Karma

On a bench outside the Depot Café in Mill Valley, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and congratulated myself. The film version of my first book would be released at the end of the year. It was time to do nothing.

The movie projector inside my head panned across cloudless skies, then flashed the opening title: "Cotard's Machines" grew from nothing to fill the screen. Then, some names ... and some more names. Faster now, the camera moved downward. "Based on the novel, Cotard's Machines, by Maxwell Kingery." 

Max. That's me.

A man was looking at me. He sat on another bench about ten feet away. Feeling foolish, I straightened myself.

He was about fifty or sixty years old. Bald except for short-cropped hair on the sides, he wore thick-rimmed black glasses he pushed up onto the bridge of his nose with one finger. He was dressed in a red-plaid shirt buttoned to the top, simple khaki pants, and dark dress shoes. He bent toward me, elbows on crossed legs, one hand holding a rolled-up newspaper. His eyes were blue.

I gave him a smile, and a nod. He tossed back a silent laugh, then relaxed against the bench. I continued smiling, but his expression didn't change. He just stared.

"Good morning!" I half-shouted.
He nodded, cocking his head to one side. His eyes narrowed.

I wanted to look away, but you know the feeling? I couldn't decide if it'd be rude to continue looking at him, or rude not to, or whether there was some unannounced staring contest going on. Finally, he stood up, lightly slapping his leg with the rolled-up newspaper. He crossed the distance between us, did an about-face, then sat at the other end of my bench.

I turned toward him, but he ignored me, preferring to look across space to where he'd been sitting. Staring straight ahead, he unfurled an arm along the back of the bench, then said, "Old son, you've got to stop it."

He turned his head toward me.
"Excuse me?" I laughed, then instantly regretted it.

He didn't reply right away, but turned back to study the other bench. "Stop stealing," he said to no one.

If you sit in public places long enough, you get used to conversations that begin like this, then devolve into rants about the government, aliens, and any number of paranoid delusions and conspiracies. I've discovered that while most of us are safely tucked away in quasi-rational worlds at work, home or school, there're packs of addled brains and abandoned minds − and occasionally, the genuinely malevolent − aching for a chat. So, a line like "Stop stealing" didn't strike me as all that peculiar. It could be a prelude to "stop worshipping false gods," or "stop committing adultery," or "stop ..." God knows what. But in this case, I didn’t think so. My fellow bench- sitter looked no less rational than I.

"Stop stealing what?"
He twisted toward me, getting comfortable. "Stop stealing stories."

He said it in a simple, straight-forward way, as if it were the truth. That's what bothered me. If he'd said something like "stop wasting time" or "stop over-intellectualizing," I could argue with him. What he said, however, was true; something only I should have known.

I got this prickly feeling under my thighs, and the crazy thought he was looking at someone behind me. Swiveling around, I saw no one. When I turned back, he had a satisfied grin on his face. I needed to think.

"Do I know you?"
"Ah!" his eyes sparkled, "Does anyone know anyone? Eh? Do we know ourselves?"

This was pretty sophomoric stuff. If that was the best he could offer, I didn't have to worry about being outwitted. I tried to be pleasant.

"What do you mean ... about stealing stories?"

One side of his mouth shot up, giving me the look a parent gives a child who's been caught lying.

"OK, then," he settled into his explanation, "we'll do it your way." He gathered his thoughts. "You have been rewriting other people's stories, publishing them under your name."

His eyes were like exclamation points. That was exactly what I had been doing. This was why I had time to sit on a bench on a sunny morning outside the Depot Café. The dead had done my work for me.

"And you would be ...?" I pronounced each word slowly; imperiously.

"I would be," he looked annoyed, "one of the authors."

I almost laughed. This was preposterous. I carefully research every story I "enhance" − that's what I'm really doing, you know − and not a single author is still alive.

I raised my eyebrows to him. He waited a couple beats, then said, "Jack Finney."

Holding back a breath, I thought about shaking his hand. Thinking better of it, I concentrated on my poker face.

It was impossible. Jack Finney died in 1995. I read his obituaries. There was no way this could be Jack Finney. Oh, I'm sure there's some cockamamie theory where the 84 year-old Finney fakes his own death, but for what reason? I've seen the probate on his estate. No, this could not be Jack Finney.

Even if it were, I couldn't imagine him being all that concerned about what I was doing. He published most of his stories just after the Second World War, in magazines like Good Housekeeping, Collier's, and even Cosmopolitan (before Helen Gurley Brown). Few people alive are likely to have read them, and of those, fewer still would remember them. No one can recognize them after I'm done with them.

Even better: Finney didn't want people to read all his stories. He purposely kept most of them hidden, falsely claiming they were all published in collections like About Time. It was a lie. I'd discovered dozens that were never included in any collection, or bibliography.

"Well," I started confidently, "Last time I looked, Finney died in '95." He smiled at me, silence marking time.

I should have got up and left, but what he'd said still bothered me. If he did know my secret, and told someone − my publisher, or the press − well, there might not be much leisure time any more, would there? I didn't think I'd committed any crime, but it wouldn't be a good thing for people to know.

"So," I made another start, "what story do you think I stole?" He thought for a moment. "Obituary. Let's start there."

"Obituary?" I repeated, thinking that was an odd choice. Obituary was my first success at fiction. A short story even by short story standards, I improved on Finney's Dream On. The story idea was great − a man lives another life in his dreams − but the way Finney wrote it didn't seem realistic. It wasn't snappy enough.

"You mean, Dream On?" He nodded.

"I don't think so." I smiled, and shook my head. "The idea's similar, but Dream On just goes on, the narrator endlessly arguing with her husband. Obituary's sleek. Just 1,500 words. There's no plagiarism there."

"How about the names?"

"Carmody? Marie?" Those were the names of the man, and his wife, who's life the dreamer was living. "OK. I'll give you that. But that's like saying because Moby Dick starts off 'Call me Ishmael' no one can ever write a story about a whale and have a character named Ishmael."

I suddenly remembered something: "How about Webley-Vebley 12-12?"

It was his turn to be surprised.

"Webley-Vebley 12-12," I repeated. "It’s an imaginary name for a non-existent pistol in It Wouldn't be Fair."

He seemed to be trying to remember Finney's 1948 detective-story parody, then raised his eyebrows.

"Sounds an awful lot like Walter Mitty's Webley-Vickers 50.80," I said. It was his turn to try and keep his face under control. "In fact," I pressed the advantage, "The Woodrow Wilson Dime" − a Finney tale about alternate universes − "sounds a lot like The Secret Life of Walter Mitty."

I could hear his jaw working.

"It's not the same," he almost raised his voice, looking at me as if he were my father, "And you know it."

I tried to look defiant; resolute. He laughed.
"You know," he said in an easy way, "the problem's not plagiarism. It's not even taking someone else's ideas." His body relaxed. "I didn't mind − I really didn’t −when Richard based Bid Time Return on Time and Again." His eyes looked up to one side, then returned. "I even wrote a nice note for him in one of the editions."

This was a surprise. How many people knew Richard Matheson's Bid Time Return − also known by the name of its film version, Somewhere in Time − was based on Finney's Time and Again? And who knew about Finney's note in the Tor Book edition? He knew his stuff alright, at least as well as I.

Again, the smile. He was enjoying this.
"Do you remember I Love Galesburg in the Springtime?" he asked.

It was the title of both a short story in McCall's, and Finney's second collection. It's still in print in About Time.

"Yeah, of course." I never touched it, I thought to myself. "Great story."

"Do you remember that part at the end," he seemed wistful, looking off somewhere I couldn't see. "It goes ..." He paused: "Here in Galesburg, and everywhere else, of course, they're trying − endlessly − to destroy the beauty we inherit from the past. They keep trying, and when they succeed, they replace it − not always, but all too often − with drabness and worse."

His voice captured me. It was true. It was what I loved about old magazines, and finding stories by authors like Finney. I felt the same about Mill Valley, or Cupertino, or any of the other places I've lived, then abandoned. But I could also see what he was implying about me: By comparison to Matheson, I replaced the past with "drabness and worse."

"Do you know what this is?" He held up the rolled-up newspaper. When opened, I recognized it immediately: Not a newspaper, but an old Collier's with a wintertime illustration on the cover showing a family bundled up against the cold inside their house, looking through the window at an oil truck stuck in the snow.

"Sure!" I smiled, and twisted my head around to see the date. "February 2," I paused, "1952." I looked at him. "Dream On?" "Check it out." He handed me the magazine.

I quickly opened to the contents page, then looked down the right side until I saw Finney's name. Further to the right was the page number: 38. Turning to that page, I recognized the Louis Glanzman illustration; a collage of a worried man in pajamas, Wall Street, and a beautiful woman.

"Yep." I closed it, handing back the magazine. He wouldn't take it. "Really look at it," he commanded.

I hesitated, wanting to ask why, but as I sat with the oversized magazine in my lap, I felt there was something odd about it.

First, it was in excellent condition; pristine; "mint condition" as they say. There was no mailing label, meaning it had been purchased from a newsstand, or perhaps, judging from its complete lack of wear, a publisher's copy that never made it into circulation. I'd pay $100 or more for a magazine like that; a magazine that sold for only fifteen cents in 1952.

But that wasn't what was strange. I remembered something seemed ... well, out of place. I slowly reopened to page 38.

The title was wrong. Instead of Dream On, it read Obituary, the title of my version. The byline was still the same, C. J. Durban and Jack Finney, but the title had been changed. I held the page closer, but couldn't see how it'd been done. Some PhotoShop genius probably created a completely new page, exchanging my title for Finney's, then substituted the new page for the original. But it wasn't that easy.

Collier's was a big magazine, two or three inches longer and wider than magazines are today; not something easily copied on a personal printer. But that's only half the problem. Like most magazines, double-wide sheets of paper − four pages − were printed on both sides, then stapled together down the middle. This meant reprinting not only page 38, but also pages 35, 36, and 37. Four, not one, pages had to have been forged.

I had a thought, and turned back to the table of contents. Sure enough − I hadn’t noticed it before − on the left, across from Finney's name, the title had been changed to Obituary. That meant not one, but two oversized sheets − eight pages − had been forged.

Remembering something else, I flipped back to page 38. At the right bottom corner I read, "THE END." That was wrong. Finney's original story went on for two pages. There should have been a note that the story continued on another page. So: It wasn't just the title that had been changed. Someone had taken a mint condition magazine, unstapled all the sheets, reprinted the first and middle ones, altering the table of contents, and replacing Finney's story and title with mine, then stapled everything back together again.

It was just too unbelievable. Who'd go to all that effort? For what reason?

I felt a chill as a shadow crossed over me. I hesitated, then looked up to see a cloud hide the sun. It wasn't something unexpected on a late September morning, but I didn’t like it.

He was gone. I twitched around thinking he'd sneaked behind me, but the Finney- impostor was gone. There were no other people in the square. It was quiet. Quiet as a tomb, I didn’t want to say.

Looking back at the magazine, I wondered if I'd dozed off. I was sleep-deprived, that's for sure. My eyes had been closed, dreaming about the movie. Maybe I imagined it; a waking dream. But like the proverbial pinch, the magazine brought back reality. Someone had given it to me.

I passed my hand affectionately over the cover, and looked at it. It felt, and looked new. I pressed the magazine against my face. I breathed it in. It smelled new; as fresh as the day it was printed. A day, I began thinking again, probably not that long ago.

I'm not a person who has a heart attack over a comma, or worries about every little thing I don't understand, but I had to get to the bottom of this. I stood up, absent- mindedly rolling-up the magazine. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble on my behalf. But I had a plan. I was going to the library.

I started across Miller Avenue, heading more or less West on Throckmorton. With the shops on that side of the street shading me, it was cooler, so I walked a little faster to keep warm. Head down, I thought about how much planning had gone into this. He had to wait until I was sitting on the bench − or maybe he'd been following me, who knows? He also had to have the magazine with him, then steer the conversation ... I stopped walking for a moment. Had he done that? Had he made me take the magazine?

A hundred yards further West, and Throckmorton turns northward, up past the Old Mill Park. The library's on Throckmorton, near the top of a slight hill, at the end of the park. Now that I was out of the shadows, the combination of sunlight and the incline was making me, literally, hot under the collar.

Who was behind this? If it was Simon and Schuster − Finney's publisher − if they thought I was doing something illegal, they'd just slap me with a cease and desist order. No need to make a game out of it. The logical choice I guessed, would be the family. Finney had a son about my age. But it couldn’t have been Finney's son. The man I spoke to was much older.

As I started down the hill, I realized I'd walked right past the library. I'm sure it's happened to you. You're driving somewhere − especially if it's a place you go regularly − you're in deep thought, then all of a sudden, you miss your exit, and don't know where you are. Well, it was like that.

I cursed to myself, then turned around and headed back, this time walking a little slower. Keeping my eyes to the right, I rehearsed what I would do at the library.

The bound periodicals are on the first floor, to the left as you enter. They have Collier's going back almost to when it started, in the 1800s. And of course, I knew they had the February 2, 1952 issue. I'd compare the two copies of that issue, proving the magazine in my hand was a fraud.

When I felt myself walking downhill, and saw Throckmorton curving back to the left, I cursed aloud. I'd done it again; passed the library.

Another about-face, this time with eyes left, and I walked methodically up the hill. Then the street went downhill again. There was no library.

Imagine what it's like to have Alzheimer's: to be somewhere, and not know how you got there; to not even know where you are. You're completely lost. The world is suddenly unfamiliar.

Was I still on Throckmorton? I turned around, walked a few steps, turned around again, and walked back. I must have looked like a crazy person. I felt panicky. I knew where the library was! I go there all the time.

I ran down to a "T" intersection and read the sign: Throckmorton and Olive. It was Throckmorton. It was. But as sure as I knew that, there was no library where there ought to be one. I felt light-headed. I wanted to sit down. I wanted to be back at the Depot Café. I didn't want to be on this street.

I turned left, and walked up Olive, knowing − or thinking I knew − a block later it intersects and becomes Lovell Avenue. Lovell then intersects Bernard. Lovell intersects Bernard, I told myself again, as if it were a prayer. A block right at Bernard would take me back to where I started.

As I walked, I felt the houses watching me, their gables turning into eyes. I'd never thought about what looked out from behind those windows; what waited behind those doors. I felt like a stranger; exposed − dreading what I might see at the corner of Lovell and Bernard. I kept my eyes straight ahead.

The library − the one that should have been on Throckmorton − was built around 1980. Before that, it was located in a wonderful old red brick building. After the move, the old building was purchased by some developers who gutted its insides, changing it into posh, "professional" offices. They added a senseless white portico at the front. Why, I don’t know. Maybe to make it look important.

As I neared the corner of Lovell and Bernard, I couldn’t help but look left, across the street, at the old library building. Somehow, I wasn't surprised to see the Mercedes and BMWs were gone, replaced by one car; a perfectly restored, fancy green 1952 Ford convertible.

The building looked ... What? More authentic? Real? It seemed natural that the portico was gone. It looked exactly as I remembered it. It looked like the Library.

I felt a little giddy, started to giggle, then stopped because of the sound it made. Crossing the street, I felt dizzy; trapped inside my body, distant from my senses. I trudged up the stairs, thinking I might be, in reality, delirious − hallucinating − strapped to a gurney at some hospital, or worse: Sitting in a wheelchair in an overly bright room, nodding to myself, eyes dull, and mouth half-open, imprisoned in a vacant mind.

But I could feel the wood of the handrail, and the brass door handle. Inside, I smelled tobacco smoke. Cigarettes! There was a time you could smoke in a library. Can you imagine that? If I had to choose, I'd choose the reality I could feel. Maybe I was being trundled on my way for shock therapy, but everything felt like I was in a library.

Miss Weygand, the Librarian, rounded her desk to greet me, her eyes as soft and kind as I remembered. I stood there stupidly, not knowing what to say, then settled on asking for the February 2, 1952 issue of Collier's. She excused herself with a smile, and descended the stairs to the archives.

I waited for her in the little reading area she'd set up next to her desk. At first, I didn’t want to look at any of the magazines or newspapers scattered on a low, round table, but I soon became used to the idea forming in my head. It wasn't much of a surprise then, when, in the top corner of the Marin Register, I read, "September 15, 1962."

1962? Not 52? I expected the year to be 1952, the same as the year of the Collier's magazine I still held tightly rolled in one hand. Just then, Miss Weygand returned. On the table, atop the newspaper I had been reading, she laid open the volume of bound magazines to the February 2nd issue. She stood back, clasping her hands together at her waist. I unrolled my copy of the magazine to one side, opening it to page 38. Leafing through the top right corner of the bound issue, I searched for the same page. When I saw page 39, I opened it.

As I now expected, both copies were the same. Miss Weygand smiled.

I left the magazine there − it had done its work − and walked outside. At the corner, I turned onto Bernard, then looked back at the Library. It had always been there, hadn't it? Why did I think there was another library? Why was I confused about the year?

I walked South on Bernard to Throckmorton, where it jogs into Miller Avenue. On the opposite corner was a trendy coffee shop. No. That wasn't true; at least not yet. Meier's Bakery was on the corner. Meier's Bakery had always been on that corner. The best coffee in town, they say.

Inside, I saw him again. He was sitting at the counter, drinking coffee, reading a magazine. A fresh cup was waiting for me at the space beside him. Without looking up, he patted the empty seat.

I felt my feet move across the floor, then grabbed the back of the stool, steadying myself, before I sat down. I couldn't keep my eyes off him. He kept reading.

"Hi, Max," he said, not looking at me.

Still reading, he reached back, and grabbed my upper arm, shaking it as though he'd just pulled the greatest prank of his life. "Good times are coming!" He swiveled around, and leaned back in his chair. His face lighted into a smile. "Plenty of work for a good writer like you."

He looked me over, then put his finger on the last of four photographs on the page he was reading. He pushed the magazine in front of me. Beneath the photo it read "Finney." It was him.

"I'll introduce you around." He almost laughed, then added quickly as he downed his coffee, "We'll have you over for dinner!"

He smacked his lips as if he hadn't had such good coffee in years, then stood up, and laid a dollar on the counter. He thought for a moment, and added some coins.

"But, you'd better work fast," he smiled.

He leaned across my shoulder to flip the magazine over so I could see the cover. It was the September 1962 issue of Playboy. A collage featuring the famous bunny was on the cover. I looked up at him, questions all over my face.

"Page 93." He clapped a hand on my shoulder before leaving. As he walked away, he added, "You haven't much time."

I started to get up, then sat back down, quickly leafing to page 93. The illustration seemed familiar: A man stands among tombstones in a stonecutter's yard, one of which reads − or should have read, I thought − "Miles Bennell, Physician." Instead − I read it two or three times to make sure, then I read it again: "Maxwell Kingery, Author."

I wanted to chase after him, but knew what I didn't need to be told. I hadn't changed Finney's Doctor in Town from a story about the man who helped write The Body Snatchers, to Hey, Look at Me!, a story about a failed writer named Max Kingery; a writer who dies unmourned, the following summer.

Jack Finney, it seems, had done some rewriting of his own.