Ken Grimwood - Replay

Jeff got off the train at the next stop, walked down Charles Street past the flower shops and coffeehouses. The nasal whine of a folk singer drifted from the open door of the Turk’s Head, and a sign outside the Loft promised jug-band music on weekends. Up Chestnut Street the staid old homes, many of them now converted to apartments, presented a facade of urbane serenity.

What should he do? Go back to Montgomery Creek, spend the rest of this life—perhaps his final one—contemplating the incomprehensibility of the universe? Maybe he should make one last, albeit ultimately futile, attempt at improving humanity’s lot: reestablish Future, Inc. as a philanthropic foundation, pour all those hundreds of millions into Ethiopia, or India.

He climbed the steps to his second-floor apartment, his mind swimming against the tide of a thousand competing thoughts and unlikely options. If he simply gave up, committed suicide, what then? Would he—

One corner of the yellow envelope protruded into the hallway where it had been slipped beneath his door. He picked up the telegram, ripped it open:

BEEN CALLING ALL DAY. WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? I’M BACK. I’M BACK.

I’M BACK. GET HERE RIGHT AWAY. I LOVE YOU.

PAMELA

It was after eleven o’clock that night when he pulled up in front of the house in Westport. He’d tried to get a flight from Logan to Bridgeport, but there’d been nothing leaving immediately. It was quicker to drive, he decided, and he made the brief trip in record time.

Pamela’s father answered the door, and Jeff could see right away that this wasn’t going to be easy.

"I want you to know that I’m allowing this meeting only because my wife insisted that I do so," the man began without preamble. "And even she was persuaded only because of Pam’s threats to leave home if we didn’t let her talk to you."

"I’m sorry this has become such an issue, Mr. Phillips," Jeff said with all the sincerity he could muster. "As I told you last year, I never intended to cause any problems in your family; it’s all been an unfortunate misunderstanding."

"Whatever it is, it will not be repeated. I’ve spoken to my lawyer, and he says we can get a restraining order issued before the end of the week. That means you’ll be arrested if you come anywhere near my daughter again before she turns eighteen; so whatever you have to say to her, you’d better get it said tonight. Is that understood?"

Jeff sighed, tried to peer through the half-open door. "Could I just see Pamela now, sir? I won’t cause any problems, but I’ve waited a long time to talk to her."

"Come inside. She’s in the living room. You have one hour."

Pamela’s mother had obviously been crying; her eyes were rimmed with red and haunted with defeat. Her fifteen-year-old daughter, sitting beside her on the sofa, was by contrast totally composed, though the girl’s wide grin told Jeff she was fighting to restrain the jubilant relief she at last felt. The ponytails were gone; she’d brushed her hair into an approximation of the style she’d worn as an adult. She wore a cashmere sweater with a beige wool skirt, stockings, heels, and light, expertly applied makeup. The change in her since the last time he’d seen her went far deeper than her physical appearance, however; in her alert, knowing eyes Jeff could see instantly that this was in fact the woman he had loved and lived with for a decade.

"Hi, there," he said, returning her broad smile. "Want to go soaring?"

She laughed, a rich, throaty laugh full of mature irony and sophistication. "Mother, Father," she said, "this is my dear friend Jeff Winston. I believe you’ve met before."

"How is it that you’ve suddenly decided you know this … man, after all?" Her father had also noted the drastic change in Pamela’s voice and demeanor, Jeff could see, and was greatly displeased by her inexplicable overnight growth to adulthood.

"I suppose my memory must have had some gaps in it last year. Now, you promised me we could have an hour alone together. Do you mind if we get started on that, please?"

"Don’t try to leave the house." Her father scowled, addressing the two of them. "Don’t even leave the living room."

Mrs. Phillips rose reluctantly from her place beside her daughter. "Your father and I will be in the den if you need us, Pam."

"Thanks, Mother. Everything is fine, I promise you."

Her parents left the room, and Jeff took her in his arms, hugging her as tightly as he could without crushing the breath out of her. "My God," he rasped in her ear, "where have you been? What happened?"

"I don’t know," she said, pulling back to look at him. "I died in the house on Majorca just when I expected to, on the eighteenth. I only started replaying this morning; I was dumbfounded when I discovered what year it was."

"I showed up late, too," Jeff said, "but only by about three months. I’ve been waiting for you for over a year."

She touched his face, gave him a look of tender sympathy. "I know," she said. "My mother and father told me what happened that summer."

"You don’t remember, then? No, of course you wouldn’t."

She shook her head sadly. "My only memories of that time are from my original existence, and the replays since. From my perspective, I last saw you just twelve days ago, on the dock at Puerto de Andraitx."

"The miniature," he said with a warm smile. "It was perfect. I wish I could have kept it."

"I’m sure you have," she said quietly. "Where it counts most."

Jeff nodded, hugged her again. "So … how did you find me in Boston?"

"I called your parents. They seemed to know who I was—vaguely, at least."

"I told them I knew a girl at school who was from Connecticut, when I first came up here."

"God, Jeff, it must have been awful when I didn’t recognize you."

"It was. But now that you’re back, I’m kind of grateful to have had a glimpse of what you were really like at fourteen."

She grinned. "I bet I thought you were cute, whoever you were. Actually, I’m kind of surprised I didn’t lie, and tell my parents I did know you."

"I phoned you last March. You said you thought I was weird … but you did sound kind of interested."

"I’m sure I was."

"Pam?" her father called from the hallway. "Everything all right in there?"

"No problem at all," she answered.

"You’ve got another forty-five minutes," he reminded her, and went back toward the rear rooms of the house.

"This is going to be a problem," Jeff said with a worried frown. "You’re legally a minor; your father was talking about seeking a restraining order to prevent me from seeing you."

"I know," she said ruefully. "That’s partly my fault. There was a hell of a scene here this afternoon, after I told them I was expecting a call or a visit from you. I had no idea they’d ever heard of you before; my father went through the roof when I brought your name up, and I’m afraid I didn’t react too well in return. They never heard language like that out of me at this age, except in my second replay, when I turned rebellious. And of course, they don’t remember that."

"Do you think he’s serious about keeping us apart? He could really make things difficult if he chooses to."

"Unfortunately, he means what he says. We may have a rough time of it for a while."

"We could … run away together."

Pamela laughed dryly. "No. I tried that route once, remember? It didn’t work out then, and it won’t now."

"Except that I have money now, and access to as much more as we need. It’s not as if we’d be out on the streets."

"But I’m still underage; don’t forget that. You’d be in a lot of trouble if they caught us."

Jeff managed a grin. "Jailbait. I kind of like that idea."

"I just bet you do," she taunted. "But it’s no joke, particularly not in this era. The Summer of Love is still three years away; in 1964, they took that kind of thing very, very seriously."