Ken Grimwood - Replay

He rang the doorbell, tucking his T-shirt into his jeans. It suddenly occurred to him that he should have changed; he should have at least found a rest room where he could shave—

"Yes?"

The woman bore a startling resemblance to Pamela; only the hairstyle was different, a moderate bouffant instead of the straight, Dutch-boy cut Jeff had grown so fond of. She was about the same age Pamela had been when he’d seen her last, and the impression was unsettling.

"Is, uh, Pamela Phillips home, ma’am?"

The woman frowned, pursing her lips slightly in the same expression of mild consternation Jeff had seen so frequently on Pamela’s face. "She’s not up yet. Are you a friend of hers from school?"

"Not exactly from school, but I do—"

"Who is it, Beth?" came a man’s voice from inside the house. "Is it the man about the air conditioning?"

"No, dear, it’s a friend of Pam’s."

Jeff shifted his feet uneasily. "I’m sorry to disturb you this early in the morning, but it really is important that I speak to Pamela."

"I don’t even know if she’s awake yet."

"If I could just come inside and wait—I don’t want to put you to any inconvenience, but…"

"Well … Why don’t you come on in and have a seat, for a minute at least?" Jeff stepped into a small foyer, followed her into a comfortably furnished living room, where a man in a gray pinstriped suit stood before a mirror, adjusting his tie.

"If that fellow does show up this morning," the man was saying, "tell him the thermostat is—" He stopped as he caught sight of Jeff in the mirror. "You’re a friend of Pam’s?" he asked, turning to face Jeff. "Yes, sir."

"Is she expecting you?"

"I … believe so."

"What do you mean, you believe so ? Isn’t this a bit early to pop in on someone unannounced?"

"Now, David…" his wife cautioned.

"She is expecting me," Jeff said.

"Well, this is the first I’ve heard about it. Beth, did Pam say anything to you last night about someone coming over this morning?"

"Not that I recall, dear. But I’m sure—"

"What’s your name, young man?"

"Jeff Winston, sir."

"I don’t remember Pam’s mentioning anyone by that name. Do you, Beth?"

"David, don’t be so rude to the boy. Would you like some cinnamon toast, Jeff? I just made some, and a fresh pot of coffee, too."

"No, ma’am, thank you very much, but I’ve had breakfast."

"Where do you know our daughter from?" Pamela’s father asked.

From Los Angeles, Jeff thought, giddy with lack of sleep and too many cups of coffee and a thousand miles of highway. I know her from Montgomery Creek, he wanted to say; from New York, and Majorca.

"I said, where did you meet Pam? You look a little old to be one of her classmates."

"We … met through a mutual friend. At the tennis club." That ought to sound plausible; she’d told him she’d played tennis since she was twelve.

"And who might that be? I think we know most of Pam’s friends, and—"

"Daddy! Did I leave my Green Stamp book in your car? It was almost full, and now I can’t find—"

She stood at the top of the stairs, all gangly teenaged arms and legs in a pair of white Bermuda shorts and a yellow polo shirt, her fine blond hair pulled into two little ponytails, one over each ear.

"Could you come down here, Pam?" her father said. "There’s someone here to see you."

Pamela walked slowly down the stairs, looking at Jeff. He wanted to run to her, take her in his arms, and kiss away all the torment that he knew she’d been through; but there’d be time enough for that. He grinned, and she smiled back at him.

"Do you know this young man, Pam?"

Her eyes were full of youth and promise as they met Jeff’s loving gaze.

"No," she said. "I don’t think so."

"He says he met you at the tennis club."

She shook her head. "I think I’d remember if I had. Do you know Dennis Whitmire?" she asked Jeff innocently.

"Majorca," Jeff said in a voice hoarse with strain. "The painting, the mountain…"

"I’m sorry?"

"I think you’d better be on your way, whoever you are," her father cut in.

"Pamela. Oh, Jesus, Pamela…"

The man took Jeff’s arm firmly, ushered him toward the door. "Look, fella," he said in a quiet but commanding tone, "I don’t know what your game is, but I don’t want to see you around here again. I don’t want you bothering my daughter, not here at the house, not at school, not at the tennis club. Nowhere. Got that?"

"Sir, this has all been a misunderstanding, and I apologize for the trouble. But Pamela does know me; she—"

"Anyone who knows my daughter calls her Pam, not Pamela. And let me remind you that she is fourteen years old, is that clear? Do you get my drift? Because I don’t want you claiming there’s been any misunderstanding about the fact that you are harassing a minor."

"I don’t want to bother anyone. I just—"

"Then get the hell out of my house before I call the police."

"Sir, Pamela will remember who I am soon. If I could just leave a number where she can get in touch with me—"

"You’re not leaving anything except this house. Now."

"It’s unfortunate we had to meet this way, Mr. Phillips.

I’d really like us to be able to get along in the future, and I hope—"

Pamela’s father shoved him roughly onto the outside steps, and the door slammed in his face. Jeff could hear raised voices through the window to the living room: Pamela crying in confusion, her mother pleading for calm, her father’s strident tones alternately protective and accusatory.

Jeff walked back to his car, sat in the driver’s seat, and rested his weary, jangled head on the steering wheel. After a while he started the engine, and headed south.

Dear Pamela,

I’m sorry if I confused you yesterday, or upset your parents. Someday soon, I hope you’ll understand. When that time comes, you can contact me through my family in Orlando, Florida. Their number is 555-9561. They’ll know where I can be reached.

Please don’t lose this letter; hide it somewhere safe. You’ll know when you need it.

With fondest regards, Jeff Winston

July and August were a sinkhole of torpid inertia, the dank heat of Florida’s "dog days," broken only by the violent thunderstorms that appeared almost every afternoon. Jeff went fishing with his father, taught his sister how to drive; but most of the time he spent in his room, watching reruns of "The Defenders" and "The Dick Van Dyke Show." Waiting for the telephone to ring.

His mother fretted over his inactivity, his sudden loss of interest in friends and girls and midnight cruising at the local drive-ins. Jeff wanted to leave, to escape the oppressive parental concern and the stultifying boredom of Orlando, but there was no place he could go. The freedom of movement he’d grown so used to was severely limited by his lack of funds: The Derby and the Belmont had already been run, and he had no other immediate source of income.

Summer ended, with no word from Pamela. Jeff went back to Atlanta, ostensibly to begin his sophomore year at Emory. He registered for a full course load, just so he could be assigned space in one of the dormitories, but he never bothered to attend any of the classes. He ignored the threatening letters from the dean’s office, bided his time until October.

Frank Maddock had graduated the previous June, and was now at Columbia, beginning law school without ever having met his erstwhile partner. Jeff found another rakish gambler in the senior class who was willing to place the World Series bet for him. Only for a flat fee, though; nobody wanted a percentage, no matter how generous, of such a patently foolish wager. Jeff bet a little under two thousand dollars, won a hundred and eighty-five thousand. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about money again for a while.