bad memories Read online

  Bad Memories

  By: Douglas Sandler

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to my parents and to the teachers of P.S. 216 in Brooklyn, NY who encouraged me to read and help me write. Despite having Adult ADHD Disability of Math and Written Expression I finished this novel. I would like to also dedicate this book to the professors at Gulf Coast State College who helped me learn to write in a professional manner.

  I also want to dedicate this first novel to my goddess Hecate who I owe a lot to I also dedicate this to Goddesses Diana and ISIS who also helped me.

  All characters in this book are fictions. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material contained herein is prohibited without the express permission of the author or American Creative Services Publications.

  Printed in the USA

  Publisher: American Creative Services Publications

  604 Cherry Street

  Panama City, Florida 32401

  First Printing: February 2015

  First paperback edition: February 2015

  ISBN: 978-150786409

  Copyright © 1998, 2015

  Chapter One

  John Miller mused to himself while mechanically working the pill machine. Life was easier when I worked at the asylum. I had different things to do, not the same crap day in day out like now. Miller thought back to the asylum and those three people who died. He was certain he didn’t screw up and kill them. He remembered his wife Julie who was a sectary there who dated Doctor Younger before she dumped him to marry me. Why do those three screams haunt me?

  The name itself blurred in his mind, blurred with the robot movement of the machine once, the Liebermann Labs Inc., had boasted of only two tablet making machines, each of which stamped but a single tablet at a time. But lately it seemed there had been an increase in the demand for tablets especially aspirin now, there were many of the machines, stamping six tablets in an operation. The tablets for a veteran’s hospital in California, tablets for an asylum in New York, tablets for a home for the aged in suburban Milwaukee. There seemed no lack of institutions, everybody was in an institution, and you lived in an institution, or were entertained by an institution. You were buried in an institution by an institution. The machine went round and round and he watched it with tired eyes to see that it made no mistakes briefly, on occasion; his eyes glanced at the yellow-faced, large wall clock. Its hands moved much more slowly than the machines in fact, an inhibition seemed to keep them back as they approached five-thirty, which they were nearing now

  .

  He knew the answer to that; the clock did not want to be alone with the bottles that lined the walls of the loft. He had often watched the bottles too; he had watched the bottles for a long time before he realized it was the bottles that were watching him. Every day for almost a year he had been coming to the loft, everyday for almost a year, he had seen the morning sun streaming through the lofts grimy windows. Everyday he had watched that brittle sunlight. He would watch it, and then look away at the walls of the loft. It made the walls and their bottles seem darker, more sinister. Every day he has seen the sunlight fade, and another day done, a day he could scarcely distinguish from the one before. He had become a different person, he knew the luster was dulled in his brown eyes, his young shoulders were becoming stooped, his chest hollow, his brown hair thinner. He had not played tennis in years now.

  He felt too far gone ever to begin again, his hands that had once been delicate instruments of manipulation and still had now become inferior adjuncts to a machine; a man’s hand touched his arm.

  “John,” the man’s voice said.

  He turned saw the smiling, round face of his boss J. Liebermann was big, square headed, cleft chinned, as perfect a replica of Hindenburg as it would have been possible to find. “The telephone please,” he said in his soft, Viennese manner. “Someone asks for Mr. Miller!” John Miller switched off the tablet machine. In the laboratory’s unkempt office he dug the phone out from under the bills and papers that covered the desk. J. Liebermann hovered benignly in the background. “This is Albert,” said the voice at the other end of the line. Change from the pounding throb of the tablet machine to a voice coming over the wire made hearing temporarily difficult. “Albert,” the voice repeated, “you know me, Albert Smith, Doctor Smith.”

  “Oh-h-h,” Said Miller. “This damn noise in here, I couldn’t hear you, “but he knew it was only the grinding clatter of the machines that had delayed his recognition, his slow response of a brain beaten down by monotony. “Are you in town, Albert?”

  “No, I’m home in Millersburg.”

  Albert would be sitting in his office, wearing his white doctor’s tunic; Albert was six feet six inches tall, with the build of a young giraffe.

  “I’ve got to see you John; at once can you come up here?” He sounded in a serious mood, and it made him forceful, direct.

  “See me?” That was impossible, Miller thought, Millersburg was thirty miles up the Hudson.

  “I’ve got to work tomorrow Albert, we work full days on Saturday, and you know that.”

  “How about tonight then?” Albert replied.

  “Doubt if I can get away from Julie.”

  “Oh, damn your work, and damn your wife!” Albert Smith’s familiar laughter hits its characteristic off key lilt. He was suddenly in his good, kidding nature, as if his first serious mood had been a mistake. “I want you up here for the weekend, John.” Albert said.

  “Hell, you haven’t taken a day off in months, it’s a fishing trip I have in mind.” Albert said.

  “Fishing?” The word was a tonic, it meant escape into another world, and he needed escape, “where, Albert? Fishing for what?”

  Albert laughed. “I thought that would make you change your tune, right here there’s the biggest fish you’ve ever seen, waiting to be caught, come up tonight. If you grab the 7:10 I’ll meet you, I want to meet some other people coming on that train.”

  “Sure, thanks I’ll be there, Albert, sure thing.” Miller said.

  In his excitement, he concluded the conversation before realizing he couldn’t make the 7:10, Julie would have dinner waiting for him at home, and quickly he put the receiver back to his ear.

  “Hello, Albert, hell-o-o.”

  But the sharp hum of an open circuit was all he heard, reluctantly he cradled the receiver. The blond girl stretched on her stomach on the couch scarcely looked up as he entered the apartment on West 53rd street. She had her chin propped one palm, her feet in the air and she was listlessly thumbing through a copy of Vogue, a half eaten box of candy on the coffee table beside her.

  “Hello, honey.” He said.

  “Hello.” She looked up, then back at her magazine.

  Miller put down his newspaper and a new box of candy. He looked at the pillows on the sofa. Two of them were crumpled, the third propped under the girl’s chest for her comfort. His eyes traveled about the room, stockings and garter belt were draped on a chair, lint and crumbs were over the worn taupe rug, the rug looked old enough when it was clean. John walked to the kitchenette, dirty dishes filled the sink; waste paper and old milk containers overflowed a receptacle on the floor, his patience grew small.

  “Aren’t you cooking dinner, Julie?”

  The blond head did not move. “I thought we’d go out tonight.”

  Miller felt his tiny irritation suddenly stretch into anger, and he dreaded anger. It was one last trifle that could over tax endurance, after that, a man such as he might lose all control. “I’m afraid we’re not going out to dinner.”

  She detected something in h
is tone, she whirled up instantly. “What?”

  “I’m afraid we’re not going out.” He repeated.

  “At least, I’m not going out with you, I’m going away.” His spoken words had created his decision.

  “You can call Liebermann for me in the morning and tell him I won’t be in, I’ll be gone till Monday.”

  Julie thrust the cushion from her and stood up; she was small but strong boned. “You are not going away.” Her voice was deep, deeper and more authoritative than any women’s ever had any right to be.

  “I’m packing my things, I’ll be gone till Monday.” Miller said it firmly and walked into the bedroom.

  Her footsteps followed him almost immediately, he turned and she stood in the doorway, her beautiful blue eyes flared. “John, don’t be ridiculous, you’re not going to walk out of here and leave me alone over the weekend! What do you expect me to do with myself?”

  He went through the motions of ignoring her. “Is it that skinny freak, Doctor Albert again? I could flatten his simpering face!” She did not know when to stop; soon she’d stop right before the rush of his anger. “Or maybe it’s a woman!” Fierce understanding solidified her thoughts, “You’re going off with some women, that’s it. As if you need women! Well, don’t think I can get another man, I can I just have to go to a bar.”

  He had knuckled down under her domineering often enough; it would be an insult to his will if he did it again and her pleadings that had often stirred him; now it left him cold. He knew she sensed it, for with a shrug she gestured away her pride and came to him. She put her hands on his shoulders’ turned him to her with practiced tears came into her eyes and her full, sensual lower lip trembled.

  “Oh, John darling, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to fly off the handle.” Her arms pressed him to her.

  “I’m so mean to you! I don’t blame you for wanting to go away when I’m so mean, but I just can’t bear to see you go darling, I’m lonesome I thought we could spend a nice weekend together, we could maybe take in a show tomorrow night; and Sunday I could fix a roast the way you like it.”

  He was unyielding, stiff in her embrace, abruptly she shoved him away. “You don’t care; you’re not listening to anything I say!”

  He felt sudden pity for her, and bent down to kiss her cheek and wondered why he married her.

  “Goodbye, honey.” His smile was awkward, cajoling. “Don’t be mad.” She didn’t answer; he took his rod, reel and suitcase from the closet and packed.

  At Grand Central Station, Miller was surprised to find that he could make the 7:10 after all, with nearly half an hour to spare. He checked the track number of his train, and after snatching a quick sandwich at a soda counter, resolved to make a final effort to reach Albert Smith by telephone and confirm the time of his arrival at Millersburg, but the operator reported that the party didn’t answer. It was as he stepped from the telephone booth that he bumped directly into the girl or rather the girl bumped directly into him. “I’m sorry.” She gasped. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  Absent mindedly he, in turn begged her pardon, he was vaguely aware of a small, dimpled face and gem-like green eyes, as she muttered further apology that overlapped his own. Then all he could see was a retreating figure in a fitted black coat, a black hat made of woven felt strips spraying out in vivid contrast over an abundance of combed-out brassy hair, hair almost like Elaine’s, but softer and more lustrous. He watched the retreating figure across the concourse, strangeness in the girl’s manner held him. Her movements were as erratic as an insect evading a bird.

  Her blonde head hunched forward, her arms and hands were help close to her body as with furtive jerks she looked from side to side searchingly. Perhaps it was because of this that Miller had the sudden feeling that she was being watched by eyes other than his own. He turned to face a tall broad shouldered man in his early forties who was standing some distance away. The man was darkly, shallowly handsome, with well tailored cloths and a rakish homburg, his manner was alert, but the face was bagged by dissipation. When Miller turned back the girl was already lost to view somewhere near the information counter. The man in the homburg moved briskly away, his eyes Miller was certain had been directed toward the girl; still it could not positively have been said that he was looking for her. Miller shrugged his shoulders and stopped to pick up the suitcase, rod and reel box which he had placed beside the door to the telephone booth. As he did so his eyes fell on a bedraggled woman’s handkerchief, he hesitated then reached for it.

  He was not sure that the girl had dropped it, but the fact that it had been twisted into a limp rag seemed to indicate it was hers. It was of sheer, black linen, hand rolled with pink roses in its corner, without bringing it close to his face, he caught its fragrance. Then with a curiously wistful smile, he slipped it into the slash pocket of his top coat, picked up his bag and fishing tackle and started across the concourse.

  To Miller there was something comforting and reassuring in the thought of that dainty piece of limp linen in his pocket. Its delicacy symbolized the feminine, and while what the handkerchief represented must be erroneous, he still wanted it. The naïve was something John Miller would never reject. He was perhaps sixty feet from the gateway to his track when he saw the girl in the dark coat again; she was standing near the gate talking with a mustached, one legged man who supported himself on crutches. His left pants leg was pinned up at the knees, he had tired looking bulbous eyes and the hair that showed beneath his shipboard cap was stark white against the illness of his skin.

  Miller watched the girl, she was within his vision, he told himself and it was his tight to watch her. Her dark coat buttoned from collar to hem, she pigeon toed, bespeaking youth and charm and human warmth; and he felt his own tenseness eased by the mere activity of watching her. In spite of the nervousness with which her hands clasped as envelope style bag to her, as a child might hold a doll. He felt a sudden impulse to go to her, to give her back her handkerchief, then just as suddenly he knew that he did not want to go over to her and offer its return. He did not want to speak to her; he wanted to keep the handkerchief and his illusion.

  Then quite unexpectedly, the girl came to Miller, her green eyes tilted up at him, as large as those of children’s drawing on the street. “Is this the train to Millersburg? Do you know?”

  The surprise of her speaking to him crowded everything else from his mind, even the yellow gold pomade out that escaped her hat, the piquant little pug nose, and the deep dimples that formed in her cheeks as she spoke.”Yes.” He pointed vaguely at a sign on the wall near the gate. “It says Millersburg.”

  “Oh!” She looked blankly in the direction Miller indicated. “Thank you.” A brief smile moved her full young lips. She returned to the side of her emaciated one legged companion and spoke to him earnestly; he smoothed his twirl ended mustache and nodded his head. She must be nearsighted, Miller thought or she would have probably accounted for the appealing quality in the big green eyes. But what explained her marked agitation? Miller looked around for the broad, dissipated man in the homburg, but he was nowhere to be seen, once again he decided he had been hasty in concluding that the darkly handsome man belonged in the picture.

  Other passengers were now crowding in front of the track entrance, and still in a half-dream Miller found himself hurrying to take up a position just behind the girl and the crippled man. The gate opened. Miller found himself lagging behind in the long walk down the ramp and along the platform; to compensate for the necessarily slow pace of the man on crutches. The man and girl entered the train after the first swarm of passengers and took seats near the front of the coach. There was no other vacant seat near them, and Miller took a place half a dozen rows behind. He was not long in discovering his bad luck; the height of the coaches’ seats prevented his seeing anything but the top of the blonde girl’s head.

  Miller stowed the bag and creel box on the rack above his seat, kept his rod with him. He was just setting himself when a passenger took the e
mpty place beside him. The stranger was the dissipated looking man in the homburg.

  “What did Sally Daniels tell you?” The man asked, the faintly nauseating sweetness of liquor emanating from him. “I saw her speak to you.”

  “Who?”

  “You know, the girl with the fellow on crutches. Did she tell you to keep an eye on me, to protect her in case I bothered her?” The man said. There was an elusive lilt to the man’s voice; his was a cosmopolitan rather than a foreign accent, the intonation of a man who called many countries home. Now at close range Miller saw that though the man’s clothes were expensive they were well used. Introspectively, the man’s grey blue eyes were prowling the car, his face pouched with tiredness and worry.

  “Sally’s a good kid.” He cleared his throat. “I like her, but she’s made it plain she doesn’t like me.” His lined face tightened. “I didn’t mean to upset her; all I wanted to do was talk with her.”

  “But she’s a shy one, and she must be worn pretty fine about her dad. Joseph does look quite bad with one of his legs gone.” He said.

  The train started to more and the man lapsed into silence, Miller fell back into a nervous habit of chewing his nails, those nails were chewed to nubs. Not until the train was sliding along the Hudson did he look up. The man sitting beside Miller turned his head, Miller diagnosed his sallow color. It was not liver jaundice, handling T.N.T. sometimes turned hands that color. But this was more like a tan that had worn off; odd he thought how medical thinking remained with him, and a part of his mental processes.

  The man’s eyes met Miller suddenly. “I notice you studying me.” He seemed proud of his shrewdness, the calculating observations of his quick, pouched eyes. Miller felt vague fears where this chance acquaintanceship might lead. He didn’t know who this man was, even as the man didn’t know who he was, what he had been.