretive gestures of emotional support.

  “Uh, no,” I finally managed to croak. And a croak it was, a two-toned bleat, reminding me I was in that voice-changing stage of puberty. “I was just … thinking about my fingers. I mean, if they’re ever going to be strong enough to play guitar like I want to.”

  “I don’t think you have to worry about that,” she said, closing the drawer and coming over to sit on the bed. “As much time as you put in whacking away on that old Stella, they’ll probably be as strong as Superman’s before long.” She leaned over to kiss me on the forehead. “Happy birthday, honey. Now, why don’t you get moving? There’s pancakes and bacon and scrambled eggs for breakfast, and your dad’s got a little surprise for you.”

  I knew what the surprise was, but, thinking quickly, I reacted with a curious widening of the eyes, as if I had no idea my first electric guitar—that iconic Les Paul Junior—was at that very moment leaning against a chair in the breakfast room.

  As I brushed my teeth, staring in the mirror at the smooth, unstubbled skin of my twelve-year-old face, I realized for the first time how complicated it was going to be to pull off the acting job I now faced. How did pre-teen boys behave in 1956? Certainly not like those of the early 21st century. There would be less freedom when it came to bad language, less individual autonomy for kids, more respect for parents and other authority figures. Also, I would have to be considerably dumber than the older version of Rix Vaughn, and I had to remember not to know about certain events before they happened.

  Dressing wasn’t a problem because I had to wear the clothes in my younger self’s wardrobe. And, before the transfer, I had checked online to determine that my twelfth birthday had fallen on a Sunday, so that meant a suit and tie for today. As I rummaged around in my closet, choosing a white dress shirt, a solid blue tie, and a gray suit, I thought about other things, like asking permission instead of simply doing what I wanted; remembering to say “Yes sir” and Yes ma’am” when addressing adults; operating primitive devices like ancient TVs and record players; riding a bicycle, (which I had not done in over fifty years); and interacting with teachers and friends, many of whom I probably would not remember. By the time I got to the breakfast table I was so nervous I had to wipe the sweat from my forehead with a napkin.

  I made it through breakfast, doing, I thought, a pretty good job of acting surprised when I saw the guitar, and begging to try it out before Church. This request was denied, as I assumed it would be, and I even managed a little pout to convey how I probably would have reacted at that age. Church was pretty easy, since Sunday school didn’t involve much more than listening, and the service required only silence and joining in on hymns I mostly remembered. Staring up at the choir loft, I was initially perplexed by the familiar face of the music director, until I realized it was Carol Henderson. Seeing my old friend and musical mentor brought back a flood of memories, forcing me to swallow a large lump that lodged itself in my throat. Those memories were, however, misty and fragmented, and I began to wonder how I was going to interact with Carol and others without sounding like a nut case.

  The monotony of our minister’s hell-fire-and-damnation sermon gave me additional time to think, and I soon came up with a plan: if I could somehow have a minor accident, preferably a fall that would involve a slight head injury, I could feign mild amnesia for a few weeks. What I needed was an excuse for being unable to remember things like names, schoolwork, recent events, and the status of various relationships. Less than a month remained before school let out for the summer, and with a little help from my “mental impairment” I could probably make it through without raising too much suspicion.

  After we shook hands with the minister on our way out, I approached the broad staircase that led down to the sidewalk. The crowd was thick and jostling, and when I reached the top step, I considered faking a fall down the stairs. But I chickened out at the last moment. Chickened out? I couldn’t remember using that phrase since I was a kid. Maybe I was already beginning to think like a twelve-year-old.

  Contemplating this possibility helped me relax a little and open my mind to the vague familiarity of the scene around me. And the first thing I noticed was Dad inviting several people out to lunch. This, I remembered, was a weekly after-church ritual: if he was in a good mood, Dad would often ask a dozen or more folks to join us at one of the local restaurants, where he would always pick up the tab.

  As the crowd thinned, Mom and I walked hand-in-hand to the car, and before long the warmth of her grip and the serenity of her smile began to spark more memories. Sunday had always been Mom’s favorite day of the week. As
long as Dad wasn’t called away on some emergency, it was a time when the family could be together for the whole day and she got to socialize with friends at church and during lunch. The rest of the afternoon she and Dad would spend relaxing, while he read medical journals and the Sunday paper, and she read the latest Look or Life Magazine. Sunday dinner usually involved something simple for her to prepare, like grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, which we would eat on folding TV trays in front of the round-screened TV, watching Lassie, Jack Benny, and Ed Sullivan, and constantly adjusting the rabbit ears and vertical hold.

  Caught up in the nostalgia, I was startled when the car jerked to a stop in front of our favorite Chinese eatery. Dad had apparently called ahead, because when we arrived, several tables had been pushed together to accommodate the large group that accompanied us. After we were all seated, a steaming array of oriental dishes was served family style, including my favorites: egg foo young, fried rice, and egg rolls. I was so delighted by the taste of those long-forgotten delicacies, I got a reprimand from Mom to watch my manners, but that didn’t seem to be anything unusual.

  As the meal wound down, I saw Dad raise his eyebrows in my direction, a signal I remembered as his way of telling me it was time to settle the bill. And this brought back another memory: that it was not only my responsibility—privilege actually—to pay the bill, but that I was allowed to keep whatever change there might be. It was a kind of secret between Dad and me because the money would be over and above my weekly allowance, and Mom wasn’t supposed to know about it. When he handed me two twenty-dollar bills, I wondered what he was thinking, but then I remembered it was the ‘50s. And when I paid the bill I was surprised to pocket five dollars and change.

  On the way back to the house, I realized that these sense memories had begun to accumulate, filling in gaps and giving me more confidence in my ability to act the part of my younger self. We were getting out of the car when I heard a long, loud whistle coming from across the street and looked over to see Sam running toward us. Recognizing Sam was easy, since I’d recently relived the Skip School Flu era. As we fell in together, I excitedly told him about my new guitar, and was surprised at the comfortable way I seemed able to slip into my old persona. The two of us spent most of the afternoon in my room, adjusting the action on the guitar and learning how to use the Gibson GA-90 amp Dad had bought me to go with it. It wasn’t until around 4:30 that I made my first mistake.