Part 14 (1/2)
That Christmas Eve Dolliver found himself walking south on Highway 1, frying to hitchhike back to San Francisco, in a very unpleasant frame of mind.
He kept frying to find some reason, some pattern of events that had resulted in the present moment.
He'd made one stupid decision about living off his unemployment for a while; had that been all it took to bring him here?
That had been all it took. As he trudged along the narrow two-lane above the cliffs Dolliver made another discovery: there wasn't much traffic along that road on Christmas Eve, and what there was wouldn't stop for somebody in a c.r.a.ppy old stained coat. All that long afternoon the sky got graver and the pa.s.sing cars got fewer and the dull cold penetrated more deeply into his bones.
It didn't help that the scenery was breathtaking, looming green redwood forests that breathed out a nice seasonal balsam fragrance. In the couple of cliff-perching little bed-and-breakfast towns Dolliver pa.s.sed, people looked right through him, dressed as he was, though he made no attempt to beg for change. The dogs alone acknowledged his presence, barking and threatening; and the grandeur of the surf beating against the black cliffs began to lure him, as time and the miles went by. Only the thought that suicide during the holidays was a cliche kept him from jumping right over.
Pretty soon it got dark and Dolliver had all he could do to keep from wandering over the edge in the pitch-blackness. The only thing he had to orient himself was the sound of the sea and, miles out on an invisible horizon, the spark of light that was some fis.h.i.+ng boat or tanker. He made up his mind to stay at the next little town if he had to break a window and get himself arrested.
He came around a high curve and saw a blaze of light. Following it to 709 the edge of the road, he found himself looking down a hillside into a river gorge. There were buildings down there, where the river met the sea. Right below was the roof of a big gabled place. Painted on its slates in squared black letters, just visible by the reflection of the floodlights, were the words NAVARRO LODGE.
So he followed the road around and down, and found the turnoff from the highway: a gravel drive cutting away through the silver-barked alder trees, following the river bank. Then the gravel was lit up by headlights behind him, and Dolliver looked over his shoulder and had to scramble out of the way of the oncoming car.
He saw that it was an antique, something from the twenties maybe, beautifully restored. Somebody had money. He reflected that he should have let it hit him, and then he might have sued. He felt ashamed immediately, but reflected on the injustice of wealth and felt better.
Dolliver trudged on, beside the river that roared white over boulders, and a few hundred yards farther along he came out into the glow of the lights. There were the parked cars, lined up on the gravel; there were the lit windows of Navarro Lodge, each with its flickering red taper and festoon of evergreen.
It was a rambling two-story building with dormer windows looking out on the river and the alder forest.
All the cars were antiques. Gleaming bra.s.s and chrome, bug-eyed headlights, green and black and mustard-yellow paint, leather trunks on the back. Oh, thought Dolliver, some cla.s.sic car club's having a rally. How nice for them. His envy intensified.
He paced along outside, indecisive about going in. Through the windows he could glimpse people moving-the car enthusiasts, probably, he thought, because they all seemed to be wearing costumes for the occasion. There was a smell of wood smoke sweet on the night air, a bite of frost, and how brilliant and chill the stars were! Dolliver could hear slightly drunken laughter and the tinny sound of what he guessed was a television. He could hear the crash of waves in the black winter night, dragging on the s.h.i.+ngle beach. Distant on the horizon, the light from the s.h.i.+p was still there.
It occurred to Dolliver that if he took off his coat before he went in, he'd make a better impression, so he hung it on the low fence that ran along the driveway. The cold bit into him at once. Hugging his arms he sprinted up the front steps and shouldered through the doors, rehearsing what he'd made up to say, which was: Excuse me, I'm afraid I've had something embarra.s.sing happen. My lady friend and I were having an argument and she stopped the car and asked me to get out and look at the right front tire.
When I got out, she drove off--she's got my coat, my wallet and all my credit cards, my cell phone-I wonder if I could throw myself on your mercy, since it's Christmas Eve? I'd be happy to sleep in the lobby- He went up to the desk, dark wood decorated for the holiday with swags of holly branches. There was a man there writing in a ledger. Dolliver cleared his throat and said, ”Excuse me-”
The man didn't look up. Dolliver moved in closer and tried again. ”Excuse me-”
Still, the man ignored him. He looked about twenty-five, wore a plain brown sweater over an oxford s.h.i.+rt, wore steel-rimmed gla.s.ses: nothing to tip Dolliver off that anything strange had happened, and after all people had been pretending they didn't see him all day.
What did seem weird was the fact that the man was writing in the ledger book using a long wooden pen with a steel nib, and dipping from a little fireplug-shaped bottle of Schaefer's Ink. No computer terminal, there on the desk. No telephone.
Dolliver stepped forward, put both hands flat on the desk and said, as loudly as he could, ”EXCUSE ME!”.
The man wrote on, with a calm and pleasant expression on his face, giving no acknowledgment Dolliver was there at all.
After a moment of staring Dolliver said huffily ”Well, fine then!” and drew himself up and marched into the main lobby.
There was a big fireplace in there, made of river cobbles, with a bright fire of alder and cottonwood logs. He went straight to it and warmed himself, and as he turned he prepared another speech: Er--excuse me, but is the person at the counter hearing-impaired? I've been trying to get his attention....
But as he looked out at the room, he knew.
The people in this room were also oblivious to his presence: a young girl with a powdered face and black pageboy bob sitting on a couch before the fire, right there in front of him, and a young man sitting beside her, leaning close and whispering intently in her ear. A couple of older gentlemen arguing under the deer's head mounted on the wall, as they drank from little gla.s.s punch cups. Another old man sitting in a Morris chair, reading a hardcover book and from time to time tipping cigar ash into the smoking stand, with its thick amber bowl.
Dolliver had seen enough movies and Outer Limits episodes to guess that he'd fallen into some kind of time slip. He wondered bitterly why couldn't he have been abducted by aliens, which at least would give him a story to sell to the tabloids.
The girl wore '20s flapper garb. The men might have stepped out of an old L. L. Bean catalogue, all hunter flannels. All the details of the room were perfect for the period too, the wainscoting in polished dark wood, the wallpaper with its sporting motif, the duck-hunting print patterns in which the chairs were upholstered. There was a little spruce Christmas tree in one corner with a string of old-style light s, thick mold-blown gla.s.s in shapes of fruits, painted in colors, the electrical cord wrapped in woven fabric.
A clock ticked on the mantel, which Dolliver only heard because he was standing right in front of it; otherwise it'd have been drowned out by the Victrola in the corner, on which a scratchy recording of ”Adeste Fideles” was playing. He could see the old black phonograph record spinning, just as fast as a CD does now.
The song ended, and the girl jumped away from the young man and got up to change the record. She put on ”The Saint Louis Blues” and amused herself by doing a little dance step alone, watching the young man from under her long lashes. She had a piquant little face, but her eyes were rather cold. The young man looked sad and stared into the fire, right through Dolliver's legs.
Interesting as this was, Dolliver was more intrigued by the smell of dinner coming from the dining room beyond. He crossed the room, drawing no attention to himself. One of the two men drinking punch was saying belligerently: ”Sure you could. Say, you could put a radio tower up on that hill that'd pull in China, and he's crazy if he doesn't do it. I told him....”
The dining room had the same sporting decor, except that there were small round tables here and there on the wide plank floor, and a buffet on the far wall. There were a few couples at the tables, girls in bright beaded gowns chatting gaily with more men in plaids and checks. Somebody's little fox terrier was wandering about begging. There was a stockbrokerish guy at the buffet, listening to a thin youth in a waiter's jacket who was affirming: ”Yes, sir, all our own. The salmon's smoked right up the hill in our smokehouse. And that's local venison, sir, and the roast beef too. No, sir, the plum pudding came out of a can, but....”
”h.e.l.l with the plum pudding,” yelled another stockbrokerish type, bounding up with a cup of punch.
”What's in this stuff? It's got plenty of pep, and I mean plenty!” He raised his cup and winked broadly.
”Applejack, what do you think?” said the other stockbroker. ”They make their own in the cellar, don't they, kid?”
”Yes, sir. We have the apples brought over special from Sebastopol,” agreed the youth.
”Well, say, I think I'll just take a room here permanently,” chortled the drinker, and drank. ”h.e.l.l with the Volstead Act!”
There was somebody else standing at the buffet too. He was helping himself, filling a plate with meat and some of the other fare that was laid out: asparagus, oysters, Stilton cheese and crackers, hot biscuits.
He looked up, saw Dolliver and grinned.
”Hey, bro,” he said, chewing. He wore blue jeans, a Metallica T-s.h.i.+rt, a down vest; John Deere cap and sneakers. He had a thin beard, long hair. Dolliver was wearing jeans and Nikes, which was presumably how this other person from the present recognized him for a fellow time-traveler.
Dolliver stared, and the other man swallowed and said ”Welcome to the Twilight Zone, huh?
Doo-de-doo-doo, doo-de-doo-doo!”
”The food's real?” said Dolliver, but he was already crossing the room and reaching for one of the plates.
”Ghost food, I guess, huh? Tasty, though,” said the other, stuffing a wad of sliced roast beef into his cheek. Dolliver picked up the plate, weighed it in his hand. It was substantial. There was a green pattern of alder cones and leaves around the rim, and the words NAVARRO LODGE in rustic letters. He took the plate and waved it slowly in front of the face of the nearest stockbroker, who never blinked; in front of the waiter, who never paused in his recitation: ”...and the blackberries in the pie were picked right from our own brambles here, our cook makes all our preserves....”
”They ain't gonna see you ,” said the other. ”Really. I've been here since this morning, and n.o.body's noticed me vet.”
”But we can affect their reality,” said Dolliver, picking up a sliver of turkey and tasting it experimentally. It was substantial too, and he was famished, so he set to piling food on his plate. ”Their buffet's reality, anyway. What's going on?”
”Beats me, friend,” said the other. ”I figure it's one of those things like on TV. Jesus, don't you wish you had a camera? We could get on one of those programs and make a fortune.” He chewed and swallowed and looked Dolliver up and down. ”You hitchhiking, huh?”
”Yes,” said Dolliver, betting the man lived in a trailer park.
”Where you from?”
”New York.”
”Wow,” said the other. He lifted a punch cup and drank with relish. ”You should try this stuff.
Smooth, man!”