NOTE TO THE READERS: This mild vintage horror is a tribute to the contribution of the form made by Rod Serling, the television host of first "The Twilight Zone" and then about ten years later of his comeback series "Night Gallery." (Expect time warp, science-fictiony, odd occurence/identity fictions, and slightly literary pieces if you unearth either of these series, mostly not the blood and gore horror of "The Walking Dead.") Serling typically began a segment with a quote from literature in an ominous, mildly ironic tone, and then led into a piece with a significant title. My title, "All Our Known Yesterdays," takes its quote from "the Scottish play," so referred to euphemistically by theater people like me to avoid bad luck; in it, the character Macbeth says, "...And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death."
“It was just about this time of year, around after a cold, chilly, wind-driven Eastertide, some weeks after, to be precise—”
“So, just about now, then.”
He looked at me as if seeing through me, or as if not quite sure why he was telling me this story, I couldn’t be sure. He was getting older now, and just as my own dad had, he seemed a little uncertain about whether he was having the intended effect upon his audience.
“Well, yes. And he had just met up with some woman again, my friend had—”
“Your friend, or you?”
“What?”
“You told me you were going to tell me an intimate story that couldn’t be repeated, and that no one would believe me anyway. So, let’s have it plain—are you talking about someone else, your ‘friend,’ or yourself?”
Now he was attentive and glared at me. “Does it really matter? Does it ruin the quality of the story, one way or the other? And I thought I was impatient when I was young!”
“So, we’ve established at least that it happened when you were young.”
“No, of course not, this wasn’t that long ago, not in real terms.” He looked through the broad sliding glass door we sat in front of in his assisted living quarters and out at the circle of formal flowers planted around the fountain in the middle of the lawn; the fountain hadn’t yet started its warm weather cascading. The flowers were in fine trim, though, and there was an attendant doing some sort of grooming of them. My interlocutor tsk-tsked.
“He should know that’s not the way to head Shasta daisies. Rap on the window at him, attract his attention for me so that I don’t have to stand up. My leg has been giving me a little trouble.”
My own father had had trouble with his legs as he got older, so I was familiar with the complaint, but I felt impatient with this on-again-off-again narration, which had already been started twice before now, each time ending with some interruption, either in the form of a medical attendant bringing medication, or with the old man’s own distractibility.
“No, let’s go on with the story now, I’ll tell him or them on my way out.”
His eyes rolled back my way. “Hasty young man! Well, okay then, have it your way. It was back, oh, probably as far back as 2000, when there was all that false millennium nonsense that never came about—”
“The year I was born, then.”
“Really? You were born that year? Somehow, I took you for younger, or older. At any rate, not that ill-fated.”
This sounded like more arrant nonsense, but I knew better than to disturb the superstitions of the elderly, as it could end up in a constant proof-and-counterproof argument such as I still had with my mother occasionally; so, I just waited. He was watching me as if he’d known my thought and waited for me to challenge him, but as I didn’t, he smirked to himself and went on. “Right. Well, as I said, he’d met some woman again, this friend, and as usual with him, always eager to get married to the most inappropriate person available, as it seemed to those of us who were aware of his choice, he even seemed to prefer her because he knew she was inappropriate.
He had proposed.” “What was so inappropriate about her?” I asked, but I saw that I had once again caused him to observe me with a critical gaze and a bit of huffiness, as if I’d disputed the point when all I’d wanted was clarification. I said hurriedly, “Never mind. She was wrong for him; go on, please.”
“Well, no, it was not so much that she was so wrong for him in particular as it was that she was wrong for anyone. She was one of those vague, ghostly sorts of women who trail around wraps and headgear after themselves, and constantly misplace them, and like the scent of violets and lavender, and enjoy rosé wine, of all indiscriminate things—"
“Wait, a minute, that’s just like my mom! I mean, minus the unfair assessment you seem to be putting on her!” I was indignant now, because he was smirking at me again, and I suspected that he wasn’t as absent-minded as he made out but was instead up to some form of verbal mischief. I’d only come to see him a few times
before because my mother had requested it, since he was an “old family friend,” and twice I hadn’t been admitted because he was indisposed. This time was only the second time I’d actually talked with him.
“Yes, exactly like your mom,” he concluded. “And the upshot of the whole situation was that he had gotten her pregnant because his parents were pretty traditional folks and wouldn’t object to his marrying where he’d already sown his seed.”
The near-Biblical tone of this latter remark culminating in “sown his seed” made me forget about the insult to my mother and glare back at him now, as I could feel my facial features freezing up in an unfriendly grimace. His expression, though, was innocent, so I just said, “Okay, let’s get on with it. What happened with this friend of yours?”
“Well, he just went on a trip by himself for business one day, and never came back. At first, they thought he’d drowned, because he was reported to have gone in swimming; then, it was whispered about that it was a case of desertion, plain and
4
simple, because there had been some kind of a note, something about ‘not being good enough for you and the boy,’ and all that.”
“Boy? What boy? Who are we talking about now?”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t say. The child they’d had was a boy. Likely lad, too, great set of lungs. When I was around, I put up with a lot of caterwauling and crying, which is part of what drove me away. I’ve had a good life since.”
This tale seemed to be going nowhere, except to such backward and prejudiced statements that proved he didn’t much like women or approve of children, and just at this point, there was a tap at the door, and he called out, “Yes, what is it?” Then to me, “Probably time for lunch.” Sure enough, an attendant came in, and set a tray table up in front of him. He looked up at me and asked, “Do you want them to bring you in a visitor’s tray, just to keep me company? It’ll only take a second.”
This was suddenly jovial and friendly, but I had come because my mother had insisted that it was on her mind about her old friend and that I should talk to him, and this had been an inconclusive interview.
“No, thanks, I’m good. Wasn’t there anything else you wanted to add to your story? It wasn’t done, was it?”
But with the greed of the otherwise-occupied old, he was sniffing around at his food, with a bit of hurry putting his napkin on his lap. I noticed the napkin was linen—nothing cheap about this assisted living! He even stuck a quick thumb in
his mashed potatoes and tasted them, to the affectionate “Here now, mister, sir, stop that!” of the attendant, who then left us alone again.
“What? Oh, yes, that was all. Come again sometime, then, young man, and we’ll talk more,” and he began to eat as if I weren’t even there, with full appetite.
Too disgusted to even distinguish this with a response, I got up and left, giving the door just a bit of a louder close-to than was appropriate for a home for older people, who might startle easily. I couldn’t figure what my mother, however “ghostly” and imprecise, had been thinking to send me to see him. Usually her social register was set a little higher than this, though he seemed well-heeled enough.
On impulse, I turned the car around in a driveway near the old man’s assisted living and drove towards my mother’s small townhouse where she lived with a full-time attendant; it was a gated community, and secure and safe. It made me glad, I thought as I drove, that such bad old “good friends” as the old man weren’t capable of coming to see her anymore, or of getting past the guard service without permission if they did.
When I approached the gatehouse, I saw with even more annoyance to top off a day of annoyances that Benny, the usual attendant, wasn’t there. Instead, there was a young woman in an officious-looking new uniform; I hadn’t seen her or the uniform before. I waited while she opened the door, and then asked for my mother
by name, and requested to know if she was there. The attendant’s face became a bit mournful and sad, an expression which filled me with foreboding; but her next words were even more inexplicable.
“I’m sorry, sir, but didn’t you hear? She passed away three weeks ago. It’s been such a trying time for her, too, what with all the harassment. Yes, we’ll all miss seeing her, that’s for sure.”
This filled me with outrage, first of all, the mistake about who my mother was, and the misinformation, and then the notion of someone harassing her. But it wasn’t true, so I persisted.
“That can’t be, I was just on the phone with her yesterday. I’m not making a mistake, because she wanted me to go see an old family friend of hers in the Warner Estates assisted living community, and it was the third or fourth time she’d requested it, so I just went today. Look, are you sure you heard the name I gave correctly? Mrs. Longdale? Mrs. Anna Longdale?”
“Oh, yes sir, I’m quite sure. I’m new here, and I’ve just recently been around to meet all the residents and had to familiarize myself with their schedules and routines. Most of them are—sorry, were—no, I guess the rest of them still are— elderly, like her. We’re very careful here. And it was so much more traumatic with her these last few weeks, because of that young man who kept barging in
saying he was her son, and seeking admittance, even going in through the flower beds and grounds to her townhouse from the street when we didn’t admit him!”
“Look here, I’m her only son, and I never heard about this, and moreover, I just talked to my mother on the phone yesterday! And I came to see her last week! What did this young man look like? My age or older? And where’s Benny? He’s normally always here.”
She was more guarded now in her manner, but “Who’s Benny?” she asked, looking down at something in her hand.
“The regular guard here at the gate. I’ve almost never seen anyone else but him here. Look, you’re new, maybe you made a mistake. Could you check my mother’s name against the list again?”
She did take another look down, but now she was stealing peeks at me as well, as if wanting to get a good image in her mind. “Sir, I assure you, we’ve already helped clear out her townhouse, Mrs. Longdale’s, no one came to help, and her property was auctioned off, and we were told to notify her nearest kin, which was a former husband in—wait, what did you say that assisted living was again? Warner Estates? Yes, that’s where it was. A Mr. Easterman.” She evidently thought she was being surreptitious, but she reached down and flipped open the holster at her right hip, wanting to be ready for action. Finally and firmly, she said to me, “And she said she never had a son. Can I help you with anything else? If you’ll just
back your car back a little, you’ll notice there’s room to turn around for exit in the drive itself; no need to come through the gate.”
I quickly checked my cell phone and my mother’s number before responding, figuring that the attendant could damn well wait, but even after dialing twice, I got an inexplicable “You have reached an unknown number,” a message I’d never heard before. This was so much more than I had bargained for when I’d gotten up early this morning to go and see Mr. Easterman as my mother had requested, though now, at least, I had a path of action to take, even if it did end up back with an absent-minded old man who seemed not to fully remember whether he was talking about my mother and father or himself. But the guard here had just identified him as my mother’s ex-husband! Still, he hadn’t been all that senile, and now that his lunchtime was over, maybe he could help out somehow, maybe he had some social clout to help to break through the hard clench of weird circumstances that were surrounding me today.
Once more turning the car and noting with a weak satisfaction that the female guard had again buckled her gun in place, I drove as quickly as I could back to Warner Estates and slewed the car into the first parking place I could find, even though it said “Reserved.” I nearly ran into the reception area, sighing with relief that the tawny-haired young man behind the counter, whom I’d noticed before in passing had a slight lisp, was still there.
“Oh, I’m so glad to see you!” I enthused. “You can’t imagine the day I’m having!”
Smiling with cautious welcome, he said with friendly inquiry, but no recognition, “Sir? How can I help?”
“You know, I’m here to see Mr. Easterman again. I hate to disturb him twice in one day; if he’s taking an after-lunch nap or something now, I don’t mind waiting. I was just here this morning before lunch, you were here behind the counter, and the redhead was bringing you a chart, or papers, or something when I checked in?” My voice had crawled up into unwilling interrogation as he continued to look at me, blank as ever, though polite.
“Well, sir, a lot happens around here in a day. You’ll pardon me if I don’t quite remember you. Easterman, Easterman, let me see, Easterman. Just so there’s no mistake, can you spell that for me?” He had the daily visit schedule in his hand, I recognized the clipboard with its New Age florescence. I spelled the name out. “No, sir, I’m sorry, no Mr. Easterman here; I didn’t think I recognized that name, and I’ve been here for a year now. Is there someone else you’d like to see, something else I can help you with?”
He looked up.
“No, I mean, I was just here today, this very morning, you signed me in. I went and sat with him during the morning, he told me a crazy tale with no ending, then his lunch was served and I left. I need his help for something to do with my mother, a Mrs. Longdale?” In desperation, I even added something I thought patently to be untrue. “His ex-wife?”
Still polite and patient, he said, “Well, I’ll check for you. How far back do you want me to look?”
Resisting the urge to sigh with impatience, I said, “I’ve come to see him four times now in the last year. He was indisposed twice, and the other time, I guess that would’ve been last November or so.”
He looked this time on the computer, peered, ran up and then down a list, and with satisfaction, probably at his own thoroughness, turned to me again. “Sorry, sir, no, there’s not been a Mr. Easterman here in the last year. Do you want me to go back further?” He was plainly humoring me, though appearance-wise I was in no way old enough to be senile, but perhaps it was a characteristic derived from dealing with the older people all around him.
In a dream, I said, “Yes, please, do. Just because, I think there must be something wrong with your records. I was definitely here this morning, and saw someone named Mr. Easterman, who knows my mother, a Mrs. Longdale.” I waited.
He murmured reassuringly, he thought, though I found no reassurance in the results, “Let’s see, we’ve been here since 1998; Easterman, Easterman, Easterman.
If he was ever here, sir, I promise you this computer will find his name and unit number.” He narrowed his eyes at one or two entries. “Eastman. Easterly. No, sorry, sir; are you sure it mightn’t have been one of those other similar names?”
At the end of my limit of toleration of functionaries, even one as composed as this, I made for the door-hutch of the counter and said, “Please, just let me check that computer record for a second. I’m good with computers. I’m sure you’re doing your job, but really, not even to remember me, when I was just here….”
Abruptly, he changed his tone. “Stop now, sir, or I’ll have to call security. I don’t know where you were this morning, or whom you talked to, but I’ve been here without a break until now, since 7:30 a.m., because another page called in sick. I don’t recognize you at all, and it’s been a slow day. I think you’d better go now. Maybe you need to call your friend next time before you come; yes, I think that would be best.” And he watched me with suddenly beady eyes.
Helpless, I stepped away from the desk, turned, and slowly walked back out to where I saw three men gathered around my car, in consultation. Running now, I said to them as I approached, “Sorry! I didn’t mean to take anyone else’s spot, but I had an emergency. A family emergency.”
They looked up, all three with disapproval. “It’s one of the doctors’ spots, sir, and he’s had a call here. You’re lucky you got out here before he arrived, so we won’t have to report you to the city,” said the most senior in appearance. “Please
don’t let it happen again, sir. Is your name Easterman Longdale? That’s the name we have for this registration number.”
“Yes, it is, and I have a family emergency at my mother’s townhouse today, too, so I hope you’ll excuse me if I can’t stay longer. Thank you, gentlemen. Won’t happen again.” And surprised, almost, that my key still fit the car lock, I opened the door, got in, and pulled out as circumspectly as I could in my hurry to be away from one of the two centers of utter irrationality I’d encountered. The only thing I could think to do was to make my way to my own home in the suburbs, to see if it was still there, if I could still live there, if my dog recognized me, if I still had an occupation as a writer with horror and suspense books galore to my credit. Not as “Easterman Longdale,” as I’d falsely identified myself under pressure, but as plain “Mark Longdale.” And I laughed crazily, wondering if I should choose a pen name.
Comentarios