Bob Shaw: The Two Timers

“You’re wearing John’s clothes,’ she said, almost abstractedly.

“He took all he wanted and left me the rest.” Breton was amazed to find himself ‘on the defensive. “He filled two cases.”

“But what about the business? Are you…?”

“That’s John’s idea. I take it over.”

“You would.” Kate’s eyes were unreadable.

Breton decided it was time to shift his attack. “I don’t want you to get the idea that John’s completely unhappy about all this. He’s been feeling trapped — by his career and marriage — for years. Now he isn’t trapped. He’s made an effortless, guilt-free escape from a situation that was becoming intolerable to him, and it didn’t even cost him divorce fees.”

“Just a million dollar business.”

“The point is, he didn’t have to quit the business. I didn’t come here looking for money, Kate. I threw away every cent I owned, just to reach you.”

Kate turned to face him and her voice had softened. “I know. I’m sorry I said that. So much has happened.”

Breton moved towards her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Kate, darling, I…”

“Don’t do that,” she said quietly.

“I am your husband.”

“There are times when I don’t want my husband to touch me.”

“Of course.”

Breton let his arms fall by his sides. He had a feeling he had been taking part in an undeclared battle, and that Kate had won it through sheer superior generalship.

During the long hours of that night, as he lay alone in the guest room, he was brought face-to-face with a disturbing truth. Nine years of separate existence in the Time B world had left their mark on Kate, making her a difFerent person than the girl he had lost and conquered Time itself to recover.

And there was nothing in the whole wide universe he could do about it.

Breton had forgotten that days of the week existed.

Consequently he was surprised, on opening his eyes in buttery morning sunlight, to be immediately aware that the day was Saturday. He lay, between consciousness and sleep, considering the implications of his apparently a priori knowledge.

Of the four major divisions of time — day, week, month and year — week was the odd man out. All the others were based on recurring astronomical phenomena, but the week was a purely human measure, the distance between market days. An alert animal waking from sleep might be expected to know the position of the sun, the phase of the Moon, or the season — but to be aware of Saturday? Unless his subconscious had its own seven-day clock, or had picked up a variation in the pattern of traffic sounds drifting through the partially-open window…

Breton came fully awake as his mind reorientated itself. He wondered fleetingly what sort of a night John Breton had passed, then fended the thought away. Last night he had been forced by Kate to play the role of a gentle, reasonable friend of the family; but it had been a mistake not to consummate his new “marriage” right away. He was giving Kate too much time to think her own thoughts and arrive at conclusions unaffected by the dictates of passion. Words like union and congress had a special significance in this context because, once the sexual amalgamation had been achieved, Kate’s conscience — at the moment a free agent — would be obliged to justify the new state of affairs. Certain avenues of thought would be barred to her, and Breton wanted them closed as soon as possible.

He got up and opened the bedroom door. The irregular whine of a vacuum cleaner drifted up the stairs, showing that Kate was up and about. He washed, shaved and dressed as quickly as possible, and went downstairs. The sound of the cleaner had stopped but there was movement in the kitchen. Hesitating a moment to get his tactics clear in his mind, he pushed the door open and walked in.

“It’s Mr. Breton,” a small, blue-haired woman said brightly. “Good morning, Mr. Breton.”

Breton gaped at her in amazement. The strange woman was sitting at the table, having coffee with Kate. She was about sixty, wore bright red lipstick and had a crack in the right-hand lens of her spectacles.

“Mrs. Fitz came by to see how we were getting along without her,” Kate explained. “And when she saw the mess the place was in, she insisted on cleaning it up right away. I’ve been getting a lecture for neglecting you.”

“Very good of you, Mrs. Fitz,” Breton mumbled. The housekeeper! He had forgotten all about the damned housekeeper. Mrs. Fitz regarded him with frank, shiny-eyed curiosity as he edged his way around the table to a vacant chair. He gave her a wan smile.

“Mr. Breton’s lost weight.” Mrs. Fitz spoke to Kate as though he were not there. “Mr. Breton’s got thinner. That settles it — no more days off for me!”

“It has been a bit of a strain without you,” Kate said. “John doesn’t care much for my cooking.”

“Nonsense.” Breton looked at her helplessly, masking his rage. “You know I love your cooking. I don’t think we ought to monopolize Mrs. Fitz’s weekend.”

“Listen to him!” Mrs. Fitz laughed, showing incredibly white dentures. “As if I had anything better to do.”

“How is your niece?” Kate asked warmly. “Has she had her baby yet?”

“Not yet.”

Mrs. Fitz got up and began to serve Breton with coffee, pancakes and syrup as she spoke. He ate silently, marveling at the way one or two words from Kate, interposed at the right places, could act as verbal catalysts for the older woman, drawing longer and longer skeins of words from her. Unable to decide if Kate was doing it on purpose, he endured the conversation for as long as possible then went and sat in the living room, pretending to read magazines.

After the breakfast things were cleaned up, the vacuum cleaner started up again and Mrs. Fitz began to go over the whole house, appearing — to Breton’s inflamed senses — to do some of the rooms several times.

Kate spent a lot of time talking to her, and came into the living room alone only once, carrying a vase of flowers.

“For God’s sake, get rid of that woman,” he said. “I’ve got to talk to you.

“I’m trying to — but Mrs. Fitz was always like this.”

Kate sounded genuinely concerned, and he tried to relax. The morning dragged past and, to his dismay, Mrs. Fitz stayed on and made lunch. After they had eaten, there was the prolonged routine of tidying up and then, incredulously, Breton heard the vacuum cleaner whine into life again. He threw his magazine aside and bulled his way upstairs, following the sound. Kate was standing at the door of a bedroom, smoking, and Mrs. Fitz was at work inside.

“What’s she doing now?” he demanded. “The floors can’t have got dirty since this morning.”

Kate dropped her cigarette into a cut-glass ashtray she had carried with her. “The drapes. Mrs. Fitz likes to do the drapes on Saturdays.”

Breton started to turn away; but then he realized that Kate — mature and experienced skirmisher that she had become — was calmly manipulating him, practicing a kind of super-judo which turned his strength into weakness. And he had been tamely knuckling under, in spite of the fact that the only lever she had was the knowledge he had given her. But, as far as she knew, the knowledge was useless. She could not go to Mrs. Fitz, or anyone else, and tell them the man she was living with was not really her husband, but only a duplicate who had emerged from another time-stream. Not unless she wanted to have her sanity put in doubt.

“Mrs. Fitz.” Breton walked past Kate into the bedroom. “Go home now.”

“Bless you, I’m in no hurry to go back there.”

She gave him a bright smile which conveyed the message that she was a widow gamely carrying on with life’s battle. Breton pulled the cord of the cleaner from the socket and handed it to her.