Green

by genesssa

Sam Beckett leaps into Susan, a young widow in early 1988 and learns that in the original history she kills herself in five days. But was it suicide, and whether or not it was, can Sam put right what once went horribly wrong? Did her husband, Simon, really die of complications from AIDS, and does Susan have it too? And why are Aunt Shirley and Uncle Max telling conflicting stories

GREEN

Sam balanced the dish of small cakes on his knee and glanced from wall to wall, searching for a mirror. He found two, one wall-sized and one minute, both covered with black cloth. Something Al'd once told him made him drop his eyes to his feet; they were stockinged but shoeless. He could see the hem of his skirt and was not surprised to find it black. Someone gently stroked his hair. "Hang on, honey," whispered a heavily accented, somewhat gravelly voice. "They'll be gone soon."

He'd been aware that the room was full of people, but now he took a moment to look them over. They were all in black, to one degree or another, and although the pervasive tone was not one of morbidity, it was definitely subdued. Someone in a Jewish family - his family - had died, and he, and they, were sitting shiva.

Suddenly he was plucked off his seat and nearly asphyxiated in an immense, brightly-colored bosom. "Shoshona," wailed the bosom's owner, pressing Sam's face into the chasm of her cleavage. "Shoshona, darling, how awful! How dreadful! How tragic! I came as soon as I heard!"

"Heard...?" echoed Sam, struggling for air. He banged his ankle on the leg of the wooden folding chair from which he'd been lifted.

"Leave her alone," rasped the gravelly voice, and Sam was released. He fell back into the chair and, trying not to pant too hard, looked up to see who had saved him from whom.
The gravelly voice belonged to a tall, beefy man who could have been sixty or ninety. The bosom belonged to a short, beefy woman who was definitely over sixty and in a state of denial about it. Their features were similar enough to identify them as brother and sister, but what were they to Sam, and who, anyway, was Sam? Silence seemed to be the safest response for the moment, not that Sam had a choice, since the woman immediately took one of Sam's hands in hers (he noticed that he and she each wore a dainty white-gold ring inset with pear-shaped jade and a tiny white pearl) and began to blabber on so fast that Sam had trouble keeping up with her. He could only catch fragments, most of which were obscured or interrupted by the brother:

"... stayed away so long, but Shimon didn't want me to... "

"Shirley..." ... you're such a sweet little thing, I can't imagine why he hid you away..."

"Leave Susan alone, now; she's in no condition..." "... I'll stay here and take care of you..."

"Trust your Aunt Shirley to show up on the seventh day. After the service, of course."

"You had a minyan, Max." Sam remembered: Al's fourth wife, Ruthie, had been Jewish, and whatever else she had brought to his marriage she had certainly brought family - lots and lots of family. Lapsed-Catholic, orphaned Al had suddenly found himself surrounded by Jewish ceremony: weddings, bar and bat mitzvahs to celebrate the coming of age of boys and girls, holidays galore, all requiring the participation of a "minyan" of 10 adult males. ("Yummola," Al always said, regarding holidays and holiday food; Sam privately thought that his friend's exclamation referred also to that new sensation of belonging to an extended but tightly knit family; the adaptable Al had also taken to the expressiveness of the culture, which probably reminded him somewhat of his own, not inexpressive Italian heritage.) There had also been the occasional funeral, and the seven days of wake-like mourning, in the home of the immediate family, known as sitting shiva. Shoes were removed in the house; mirrors were black-draped; cake and polite conversation were served. Services were held in the home each evening - hence the need for a minyan. (There would be eleven months of a different sort of mourning for the immediate family - exemption from certain prayers and the obligation to offer others.) Sam looked around; yes, the number of adults in the room far exceeded 10, and there were enough children, he thought, to make a minyan of their own. "You didn't need me," said Aunt Shirley.

"We don't need you now," said Max - Uncle Max, Sam guessed. Great, he thought. Caught in a family feud on the last day of ritual mourning for... someone close, if he correctly remembered the meaning of the two black ribbons pinned to his chest, and judging by the attention being bestowed upon him. Suddenly he reached up to feel his hair; it was his own and it was uncovered by kerchief or wig. Either I'm single or I'm not religious, thought Sam, or my head would be covered. A married woman... His thought was interrupted by the steady approach of the only person in the room who could be mistaken for a rabbi.

Aunt Shirley stopped yammering and stood up as straight as she could. "I don't care, Max," she said, "whether you need me or not. You and I have lost a great-nephew, and as dear to us as Shimon was, that's not the same thing as losing a husband." That's what I was afraid of, sighed Sam to himself, as the rabbi shook Uncle Max's hand, then turned a sad smile to Sam. I'm a widow.

0*0*0*0

It might have been no more than thirty minutes, but it seemed like hours before everyone cleared out of the little apartment. Everyone except Aunt Shirley, that is; she stayed and helped Sam say goodbye to everyone; thank heavens, thought Sam, she called everyone by name. Uncle Max was the last to leave; over Aunt Shirley's loud protests he took Sam aside and growled, "You don't owe her anything, Susan. She didn't come to your wedding. She wasn't here for the death of Simon's father - her own brother - and she wasn't here for Simon's illness, either." Sam nodded, wondering what could have kept the woman away, and at the same time remembering vaguely that he carried some similar guilt concerning his own father. He tried not to mind that Uncle Max constantly picked up his hand or patted his shoulder or stroked his hair; he knew it was simply a display of avuncular affection, but even after his other leaps into female auras Sam found accepting the way men casually, innocently touch women one of the most difficult adjustments to make. He sometimes wondered whether as a man he didn't unconsciously do exactly the same thing, and whether women were as used to being touched as men were to touching. It was with great reluctance that Uncle Max left Sam in Aunt Shirley's care, if the glare he directed at her as he left was any indication.

Being overcome by grief was a good excuse not to say much, and Sam didn't, but when he found himself alone with Aunt Shirley he feared he could no longer count on that; fortunately Aunt Shirley could talk enough for the two of them and probably a few battalions more. She touched Sam as often as Uncle Max had, but less gently; she tended to clutch at his arms - Sam made a mental note to check for bruises later - and she often picked up his left hand and stabbed at the jade-and-pearl ring with her fat finger. Once or twice she even twisted it. Sam wished that Al were here to guide him. Aunt Shirley chattered on about things that meant nothing to him: relatives he'd never heard of, family events in which he hadn't participated (and neither, in half of them, had she), places that must have held some significance for Susan, or Shoshona, as Aunt Shirley called her, but which held none for Sam. From her he learned that Uncle Max had paid the rabbi to conduct the nightly services here, since Susan and her husband had not been members of the congregation.

It was almost midnight when Aunt Shirley finally began to yawn, and another half hour before she acknowledged that it was time to quit. "I'll be fine right here," she said, indicating the sofa without sitting down. "You go get some rest now. We'll talk more tomorrow." Oh, boy, thought Sam, retiring gratefully to what he thought would be the bedroom but which turned out to be the bathroom. He stayed in there for a moment, not wanting to betray his error.

0*0*0*0

Even with the door locked Sam felt a little guilty pulling the black cloth away from the mirror, but the suspense was killing him; he had to look. The face in the mirror surprised him in spite of all his mental preparation. He was tiny! He barely looked old enough to be a bride, much less a widow. In fact, he looked like... "Oh, boy," he laughed, "I'm Little Orphan Annie!" Red curls framed a pert, freckled face whose green eyes and heart-shaped mouth laughed back at him. "How can..." Sam looked a little more closely and saw the very few tiny lines around those eyes, and that mouth; saw that he was well proportioned, if petite; guessed that he was in his early or mid-twenties. "Still young," sighed Sam, "to be a widow." He replaced the black cloth, splashed some water on his face and left the bathroom.

There was only one other interior door; he ended up in a very pretty little room, rather littered, as had been the living room, with paper cups and crumb-crusted plates, but not crammed so full of folding chairs. Against one wall there was a dresser with a black cloth hanging above it. Another mirror. Sam did not disturb the cloth. Across from that a double bed, neatly covered with a quilted bedspread (cream-colored, with splashes of green and blue), jutted from the wall, a two-drawered night table at either side, and a handsome forest green lamp on each table. Which side had been "his" and which still was "hers"? Sam sat down on the window side of the bed and opened the top drawer of the nearest night stand. He found papers, a passport, two packages of condoms, numerous bottles of pills and a half-pack of sugarless gum. He thought this might be the late husband's side, but he wasn't sure until he opened the passport and saw pictured there a thin-faced, dark-haired young man - he could not have been more than a minute older than Susan (his birthdate, January 12, 1961, was not much of a clue, since Sam didn't yet know into what year he'd leapt) - named Simon Bell. Susan and Simon Bell. "Has a nice ring to it," muttered Sam, in spite of himself. Susan was not on Simon's passport; how long had they been married? He flipped through the visas and stamps, learning only that Simon had once briefly visited Italy. Without first examining the other papers, Sam leaned across the bed, then climbed over it (and several paper plates) to reach the other table. The top drawer was twice as full as its counterpart: two bottles of pills, which Sam took a moment to examine and was relieved to find were both simple over-the-counter painkillers, one for periodic pain and one for cold symptoms; he went back to the husband's side and found that the doctor's name on all the medication there was Dr. Maxwell Bell. There were painkillers, antibiotics, creams for external application, Interferon, AZT... The imaging chamber door chuffed open but Sam didn't look up. "Hello, Al," he said, dully.

Al opened his mouth to defend himself, then shut it when no accusation came. "No 'It's about time'? No 'Where the hell have you been'?"

Sam shook his head. "I know. She needed you. Poor thing. Is she all right now?"

That depends on your definition of 'all right.' Sam, I've never seen you so concerned before about the visitor in the waiting room."

"Maybe I'm losing some of my selfishness," said Sam, without a trace of irony.

Al was too astounded to speak for several seconds. Sam Beckett, selfish? He puffed on his cigar, the smoke disappearing eerily into the unseen imaging chamber's ventilation system. "Well, she's fine, Sam," Al said, finally, "considering she thinks she's dead. That's not uncommon. She doesn't seem all that upset about it." "She probably thinks she's about to rejoin her husband," reflected Sam. "All right, Al," he continued, still scanning documents. "Where am I? What year is this?"

"You're in Falls Church, Virginia," said Al, checking his handlink, "and it's January 31, 1988. Your name is Susan Bell, you're twenty-seven years old and you're a wid. Oh. A what?"

"A widow, Al."

"Uh, yes, a widow." Al smacked the handlink against the side of his head and examined it again. "Your husband, Simon, died twelve days ago... that has to be wrong... oh, he died on a Friday."

"What's that got to do with anything?" "Well, Sam, you're Jewish, I mean Susan is..."

"I know that, Al."

"... and Simon was, and according to Jewish law, the deceased has to be buried within twenty-four hours of death, unless the next day is Saturday. You can't bury someone on a Saturday. Then you sit shiva for seven days, and you've done that. So that's why it's been nine days. Longer than usual. And that makes today... Sunday." Al looked pleased with himself until he realized that Sam wasn't impressed.

"What am I here to do? Just... just keep Susan from going nuts 'til things normalize?"

"Things don't normalize, Sam." The scientist looked up for the first time since his holographic friend had entered the room. "In five days, Susan Bell takes every pill in this apartment. She dies, Sam."

0*0*0*0

Aunt Shirley lay snoring on the sofa as Sam crept out of the bedroom, looking for his (Susan's) purse. He hadn't noticed before what a tiny apartment this was: living room, kitchenette, bedroom, bathroom, walled-in patio. It was all spotless; the guests had cleaned up, or Aunt Shirley had. The folding chairs had vanished; both mirrors were uncovered.

Sam felt a twinge of affection for the sleeping woman - a twinge tempered by the recent memory of her powerful grip. A huge brown imitation leather shoulder bag lay next to the sofa. It clearly belonged to Aunt Shirley, although Sam considered, for a moment, the number of petite women he'd seen toting monstrous loads. He took a step toward it, then spotted the sea-green macramé bag hanging on the green ceramic hook by the door. He also noticed for the first time that this room, too, was as blue-green as it was possible for a room to be, with green winning slightly, although the sofa on which Aunt Shirley sprawled was solid blue. He wondered which one of the Bells had liked blue and which green, or whether they had both liked both. The least of my worries, thought Sam, at the door, reaching through the top of Al's head for the purse. He jerked his hand back, swallowing a short cry of exasperation. "Don't do that, Al!" he stage-whispered, glancing at Aunt Shirley; she hadn't stirred.

"Sorry," said Al, with his usual nonchalance. "Bring that out in the hall where we can look at it and talk in peace."

Sam opened the door and looked at the brass number plate bolted to it before stepping not into a hallway but outside onto a cement stoop. These were garden apartments and his was #101. He had a great view of some numbered parking spaces and some three-story buildings exactly like this one. "Willow Heights," announced a huge sign at the far end of the drive that wound between the buildings. "Heights?" frowned Al, consulting his handlink. There wasn't a tree in sight.

"Terrific, Al. I've leaped into a slum."

"It's not that bad, Sam. At least, it won't be if Susan doesn't have to move into a worse place soon."

"What? Why?"

"Well, she hasn't just lost a husband, Sam..."

"I know; she's gained an aunt."

"... she's lost her job as well. Laid off two weeks ago. Administrative assistant in a law office." Sam groaned and sat down on the stoop. "Swell timing."

"Sam," said Al, "you'd better check that bag and hope there's a diary in there, because Susan's still pretty swiss-cheesed. She remembers she has a job interview tomorrow but nothing else, like where? What time? Nada."

"What day is it again? Sunday the what?" He was already ransacking the bag.

"Technically Monday. The first of February."

Sam found a little green diary and opened it to February 1. He groaned again.

"What is it, Sam?"

"Not a job interview, Al. Four."

0*0*0*0

Al popped in on Sam during the bus ride into Washington, D.C., where all of Susan's interviews would be. If none of this pans out, Sam was telling himself, I'll have to get a Sunday paper, but I'd rather go with Susan's choices. He looked up and saw Al sitting on the lap of a bored blonde, undisturbed by the fact that her newspaper was fluttering right through his body; it disturbed Sam. "Al!" The blonde lowered the paper and smiled at him. He ducked his head and coughed. Al reluctantly stood up.

"You look, what is the word, fetching today, Sam. That's a lovely little get-up you've got-up there." Indeed it was. Sam had chosen a royal blue velvet mid-length skirt and matching vest, a blue and green flower-printed long-sleeved blouse and green leather shoes with no more heel than a man's dress shoe would have. Because the bus was heated he had opened his sea-green cape. He'd even clipped a small green barrette in his hair. Little circles of jade dotted his ears. "You don't think you've overdone it with the green, a little?"

"She likes green." The blonde smiled again.

"Green," ruminated Al, "is a peaceful color. A color signifying intelligence and thoughtfulness. It is not the color of hasty, irrational action." Not daring to speak aloud again, Sam gave his friend a questioning frown. "Did you notice anyone acting kind of cold last night?" Sam could only nod. "To you, I mean." Sam shook his head. "Good. You lucked into a nice family, then." Sam shook his head again. Al punched handlink buttons, opened his mouth and shut it again. He waited until the bus stopped across the street from the Department of Justice, on Constitution Avenue.

Sam's first interview was nowhere near there. As he began to walk north he muttered, "Uncle Max and Aunt Shirley. They hate each other, Al. That's who was cold to whom. Al, how do a brother and sister drift so far apart?"

"How does anyone?" Al consulted the handlink a little longer than he needed to. "Uh, Doctor Maxwell Bell..."

"He was treating Simon."

"Yeah. for AIDS."

"I guessed that, from the medication. Al, was this stuff widely available in 1988? I think Uncle Max was going all out for his nephew."

"Did you dump it?"

"I haven't had time, Al. Maybe you haven't noticed, but I've been a little busy here, trying to get Susan's life together enough so that she won't want to kill herself."

"I don't think," said Al, focusing too intently on the handlink, "you have complete control over that."

"What do you mean?" "Last night Susan told Doctor Beaks that she has AIDS."

Sam stopped, stunned. "I have AIDS?"

"No, you don't."

"But Susan does?"

"She's never been tested, Sam, but she's certain she does."

"I haven't examined myself yet in a full-length mirror," said Sam, unhappily, "but I don't think I'm symptomatic. And I feel fine... so far. So how can she be so sure without being tested?"

"Because," said Al, as unhappily, "she believes absolutely that her husband was true to her, and he told her she's the only person he's ever been with, which I find preposterous..."

"Some guys, Al..."

"... aren't like me. I know, I know. Geez Sam, if you have no respect for me at all, then why..."

"I'm sorry Al,." They had come to a bus shelter. Sam sat down and smoothed his skirt. The velvet was an unaccustomed treat for his fingers and he caught himself smoothing it again and again. It was somewhat comforting."Susan believes him."

"Yes. So she thinks she gave it to him."

"Al, I can't be here just to make sure Susan gets tested. First of all, if she commits suicide in five days, that's before the results are back. I'll leap out before we know... unless I make sure I stay... but Al," exclaimed Sam, suddenly jumping back up, "if I'm tested, whose results will we get, mine or hers?" Al stopped puffing on his cigar and looked at his friend.

"You may have something there. Okay, we'll test her too, to be on the safe side."

Sam whispered, "Al, I've merged minds before. Have I... have I ever... kind of... merged bodies?"

Al closed his eyes and listened to echoes from another leap: Sam's moans as he labored to give birth to Billie Jean Crockett's baby. He remembered Sam's hand clutching helplessly at his chest as Larry Stanton, back in the waiting room, suffered seizures. Al opened his eyes and looked calmly at Sam. "No, I don't think so," he said.

"So you don't think I'm in any danger. You know."

"Sam, you're a doctor..."

"Damn it, Al, no one has studied whether AIDS can be transmitted through leaping! This is just slightly beyond the scope of anything that's been imagined so far."

"Well," said Al, coldly, to hide his own terror, "even if you are, what can you do about it?"

0*0*0*0

That day and the next two left Sam little time to dwell on his own fears. Susan, obviously a determined individual, had arranged four job interviews per day. "This is not the kind of person who would kill herself," he mused aloud, grateful that she was also not the kind of woman who wore only high heels. Most of her wardrobe was either blue or green (matching the low green shoes), and appropriate for interviewing; her brassieres were sports bras, which didn't irk Sam as much as those with clips and gewgaws; and best of all, she had left an envelope full of resumes in plain sight. He had memorized them quickly, finding another reason to be grateful: even within his swiss-cheesed brain his photographic memory was still operating.

He felt less grateful after the third interview; Susan had a B.A. in English and six years of clerical experience, the last four at the level of administrative assistant. Her typing speed was 98, corrected, and she knew shorthand. (Sam hoped he wouldn't be tested; after years of writing letters begging for government funding he had some typing skills, but shorthand was beyond him.) The jobs for which Susan was applying ranged from ordinary secretarial positions to administrative assistancies with higher salaries than she'd earned before. Yet every interviewer dismissed Sam with a single word: "overqualified." Maybe she does despair, he thought. Her little remedies seem safe enough, but maybe I'd better remember to throw out all of Simon's medications, just in case.

That night he came home to a delicious dinner cooked and served by a loquacious Aunt Shirley, who told him stories about Simon and gave him a few more bruises. He managed to excuse himself early on grounds of fatigue, which was no mere pretext. He changed into a warm flannel nightgown, reviewed the next day's agenda and called Uncle Max to make an appointment to be tested for HIV. Within moments of hanging up and turning out the light he was dreamlessly asleep.

The next day he had some blood drawn not by a nurse but by Uncle Max himself, who was gentle and solicitous. "I'll push this through," he said, "and let you know as soon as the results come back." He gave Sam what to Susan might have been a reassuring squeeze. "I hope Shirley hasn't been filling your head with stories."

"Well, yeah, a little," said Sam, smiling.

"You mustn't believe the things she says, Susan. She was a disturbed child and she's a disturbed adult. She needs professional help and she refuses to get it." Sam had no answer to this; yacking and prodding might be annoying but they generally were not considered psychotic behavior. "I don't know what she wants from you, Susan, but whatever it is, you know you can count on me. If she tries to harm you in any way..." He gave Sam one more squeeze and a playful pat on the butt to send him on his way.

0*0*0*0

On Sam's third day of interviewing, Al showed up with a Gregg Shorthand textbook. To Al's delight, Sam went into the ladies' room to memorize it (with Al tirelessly turning the pages), but to his subsequent disappointment, no one came in during their sojourn there. Sam had been 15 minutes early for the appointment - his second that day - and had been kept waiting already for 45 minutes, so when he emerged from the rest room he gave the receptionist a bright smile and a raised eyebrow, but to no avail. Sighing, he sat back down.

A slight pain in his lower abdomen startled him, and his expression startled Al. "What's wrong?"

"I get nervous when I'm a woman," hissed Sam, trying to nod and smile at the receptionist. "I don't want to be here long enough to menstruate. I've been lucky so far, but five days... I can't expect my luck to hold, and I don't think I could handle that, Al. I just couldn't."

"Why didn't you look while you were in there?" Sam just gave him a nasty look. "All right, all right; oh, check your calendar."

"What?"

"Most women make a little mark, Sam. A little star, or a little 'p' or whatever. Sharon used to draw little smiley faces when she didn't have it. Wow, talk about PMS...

"All right, Al, I get the picture," said Sam, already flipping pages.

"Go back, Sam. None of my wives ever marked the future for that. Except before a vacation..."

He might not have found it if the receptionist hadn't suddenly called out, "Mrs. Bell?" The diary flew out of his hands, and when he picked it back up, January 29 demanded his immediate attention. There, in atypically large, red letters, was only one entry:

HER

0*0*0*0

On Friday evening Sam's bus was caught in traffic and he had plenty of time to search through her diary for other hints; he found none. How could he begin a search for a woman called "her" who had no address, no phone number and no definable relationship with anyone he knew? The sun was already down by the time he got home. He found Aunt Shirley's little red Fiat in the parking space marked #101, where it had been for the past few days. Didn't that woman ever go out? He was not in the mood for her chatter or her grabbing at him. Indeed, he'd been escaping to his room every night to avoid her. Tonight, however, she was neither chatty nor grabby. Al had confirmed that Susan and Simon had been nonobservant, but Aunt Shirley had set a lovely table in the corner of the living room, complete with silver candlesticks and a big loaf of chollah (Sam had tasted the braided egg bread before and liked it) covered with a cloth napkin.

Sam wasn't sure he could get through a Sabbath meal without Al's guidance, especially as a woman - not if there would be prayers or songs. One look at Aunt Shirley's face told him he had bigger worries. "I'm sorry I'm late" seemed a good way to begin but Aunt Shirley was deaf to it. He shrugged, hung his purse on the green hook by the door and went to wash his hands. When he returned there was more food on the table and Aunt Shirley was standing in front of her chair, her head now covered with a lacy handkerchief. A white silk scarf lay by Sam's plate; he draped it around his shoulders, caught Aunt Shirley's frown and redraped it loosely over his head. Aunt Shirley lit a candle, passed her hands dramatically over the flame several times, closed her eyes and began to sing in Hebrew. Sam was silent until the end, when he recognized "Oh-mayn" as "amen" and repeated the word. The two sat down and, the bread broken and the wine poured, began to eat without further ceremony. The wine was sweet and stronger than Sam had expected; it went straight to his head, as tired as he was, and he made a mental note to drink it slowly and not to pour a second glass. Then he looked at Aunt Shirley and thought he might like a second glass after all. Al, where are you?

0*0*0*0

Aunt Shirley was visibly struggling with the conflict between the Sabbath's inherent joyfulness and her own black mood. The latter won. Before five minutes had passed, she rose and banged her fork down onto the table. "If you still hate me, why don't you just throw me out?" she demanded. "I... I don't hate you, Aunt Shirley." Sam hoped he was telling the truth. "Oh, it's not your fault, Shoshona," she growled, turning away. "My brother turned Shimon away from me, and you only know what they have told you." "What they told me?" Aunt Shirley turned back and gave him a sharp look. "What did they tell you, child?" "What... what should they have told me?"

It was the right thing to say; Aunt Shirley took him by the arm (he winced), led him to the blue sofa and sat him down. "My brothers," she said, standing over him, "came to America from Russia, already young men of fourteen. I was born here. Not here; Philadelphia. Also, my mother was different; our father remarried. You know all this already?" Sam shook his head. "Also I was a girl. A girl, an American, much younger, a different mother - can you understand?" Sam nodded. "When my father died, they became the men of the family, both of them. Max was always the stronger one; Mendel adored him and did whatever he said. My mother was good to them but they beat her, Shoshona, and when I was about ten years old they began to beat me too."

"I'm sorry," said Sam, reaching up to touch her hand; to his surprise, she recoiled, then angry at being caught out, walked away. "I didn't know, Aunt Shirley."

"My name is Shoshona, like yours," she said, from the kitchen. "I should've been a Susan too; somehow it came out Shirley." She came back with two cups of lukewarm tea, handed one to Sam and sat down next to him. She squeezed his arm and he did his best not to flinch this time. "They were men of twenty-five already."

"Twins," said Sam.

"They wanted to start their own business. Clocks and radio repair. Mendel was good with his hands and Max was good with money. They took every penny my mother had, including the money that was to send me to college. I dropped out of school, very young, Shoshona, and went to work in a lingerie shop. That was good work, you know, and I brought home a little money. Of course, they took it. They took all of it. We had nothing. I don't want to tell you my whole life story right now, child. I've had a long, interesting life and a lot of it has been good. But my mother died because when she got sick we had no money for a doctor, and what education I have I got for myself, as an adult." She held out her left hand. "I ran away to get married, Shoshona. It doesn't look much like a wedding ring, does it? I don't know where he got them. Yes, he gave me two; one for our engagement and one for our marriage. He couldn't have bought them for me, because we ran away together the day we met and we were never apart for a minute. He was a sailor who came into the shop to get stockings, twenty pairs of stockings. Can you guess why?"

"This was wartime," said Sam. "Stockings for the women overseas. And you married this guy?"

"I ran away with him. We had four days together, and we did get married. Then he shipped out, and he was killed in the war. I don't think he had a chance to give away any stockings." Sam was silent. "Except to me. He gave me three pair. He sent me money, and the Navy sent me money after he was killed. You see, he did report the marriage. He cared about me. I don't know how - we barely knew each other - but he cared about me." Sam put his arm around Aunt Shirley and she didn't recoil. "I was young and beautiful then. As beautiful as I could be with no money for pretty clothes or makeup. Anyway, Max and Mendel found me. I hadn't left the city. They took me home. They needed a woman, you see, to take care of them. Their business was a success now. They had lots of money. Max went to medical school and Mendel got married and bought a house. I liked Mendel's wife. Mary was a kind woman, Shoshona. She gave me the courage, eventually, to leave. I gave her one of my rings."

"And that's how I got it," said Sam, holding his hand up next to hers. "She gave it to Si... Shimon."

"She told me that Max had tried to bother her. Do you know what I mean by bother, Shoshona? You're young but you were married. She said he wouldn't leave her alone. She wasn't sure, but she thought that once, one night, she was with Max instead of Mendel. She said she was afraid to tell Mendel but I think Mendel knew about it, because once I saw him strike Max, and ordinarily he would never do that. I told you, he adored him."

"Aunt Shirley..."

"I came back for Shimon's bar mitzvah. I took him to Italy when he graduated from university. Mary died young, Shoshona. I can't say I was like a mother to Shimon; I had my own life by then. But I think I was a good aunt. I think he loved me."

"Aunt Shirley," said Sam, slowly, "I have to ask you an important question that may seem kind of off-the-wall and... weird... but please don't get mad. I need to know; was Simon to your knowledge ever with a woman before he married me?" She stared at him, either unable to answer or unable to believe the question. "Look," he said, fetching his purse from the hook and bringing it to her. He sat down and showed her the diary entry. Her expression didn't change. He was about to press further, then suddenly closed the diary and looked away from her. "Why didn't you come to our wedding, Aunt Shirley?" She pulled away from him and stood up, suddenly angry again.

"I know you think I'm a whore..."

"No!"

"His father turned him against me, and Max did too, and whatever they said, Shimon believed it. He said he didn't want me at the wedding. He said you didn't want me there."

"That must be a mistake," said Sam, rising, trying to catch her arm, but she was already reaching for the brown bag.

"You said I was manipulative, a liar, a whore."

"I couldn't have said those things." Sam tried to imagine the freckled face in the mirror calling someone a whore. He must not have looked altogether certain, for Aunt Shirley snorted and made for the door. "If I said them I was wrong," he called after her, rising to follow her, but she opened the door and nearly collided with Uncle Max, who'd been about to knock. She butted her brother out of the way and stomped off. Uncle Max closed the door and came in, looking around as if expecting to find more Aunt Shirleys. "Uncle Max," said Sam, not moving toward him, "please come in. I need to talk to you."

"She's been filling your head with lies."

"I don't know," said Sam. "That's what I want to talk to you about."

"Do you have anything to drink?"

"Wine. Tea. But it's cold now."

"Tea," said Uncle Max, and followed as Sam started for the kitchen. "No, you sit down. You look exhausted." He gently pushed Sam down onto one of the dining-table chairs, gave a playful tug to the silk scarf that Sam now wore around his neck, and disappeared into the kitchen.

"Aunt Shirley said she was married once," called Sam, not wanting to start with anything too accusatory. "Is that true?"

Uncle Max briefly appeared wearing an oven mitt that opened into a ferocious alligator's mouth. He set spoons and a sugar bowl on the table. "My sister," he said, "has a vivid imagination. No, she has never been married. Who would marry Shirley? She was raped by a sailor. A sailor at whom she threw herself, I might add. She became pregnant. She tried to kill herself. She lost the baby. When Simon was a baby she took him and disappeared for two weeks. She is a dangerous woman, Susan, and it upsets me greatly to think of you here alone with her." The tea kettle whistled and he stepped back into the kitchen, leaving a very confused Sam leaning on one elbow at the dinner table. In a few moments Uncle Max returned with a teapot and two more cups. He sat and poured tea, into which he spooned more sugar than Sam would have preferred.

"She never tried to hurt me," said Sam, at last, sipping his oversweetened tea.

"She hurt Simon."

"How?"

"She didn't feed him properly. She was careless. He became very ill. He almost died."

"Why, Uncle Max? Why would she do that?"

"I told you," said Uncle Max, a little impatiently, "the woman is mad." He stirred his tea without drinking it. "Did she say anything about our brother? About his death?"

"She said you both beat her." At this Uncle Max released a grating laugh and put his teacup down in order to refill Sam's; this time Sam stopped him from adding any sugar.

"We beat her. That's good. Very good."

"Did you?" Receiving no answer, Sam looked closely at Uncle Max and was surprised to find his vision blurring slightly. He blinked, then rubbed his eyes, but Uncle Max refused to come into focus.

"So she said nothing about how he died?" Sam shook his head, then wished he hadn't.

"Have I told you," asked Uncle Max, "how much I like your decor? Green. It is very peaceful. Very relaxing."

"Thank you," said Sam, thinking that this all sounded familiar. He rubbed his eyes again.

"You are tired," said Uncle Max, matter-of-factly. "Very tired."

"It's been a long day," admitted Sam.

"Come." Uncle Max rose and took Sam's elbow. "You had better lie down. Look at you. You can hardly keep your eyes open." It was true. As Sam stood up he staggered slightly and Uncle Max caught him. "You can hardly stand up." It was true. Everything Uncle Max said was true.

0*0*0*0

The imaging chamber door whirred open and Al came racing out, breathless. "Sam, you're not gonna believe this! Susan doesn't kill herself, and there is no other woman! You've been barking up the wrong 'her' all along! It's Aunt Shirley! You've gotta be very careful, Sam, because she's going to... oh, no!" Sam was not paying the least bit of attention to Al. He was sitting on the edge of the bed - Susan's side of the bed - sipping listlessly at a cup of what looked like tea. He seemed barely able to hold the cup, so Uncle Max was helping him, and also helping him to take, one by one, a fistful of pills. The little white lock that stood out so oddly in his chestnut hair was drooping down into his eyes, but neither Al nor Uncle Max saw anything but a stray red curl, which Uncle Max brushed gently back from Sam's face. "No!" shouted Al, but Sam obediently accepted the next pill, washed it down with tea, and opened his mouth to receive the next.

"Good girl," said Uncle Max, as soothingly as his gravelly voice would allow. Sam sighed deeply, sagged against the older man's shoulder and closed his eyes.

"God," moaned Al. "Gooshie, help me!"

Uncle Max took the cup out of Sam's hand and set it carefully on the night table. He wiped each empty bottle against the bedspread and then rolled it between Sam's lifeless fingers, finally guiding Sam's hand to the night table to place the empty bottles next to the cup. He arranged the few unswallowed pills in a little pile beside them. Then he pushed Sam away from his shoulder and down onto the bed. He had suddenly lost his gentleness. Sam sighed once more as Uncle Max got his shoes off and tucked him in, sliding one of the pillows as naturally as he could under Sam's head. Al, who'd been torn between going - where? - for help and staying to see what would develop, watched helplessly as Uncle Max stood holding the second pillow. If this was it, if Uncle Max was going to use the pillow, there was no use in Al's going anywhere. It would be over in a moment; Sam would be dead and Susan, Al supposed, would be trapped in the future. Al closed his eyes. He heard a brief rustling, then stillness. He opened his eyes. The second pillow was under Sam's head and Uncle Max was tidying up, removing all traces of his visit. Sam was breathing shallowly... but breathing.

Al wasted no more time. "Gooshie," he commanded, "center me on the nearest child." Immediately Al found himself behind WIllow Heights. He could see Uncle Max's silhouette moving about in apartment #101, but the front door was on the other side of the building. There were two swings and a sliding board in what passed for a playground meant to serve some 50 families; there was a little girl on each swing. Only one child looked up in surprise when Al appeared. "Can you see me?" asked Al. The girl nodded. She had stopped swinging and now her companion looked over to see why. "Good. I'm glad you can see me, sweetheart, because I need your help."

"I'm not supposed to talk to you," said the girl.

Her companion stopped swinging and stared at her. "Why not?" asked the companion, offended. She didn't look older than five; Al guessed she had only recently crossed the line that separated those who could see neurological holograms and those who couldn't.

"He's a stranger, that's why," explained the younger girl.

The other girl frowned. "Who?"

"Him." The older girl looked where her friend was pointing and frowned more deeply.

"She can't see me, sweetheart. Only you can see me, and I really need your help. Won't you please help me?" Something made Al turn slightly; Uncle Max was passing not two feet from him, heading for the larger of the development's two parking lots. "Excuse me a minute." He stabbed at the handlink, muttering something about a license plate, and disappeared. Before the younger girl could finish gasping he was back. He tried to speak slowly and calmly but every second that passed decreased Sam's already-slim chances of survival. "I'm your special magic friend. Please help me."

"What do you want me to do?" asked the girl, after some deliberation.

Her companion said, "Who are you talking to?"

"My special magic friend."

"Huh," said the older girl, suspiciously.

"I want you to go inside and tell your mommy to help the lady in apartment #101."

"My mommy's not home."

"I know that," said the older girl. "I have a special magic friend too." She turned and began to address the sliding board in a loud voice. "You can play on the swing if you want to! Why not?"

"You're locked out?" said Al. The little girl nodded. "Then you can use my phone. Come on."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Mommy said to stay here."

"It's only for a minute! It's very important! The lady in there needs a doctor and there's no one to call him!" Al closed his eyes, anticipating the next question. He didn't have time for this...

"Why don't you call the doctor?"

"I can't, honey," said Al, eyes squeezed tight. "I'm a special magic friend. Special magic friends can't dial telephones."

The girl thought about this. "Okay," she said, finally. "Don't cry. I'll help you."

"My special magic friend is crying too," said the other girl, competitively.

Al opened his eyes and wiped them; he hadn't known he was crying. The two of them walked around the building to Susan's front door. The little girl tried it: locked. She looked up at Al and was shocked to see him staggering into the door... and half through it. By the time he regained his equilibrium, she had fled. "Gooshie!" screamed Al. "Center me on Sam!" The bed was empty. The pill bottles were gone. "This is impossible, Gooshie! Sam?" Al searched every corner of the tiny apartment but found no one. "What do you mean you can't get a lock! Uncle Frankenstein didn't put him in his pocket! You find him!"

0*0*0*0

Sam opened his eyes, and when he tried to wipe away the mucus that had collected there he discovered that his arms were restrained. Alarmed, he cried out, but his throat was too sore to permit much of a cry. There was a foul taste in his mouth and his head hurt too. His stomach wouldn't stop churning. He tried crying out again, but what emerged was a sob. It had some effect; a familiar bosom hove into view and he could make out Aunt Shirley's concerned face peering into his. A hand, presumably hers, wiped his brow. "Why am I tied up?" croaked Sam.

"The doctors thought it would be best," said Aunt Shirley in the softest voice he'd ever heard from her. "How do you feel?"

"Like I'm tied up," said Sam, crossly. He felt even crosser when Aunt Shirley laughed at this. "Like I died and then got tied up."

She stopped laughing so fast that he bit back his next complaint. "Why?" she said, softly again. "Why, Shoshona?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you try to kill yourself?"

Sudden recollection knocked the breath out of Sam; Aunt Shirley picked up his hand, but couldn't take it farther than the restraining strap would allow. "I didn't!" he was finally able to say, sputtering. "Uncle Max tried to murder me!"

"You've had your stomach pumped, Sam."

"Al!"

"Al?" Aunt Shirley stood up. "You wait here," she said, rather unnecessarily, and left the room.

"We couldn't find you. Your brain waves weren't exactly reaching out to touch someone, you know."

"Uncle Max tried to kill me, Al! He drugged me... Al, do you think he infected Simon with the AIDS virus?"

Al shook his head. "That would've been an awfully unreliable way of killing him, Sam. It could've been years before the disease manifested itself. No, Simon didn't die of AIDS at all. He was poisoned - slowly, but quickly enough. And who would know? Only his doctor, right? He killed his own brother the same way."

"Al," said Sam, weakly. "Why am I strapped down here?"

"Standard operating procedure with suicides," explained Al. "They'll unstrap you as soon as they realize it was attempted murder."

"I told Aunt Shirley. Do you think she believed me?"

Al punched a few gummy-bear buttons. "Oh, yeah. I mean, she will. You've just gotta tell her again without calling out my name. You can tell them about Simon and Mendel later; first, tell them to get the teacup as evidence; it should have Uncle Max's prints on it, and even if it doesn't, it'll have traces of whatever he put in there. Sam, you were just sitting there, eating pill after pill!"

"Scary," said Sam. "I remember that. I remember feeling very peaceful. It seemed like exactly the right thing to do. I trusted him completely. Al... how come I'm not dead?" Al pointed. Aunt Shirley was back with a doctor almost literally in tow. "You saved my life," Sam told her.

"You're light as a feather, Shonela."

"She must've moved fast for me to have missed her," mused Al. "I didn't try to kill myself," said Sam, as clearly as he could. "Uncle Max gave me some tea; he drugged me. Check the teacup for traces of barbiturates. Unless he washed it..."

"He didn't, Sam. He wanted it to look like suicide; you'd have had to wash the pills down with something."

"Aunt Shirley? Why did you come back?"

She looked at him so sadly that he wished he hadn't asked. "You made me remember," she said, "how easily Max and Mendel convinced me that I was a wicked person. If they could convince me about myself, how could I blame you for believing them?"

"I would never kill myself, Aunt Shirley," said Sam. "I miss Simon, but I have a lot to live for. And now I have you, Aunt Shoshona."

Not for the first time that day, Sam was in danger of being smothered. Then the danger passed, and Aunt Shirley whispered a few words to the doctor, who sighed, shook his head doubtfully, and began to unfasten one of the straps. "Susan knows the truth now, Sam," Al began, "so she won't try again. I mean she won't try for the first time. You know what I mean! Next week one of the interviews you went on is going to pay off. Aunt Shirley and Susan become good friends. Uncle Max is convicted of two murders..."

Sam looked at the note his classmate had just handed him. "Patricia Janson has the hots for you," he read, under his breath. He looked at the classmate, who was giggling, then all around him. He saw desks, other students - students? - a wallful of drawings, bookcases, a rabbit in a cage, a blackboard, an angry teacher...

"Mister Farmer." The angry teacher was addressing Sam. He stood up, red-faced and chagrined, still clutching the note, and whispered, "Oh, boy."

THE END