The Man Who Never Forgot Page 2

  There were five men in the bar when he reached it. They looked like truck drivers. Niles dropped his valise to the left of the door, rubbed his stiff hands together, exhaled a white cloud. The bartender grinned jovially at him.

  “Cold enough for you out there?”

  Niles managed a grin. “I wasn’t sweating much. Let me have something warming. Double shot of bourbon, maybe.”

  That would be ninety cents. He had $7.34.

  He nursed the drink when it came, sipped it slowly, let it roll down his gullet. He thought of the summer he had been stranded for a week in Washington, a solid week of 97-degree temperature and 97-percent humidity, and the vivid memory helped to ease away some of the psychological effects of the coldness.

  He relaxed; he warmed. Behind him came the penetrating sound of argument.

  “—I tell you Joe Louis beat Schmeling to a pulp the second time! Kayoed him in the first round!”

  “You’re nuts! Louis just barely got him down in a fifteen-round decision, the second bout.”

  “Seems to me—”

  “I’ll put money on it. Ten bucks says it was a decision in fifteen, mac.”

  Sounds of confident chuckles. “I wouldn’t want to take your money so easy, pal. Everyone knows it was a knockout in one.”

  “Ten bucks, I said.”

  Niles turned to see what was happening. Two of the truck drivers, burly men in dark pea jackets, stood nose to nose. Automatically the thought came: Louis knocked Max Schmeling out in the first round at Yankee Stadium, New York, June 22, 1938. Niles had never been much of a sports fan, and particularly disliked boxing—but he had once glanced at an almanac page cataloguing Joe Louis’ title fights, and the data had, of course remained.

  He watched detachedly as the bigger of the two truck drivers angrily slapped a ten-dollar bill down on the bar; the other matched it. Then the first glanced up at the barkeep and said, “Okay, bud. You’re a shrewd guy. Who’s right about the second Louis-Schmeling fight?”

  The barkeep was a blank-faced cipher of a man, middle-aged, balding, with mild, empty eyes. He chewed at his lip a moment, shrugged, fidgeted, finally said, “Kinda hard for me to remember. That musta been twenty-five years ago.”

  Twenty, Niles thought.

  “Lessee now,” the bartender went on. “Seems to me I remember—yeah, sure. It went the full fifteen, and the judges gave it to Louis. I seem to remember a big stink being made over it; the papers said Joe should’ve killed him a lot faster’n that.”

  A triumphant grin appeared on the bigger driver’s face. He deftly pocketed both bills.

  The other man grimaced and howled, “Hey! You two fixed this thing up beforehand! I know damn well that Louis kayoed the German in one.”

  “You heard what the man said. The money’s mine.”

  “No,” Niles said suddenly, in a quiet voice that seemed to carry halfway across the bar. Keep your mouth shut, he told himself frantically. This is none of your business. Stay out of it!

  But it was too late.

  “What you say?” asked the one who’d dropped the ten-spot.

  “I say you’re being rooked. Louis won the fight in one round, like you say. June 22, 1938, Yankee Stadium. The barkeep’s thinking of the Arturo Godoy fight. That went the full fifteen in 1940. February 9.”

  “There—told you! Gimme back my money!”

  But the other driver ignored the cry and turned to face Niles. He was a cold-faced, heavy-set man, and his fists were starting to clench. “Smart man, eh? Boxing expert?”

  “I just didn’t want to see anybody get cheated,” Niles said stubbornly. He knew what was coming now. The truck driver was weaving drunkenly toward him; the barkeep was yelling, the other patrons backing away.

  The first punch caught Niles in the ribs; he grunted and staggered back, only to be grabbed by the throat and slapped three times. Dimly he heard a voice saying, “Hey, let go the guy! He didn’t mean anything! You want to kill him?”

  A volley of blows doubled him up; a knuckle swelled his right eyelid, a fist crashed stunningly into his left shoulder. He spun, wobbled uncertainly, knowing that his mind would permanently record every moment of this agony.

  Through half-closed eyes he saw them pulling the enraged driver off him; the man writhed in the grip of three others, aimed a last desperate kick at Niles’ stomach and grazed a rib, and finally was subdued.

  Niles stood alone in the middle of the floor, forcing himself to stay upright, trying to shake off the sudden pain that drilled through him in a dozen places.

  “You all right?” a solicitous voice asked. “Hell, those guys play rough. You oughtn’t mix up with them.”

  “I’m all right,” Niles said hollowly. “Just… let me … catch my breath.”

  “Here. Sit down. Have a drink. It’ll fix you up.”

  “No,” Niles said. I can’t stay here. I have to get moving. “I’ll be all right,” he muttered unconvincingly. He picked up his suitcase, wrapped his coat tight about him, and left the bar, step by step by step.

  He got fifteen feet before the pain became unbearable. He crumpled suddenly and fell forward on his face in the dark, feeling the cold ironhard frozen turf against his cheek, and struggled unsuccessfully to get up. He lay there, remembering all the various pains of his life, the beatings, the cruelty, and when the weight of memory became too much to bear he blanked out.

  The bed was warm, the sheets clean and fresh and soft. Niles woke slowly, feeling a temporary sensation of disorientation, and then his infallible memory supplied the data on his blackout in the snow and he realized he was in a hospital.

  He tried to open his eyes; one was swollen shut, but he managed to get the other’s lids apart. He was in a small hospital room—no shining metropolitan hospital pavillion, but a small country clinic with gingerbread molding on the walls and homey lace curtains, through which afternoon sunlight was entering.

  So he had been found and brought to a hospital. That was good. He could have easily died out there in the snow; but someone had stumbled over him and brought him in. That was a novelty, that someone had bothered to help him; the treatment he had received in the bar last night—was it last night?—was more typical of the world’s attitude toward him.

  In twenty-nine years he had somehow failed to learn adequate concealment, camouflage and every day he suffered the consequences. It was so hard for him to remember, he who remembered everything else, that the other people were not like him, and hated him for what he was.

  Gingerly he felt his side. There didn’t seem to be any broken ribs—just bruises. A day or so of rest and they would probably discharge him and let him move on.

  A cheerful voice said, “Oh, you’re awake, Mr. Niles. Feeling better now? I’ll brew some tea for you.”

  He looked up and felt a sudden sharp pang. She was a nurse—twenty-two, twenty-three, new at the job perhaps, with a flowing tumble of curling blond hair and wide, clear blue eyes. She was smiling, and it seemed to Niles it was not merely a professional smile. “I’m Miss Carroll, your day nurse. Everything okay?”

  “Fine,” Niles said hesitantly. “Where am I?”

  “Central County General Hospital. You were brought in late last night—apparently you’d been beaten up and left by the road out on Route 32. It’s a lucky thing Mark McKenzie was walking his dog, Mr. Niles.” She looked at him gravely. “You remember last night, don’t you? I mean—the shock— amnesia—”

  Niles chuckled. That’s the last ailment in the world I’d be afraid of,” he said. “I’m Thomas Richard Niles, and I remember pretty well what happened. How badly am I damaged?”

  “Superficial bruises, mild shock and exposure, slight case of frostbite,” she summed up. “You’ll live. Dr. Hammond’ll give you a full checkup a little later, after you’ve eaten. Let me bring you some tea.”

  Niles watched the trim figure vanish into the hallway.

  She was certainly an attractive girl, he thought, fresh-eyed, alert … al
ive.

  Old cliché: patient falling for his nurse. But she’s not for me, I’m afraid.

  Abruptly the door opened and the nurse reentered, bearing a little enameled tea tray. “You’ll never guess! I have a surprise for you, Mr Niles. A visitor. Your mother.”

  “My moth—”

  “She saw the little notice about you in the county paper. She’s waiting outside, and she told me she hasn’t seen you in seventeen years. Would you like me to send her in now?”

  “I guess so,” Niles said, in a dry, feathery voice.

  A second time the nurse departed. My God, Niles thought! If I had known I was this close to home—

  I should have stayed out of Ohio altogether.

  The last person he wanted to see was his mother. He began to tremble under the covers. The oldest and most terrible of his memories came bursting up from the dark compartment of his mind where he thought he had imprisoned it forever. The sudden emergence from warmth into coolness, from darkness to light, the jarring slap of a heavy hand on his buttocks, the searing pain of knowing that his security was ended, that from now on he would be alive, and therefore miserable—

  The memory of the agonized birth-shriek sounded in his mind. He could never forget being born. And his mother was, he thought, the one person of all he could never forgive, since she had given him forth into the life he hated. He dreaded the moment when—

  “Hello, Tom. It’s been a long time.”

  Seventeen years had faded her, had carved lines in her face and made the cheeks more baggy, the blue eyes less bright, the brown hair a mousy gray. She was smiling. And to his own astonishment Niles was able to smile back.

  “Mother.”

  “I read about it in the paper. It said a man of about thirty was found just outside town with papers bearing the name Thomas R. Niles, and he was taken to Central County General Hospital. So I came over, just to make sure—and it was you.”

  A lie drifted to the surface of his mind, but it was a kind Be, and he said it: “I was on my way back home to see you. Hitchhiking. But I ran into a little trouble en route.”

  “I’m glad you decided to come back, Tom. It’s been lonely, ever since your father died, and of course Hank was married, and Marian too—it’s good to see you again. I thought I never would.”

  He lay back, perplexed, wondering why the upwelling flood of hatred did not come. He felt only warmth toward her. He was glad to see her.

  “How has it been—all these years, Tom? You haven’t had it easy. I can see. I see it all over your face.”

  “It hasn’t been easy,” he said. “You know why I ran away?”

  She nodded. “Because of the way you are. That thing about your mind—never forgetting. I knew. Your grandfather had it too, you know.”

  “My grandfather—but—”

  “You git it from him. I never did tell you, I guess. He didn’t get along too well with any of us. He left my mother when I was a little girl, and I never knew where he went. So I always knew you’d go away the way he did. Only you came back. Are you married?”

  He shook his head.

  “Time you got started, then, Tom. You’re near thirty.”

  The door opened, and an efficient-looking doctor appeared. “Afraid your time’s up, Mrs. Niles. You’ll be able to see him again later. I have to check him over, now that he’s awake.”

  “Of course, doctor.” She smiled at him, then at Niles. “I’ll see you later, Tom.”

  “Sure, mother.”

  Niles lay back, frowning, as the doctor poked at him here and there. I didn’t hate her. A growing wonderment rose in him, and he realized he should have come home long ago. He had changed, inside, without even knowing it.

  Running away was the first stage in growing up, and a necessary one. But coming back came later, and that was the mark of maturity. He was back. And suddenly he saw he had been terribly foolish all his bitter adult life.

  He had a gift, a great fit, an awesome gift. It had been too big for him until now. Self-pitying, self-tormented, he had refused to allow for the shortcomings of the forgetful people about him, and had paid the price of their hatred. But he couldn’t keep running away forever. The time would have to come for him to grow big enough to contain his gift, to learn to live with it instead of moaning in dramatic, self-inflicted anguish.

  And now was the time. It was long overdue.

  His grandfather had had the gift; they had never told him that. So it was genetically transmissible. He could marry, have children, and they, too, would never forget.

  It was his duty not to let his gift die with him. Others of his land, less sensitive, less thin-skinned, would come after and they, too, would know how to recall a Beethoven symphony or a decade-old wisp of conversation. For the first time since that fourth birthday party he felt a hesitant flicker of happiness. The days of running were ended; he was home again. If I learn to live with others, maybe they’ll be able to live with me.

  He saw the things he yet needed: a wife, a home, children—

  “—a couple of days’ rest, plenty of hot liquids, and you’ll be as good as new, Mr. Niles,” the doctor was saying. “Is there anything you’d like me to bring you now?”

  “Yes,” Niles said. “Just send in the nurse, will you? Miss Carroll, I mean.”

  The doctor grinned and left. Niles waited expectantly, exulting in his new self. He switched on Act Three of Die Meistersinger as a land of jubilant backdrop music in his mind, and let the warmth sweep up over him. When she entered the room he was smiling and wondering how to begin saying what he wanted to say.

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