Richard Matheson - What Dreams May Come

“I’ve just moved into the neighborhood,” I finally said.

My voice seemed to sound on its own. I didn’t know what I was getting at. Or, if I did, the knowledge was deeply buried in my mind. At any rate, the words came out, unbidden; a start however small.

I cannot convey to you the pain it gave me to see a look of such distrust on her face as she reacted to my words. “Whose house?” she asked.

“Gorman,” I told her.

“They haven’t sold their house,” she said.

I took a calculated risk. “Yes, they have,” I told her. “Some time ago. I moved in yesterday.”

She didn’t respond and I was forced to wonder if I’d lost my cause already, caught in a palpable lie.

Then, when she didn’t challenge me, I guessed that my calculation had been accurate. She had memories of the Gormans but was out of touch with everything beyond this immediate environment and had no way of knowing whether what I said was true or not.

“I didn’t know they’d sold their house,” she finally said, confirming my assumption.

“Yes. They did.” I felt a sense of minor achievement at the point I’d won. But, even as I spoke, I knew I still had a long way to go.

I tried to evolve the next move in my mind. There had to be some definite approach to this; some step by step method of getting through to her.

The realization struck me as I tried. There wasn’t any definite approach. I’d have to feel my way along from moment to moment, always on the lookout for some special opportunity.

Ann provided the next step through. I’m sure, unknowingly. “How do you know my name?” she asked.

“From the Hidden Hills directory,” I said, gratified to notice that the answer was acceptable to her.

The gratification was nullified immediately as she asked, once more suspicious, “What were you doing in the house?”

I made the mistake of hesitating and Ann tensed, drawing back. Instantly, Ginger growled again, the hair erecting on her back.

“I knocked on the door,” I said as casually as possible. “There was no answer so I came inside and called. I kept calling for you as I moved through the house. I guess you didn’t hear me.”

I could see that the answer dissatisfied her and a sense of hopelessness washed over me. Why doesn’t she recognize me? I thought. If she didn’t even know my face, what hope was there that I could help her?

I resisted the feeling, once again recalling Albert’s warning. How many times would I have to fight against that hopelessness before this ended?

“I just came by to say hello,” I began without thought; I had to keep things moving. Then, on impulse, I decided on a second calculated risk. “You seemed to recognize me when you saw me,” I told her. “Why was that?”

I thought-again, for a glorious instant-that a sudden breakthrough had been made when she answered, “You look a little like my husband.”

I felt my heartbeat quicken. “Do I?”

“Yes. A little bit.”

“Where is he?” I asked without thinking.

A bad mistake. She drew back noticeably, eyes narrowing. Had my question sounded menacing to her? The answer to that became apparent as Ginger growled once more.

“His name is Chris?” I asked.

Her eyes grew narrower yet.

“I saw it in the directory,” I told her; not too suspiciously fast, I hoped. I felt myself tense as the realization came that, in her mind, my name might not be in the directory anymore. But she only murmured, “Yes. Chris.”

Shall I tell you, Robert, of the agony of yearning to take her in my arms and comfort her? Knowing, even as I yearned, that it would be the worst thing I could possibly do?

I forced myself to continue. “The Gormans told me that he’s written for television,” I said, trying to sound no more than neighborly. “Is that right? What-?”

“He’s dead ,” she cut me off, her voice so bitter that it chilled me.

I knew then, with complete and overwhelming impact, what a task I faced. How could I hope that Ann would ever recognize my face and voice much less my identity? To her I was dead and she didn’t believe the dead survived.

“How did he die?” I asked. I didn’t know why I spoke; I had no plan. I simply had to labor on, hoping that something useful would occur.

She didn’t answer at first. I thought she wasn’t going to speak at all. Then, finally, she said, “He had an auto accident.”

“I’m sorry,” I told her, thinking, with the words, that an air of quiet sympathy might be the best approach. “When did it happen?”

An odd, somewhat disturbing surprise. She didn’t seem to know. Confusion flickered on her face. “A . . . while ago,” she faltered. I thought of using that confusion to my advantage but couldn’t figure how. “I’m sorry,” I repeated. It was all I could summon.

Silence again. I tried to come up with something, anything, reduced, at last, to reviving my second risk. “And I look like him?” I asked. Was it possible, I thought, that constant repetition of the idea might, in time, induce her to see that I more than resembled her husband?

“A little,” she answered. She shrugged then. “Not too much.”

I wondered momentarily if it would help for me to tell her that my name was, also, Chris. But something in me shied away from that. Too much, I decided. I had to move slowly or I might lose it all. I almost said My wife is dead too , then decided it was, also, dangerous and let it go.

It was as though she read my mind although I was sure she couldn’t have. “Does your wife like Hidden Hills?” she asked.

The sense of encouragement I felt that she had asked a reasonably social question was muddied by my confusion as to how to answer it. If I told her that I had a wife, would it enable me, eventually, to lead her thinking toward herself? Or would it place an irreparable barrier between us for her to think that there was some other woman in my life?

I decided, on impulse, that the risk was greater than I dared, and answered, “My wife and I are separated.” That was literally true and should satisfy her.

I hoped that she’d ask me if we were planning on a divorce-in which case I could answer that the separation was of a different nature, thus opening up another area of thought.

She said nothing though.

Silence once more. I almost groaned to find it happening again. Was my attempt to help her to be an endless series of false starts broken by these silences? Desperately, I tried to think of an approach that would result in some immediate perception on her part.

I could think of nothing.

“How did the bird die?” I asked on impulse.

Another mistake. Her expression became more somber yet. “Everything dies here,” she answered.

I stared at her, not realizing, until several moments had passed, that she hadn’t really answered my question. I was about to repeat it when she spoke.

“I try to take care of things,” she said. “But nothing lives.” She looked at the bird in her hands. “Nothing,” she murmured.

I began to speak then didn’t as she went on.

“One of our dogs died too,” she said. “She had an epileptic fit.”

But Katie’s safe, I thought. I almost said it but realized that of course I mustn’t. I wondered if there were anything at all I might pursue on that subject.

“My wife and I had two dogs too,” I said. “A German Shepherd like yours and a fox terrier named Katie.”

“What?” She stared at me.

I didn’t say more, hoping that the idea was at work on her mind: a man who looked like her husband who’d been separated from his wife and had had two dogs like hers, one with the same name. Should I add that our German Shepherd had, also, been named Ginger?