“Yes. And so I moved out of Peking and came back to New York, where I was born. And then one day I saw Frank — I mean you. I could have fainted on the spot. I mean I might have expected it and all, but still it gives you a turn to see your husband's body walking around.”
“I should think so,” Blaine said.
“So I followed you and all. I wasn't ever going to bother you or anything, but it just, kept bothering me all the time. And I sort of got to wondering what kind of a man was… I mean, Frank was so — well, he and I got along very well, if you know what I mean.”
“Certainly,” Blaine said.
“I'll bet you think I'm terrible!”
“Not at all!” said Blaine. She looked him full in the face, her expression mournful and coquettish. Blaine felt Kranch's old scar throb.
But remember, he told himself, Kranch is gone. Everything is Blaine now, Blaine's will, Blaine's way, Blaine's taste…
This problem must be settled, he thought, as he seized the willing Alice and kissed her with an unBlainelike fervor…
In the morning Alice made breakfast. Blaine sat, staring out the window, thinking dismal thoughts.
Last night had proven to him conclusively that Kranch was still king of the Kranch-Blaine body-mind. For last night he had been completely unlike himself. He had been fierce, violent, rough, angry and exultant. He had been all the things he had always deplored, had acted with an abandon that must have bordered on madness.
That was not Blaine. That was Kranch, the Body Triumphant.
Blaine had always prized delicacy, subtlety, and the grasp of nuance. Too much, perhaps. Yet those had been his virtues, the expressions of his own individual personality. With them, he was Thomas Blaine. Without them he was less that nothing — a shadow cast by the eternally triumphant Kranch.
Gloomily he contemplated the future. He would give up the struggle, become what his body demanded; a fighter, a brawler, a lusty vagabond. Perhaps in time he would grow used to it, even enjoy it…
“Breakfast's ready,” Alice announced.
They ate in silence, and Alice mournfully fingered a bruise on her forearm. At last Blaine could stand it no longer.
“Look,” he said, “I'm sorry.”
“What for?”
“Everything.”
She smiled wanly. “That's all right. It was my fault, really.”
“I doubt that. Pass the butter please,” Blaine said.
She passed the butter. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Alice said, “I was very, very stupid.”
“Why?”
“I guess I was chasing a dream,” she said. “Thought I could find Frank all over again. I'm not really that way, Mr. Blaine. But I thought it would be like with Frank.“
“And wasn't it?”
She shook her head. “No, of course not.”
Blaine put down his coffee cup carefully. He said, “I suppose Kranch was rougher. I suppose he batted you from wall to wall. I suppose —”
“Oh, no!” she cried. “Never! Mr. Blaine, Frank was a hunter and he lived a hard life. But with me he was always a perfect gentleman. He had manners, Frank had.”
“He had?”
“He certainly had! Frank was always gentle with me, Mr. Blaine. He was — delicate, if you know what I mean. Nice. Gentle. He was never, never rough. To tell the truth, he was the very opposite from you, Mr. Blaine.”
“Uh,” said Blaine.
“Not that there's anything wrong with you,” she said with hasty kindness. “You are a little rough, but I guess it takes all kinds.”
“I guess it does,” Blaine said. “Yes, I guess it sure does.”
They finished their breakfast in embarrassed silence, Alice, freed of her obsessive dream, left immediately afterwards, with no suggestion that they meet again. Blaine sat in his big chair, staring out the window, thinking.
So he wasn't like Kranch!
The sad truth was, he told himself, he had acted as he imagined Kranch would have acted in similar circumstances. It had been pure autosuggestion. Hysterically he had convinced himself that a strong, active, hearty outdoors man would necessarily treat a woman like a wrestling bear.
He had acted out a stereotype. He would feel even sillier if he weren't so relieved at regaining his threatened Blaineism.
He frowned as he remembered Alice's description of Marie: Skinny, hard as nails, cold as fish. More sterotyping.
But under the circumstances, he could hardly blame Alice.
24
A few days later, Blaine received word that a communication was waiting for him at the Spiritual Switchboard. He went there after work, and was sent to the booth he had used previously.
Melhill's amplified voice said, “Hello, Tom.”
“Hello, Ray. I was wondering where you were.”
“I'm still in the Threshold,” Melhill told him, “but I won't be much longer. I gotta go on and see what the hereafter is like. It pulls at me. But I wanted to talk to you again, Tom. I think you should watch out for Marie Thorne.”
“Now Ray —”
“I mean it. She's been spending all her time at Rex. I don't know what's going on there, they got the conference rooms shielded against psychic invasion. But something's brewing over you, and she's in the middle of it.”
“I'll keep my eyes open,” Blaine said.
“Tom, please take my advice. Get out of New York. Get out fast, while you still have a body and a mind to run it with.”
“I'm staying,” Blaine said.
“You stubborn bastard,” Melhill said, with deep feeling. “What's the use of having a protective spirit if you don't ever take his advice?”
“I appreciate your help,” Blaine said. “I really do. But tell me truthfully, how much better off would I be if I ran?”
“You might be able to stay alive a little longer.”
“Only a little? Is it that bad?”
“Bad enough. Tom, remember not to trust anybody. I gotta go now.”
“Will I speak to you again, Ray?”
“Maybe,” Melhill said. “Maybe not. Good luck, kid.”
The interview was ended. Blaine returned to his apartment.
The next day was Saturday. Blaine lounged in bed late, made himself breakfast and called Marie. She was out. He decided to spend the day relaxing and playing his sensory recordings.
That afternoon he had two callers.
The first was a gentle, hunchbacked old woman dressed in a dark, severe uniform. Across her army-style cap were the words, “Old Church.”
“Sir,” she said in a slightly wheezy voice, “I am soliciting contributions for the Old Church, an organization which seeks to promote faith in these dissolute and Godless times.”
“Sorry,” Blaine said, and started to close the door.
But the old woman must have had many doors closed on her. She wedged herself between door and jamb and continued talking.
“This, young sir, is the age of the Babylonian Beast, and the time of the soul's destruction. This is Satan's age, and the time of his seeming triumph. But be not deceived! The Lord Almighty has allowed this to come about for a trial and a testing, and a winnowing of grain from chaff. Beware the temptation! Beware the path of evil which lies splendid and glittering before you!”
Blaine gave her a dollar just to shut her up. The old woman thanked him but continued talking.
“Beware, young sir, that ultimate lure of Satan — the false heaven which men call the hereafter! For what better snare could Satan the Deceiver devise for the world of men than this, his greatest illusion! The illusion that hell is heaven! And men are deceived by the cunning deceit, and willingly go down into it!”
“Thank you,” Blaine said, trying to shut the door.
“Remember my words!” the old woman cried, fixing him with a glassy blue eye. “The hereafter is evil! Beware the prophets of the hellish afterlife!”