Nightmare at 20,000 Feet: Horror Stories (13 page)

  She works for a magazine called
Design Handbook
or
Designer's Handbook
or something like that. Odd, I can't remember that either. Guess I never gave it much thought.

  I do remember where the office is though. I called for her there a few months ago and took her to lunch. I think I told Mary I was going to the library that day.

  Now, as I recall, the telephone number of Jean's office was in the upper right hand corner of the right page in the directory. I've looked it up dozens of times and that's where it always was.

  Today it wasn't.

  I found the word
Design
and different business names starting with that word. But they were in the lower left hand corner of the left page, just the opposite. And I couldn't seem to find any name that clicked. Usually as soon as I see the name of the magazine I think:
there it is.
Then I look up the number. Today it wasn't like that.

  I looked and looked and thumbed around but I couldn't find anything like
Design Handbook.
Finally I settled for the number of
Design Magazine
but I had the feeling it wasn't the one I was searching for.

  I… I'll have to finish this later. Mary just called me for lunch, dinner, what have you? The big meal of the day anyway since we both work at night.

Later

  It was a good meal. Mary can certainly cook. If only there weren't those arguments. I wonder if Jean can cook.

  At any rate the meal steadied me a little. I needed it. I was a little nervous about that telephone call.

  I dialled the number. A woman answered.

"Design Magazine,"
she said.

  "I'd like to talk to Miss Lane," I told her.

  "Who?"

  "Miss Lane."

  "One moment," she said. And I knew it was the wrong number. Every other time I'd called the woman who answered had said, "All right" immediately and connected me with Jean.

  "What was that name again?" she asked.

  "Miss Lane. If you don't know her, I must have the wrong number."

  "You might mean Mr. Payne."

  "No, no. Before, the secretary who answered always knew right away who I wanted. I have the wrong number. Excuse me."

  I hung up. I was pretty irritated. I've looked that number up so many times it isn't funny.

  Now, I can't find it.

  Of course I didn't let it get me at first. I thought maybe the phone book in the candy store was an old one. So I went down the street to the drugstore. It had the same book.

  Well, I'll just have to call her from work tonight. But I wanted to get her this afternoon so I'd be sure she'd save Saturday night for me.

  I just thought of something. That secretary. Her voice. It was the same one who used to answer for
Design Handbook.

  But… Oh, I'm dreaming.

Monday night

  I called the club while Mary was out of the office getting us some coffee.

  I told the switchboard operator the same way I've told her dozens of times. "I'd like to speak to Miss Lane, please."

  "Yes sir, one moment," she said.

  There was silence a long time. I got impatient. Then the phone clicked again.

  "What was that name?" the operator asked.

  "Miss Lane, Miss
Lane,"
I said. "I've called her any number of times."

  "I'll look at the list again," she said.

  I waited some more. Then I heard her voice again.

  "I'm sorry. No one by that name is listed here."

  "But I've called her any number of times there."

  "Are you sure you have the right number?"

  "Yes, yes, I'm sure. This is the Club Stanley, isn't it?"

  "Yes, it is."

  "Well, that's where I'm calling."

  "I don't know what to say," she said. "All I can tell you is that I'm certain there isn't anyone by that name living here."

  "But I just called
last night!
You said she wasn't in."

  "I'm sorry, I don't remember."

  "Are you sure? Absolutely sure?"

  "Well, if you want, I'll look at the list again. But no one by that name is on it, I'm positive."

  "And no one by that name moved out within the last few days?"

  "We haven't had a vacancy for a year. Rooms are hard to get in New York, you know."

  "I know," I said, and hung up.

  I went back to my desk. Mary was back from the drugstore.

  She told me my coffee was getting cold. I said I was calling Jim in regard to that job. That was an ill-chosen lie. Now she'll start in on that again.

  I drank my coffee and typed a while. But I didn't know what I was doing. I was trying hard to settle my mind.

  She has to be somewhere, I thought. I know I didn't dream all those moments together. I know I didn't imagine all the trouble I had keeping it a secret from Mary. And I know that Mike and Sally didn't…

  Sally! Sally lived at the Club Stanley too.

  I told Mary I had a headache and was going out for an aspirin. She said there must be some in the men's room. I told her they were a kind I didn't like. I get involved in the flimsiest lies!

  I half ran to the nearby drugstore. Naturally I didn't want to use the phone at work again.

  The same operator answered my ring.

  "Is Miss Sally Norton there?" I asked.

  "One moment please," she said, and I felt a sinking sensation in my stomach. She always knew the regular members right away. And Sally and Jean had been living there for at least
two years.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "No one by that name is listed here."

  I groaned. "Oh my God."

  "Is something wrong?" she asked.

  "No Jean Lane and no Sally Norton live there?"

  "Are you the same party who called a little while ago?"

  "Yes."

  "Now look. If this is a joke…"

  "A joke! Last night I called you and you told me Miss Lane was out and would I like to leave a message. I said no. Then I call tonight and you tell me there's nobody there by that name."

  "I'm sorry. I don't know what to say. I was on the board last night but I don't recall what you say. If you like I'll connect you with the house manager."

  "No, never mind," I said and hung up.

  Then I dialled Mike's number. But he wasn't home. His wife Gladys answered, told me Mike had gone bowling.

  I was a little nervous or I wouldn't have slipped up.

  "With the boys?" I asked her.

  She sounded kind of slighted. "Well, I
hope
so," she said.

  I'm getting scared.

Tuesday night

  I called Mike again tonight. I asked him about Sally.

  "Who?"

  "Sally."

  "Sally who?" he asked.

  "You know damn well Sally who, you hypocrite!"

  "What is this, a gag?" he asked.

  "Maybe it is," I said. "How about cutting it out?"

  "Let's start all over," he said. "Who the hell is Sally?"

  "You don't know Sally Norton?"

  "No. Who is she?"

  "You never went on a date with her and Jean Lane and me?"

  "Jean Lane! What are you talking about?"

  "You don't know Jean Lane either?"

  "No, I
don't
and this is getting very unfunny. I don't know what you're trying to pull but cut it out. As two married men we…"

  "Listen!" I almost shouted into the phone. "Where were you three weeks ago Saturday night?"

  He was silent a moment.

  "Wasn't that the night you and I bached while Mary and Glad went to see the fashion show at…"

  "Bached! There was no one with us?"

  "Who?"

  "No girls? Sally? Jean?"

  "Oh, here we go again," he groaned. "Look, pal, what's eating you? Anything I can do?"

  I slumped against the wall of the telephone booth.

  "No," I said weakly "No."

  "Are you sure you're all right? You sound upset as hell."

  I hung
up. I am
upset. I have a feeling as though I'm starving and there isn't a scrap of food in the whole world to feed me.

  What's wrong?

Wednesday afternoon

  There was only one way to find out if Sally and Jean had really disappeared.

  I had met Jean through a friend I knew at college. Her home is in Chicago and so is my friend Dave's. He was the one who gave me her New York address, the Club Stanley. Naturally I didn't tell Dave I was married.

  So I'd looked up Jean and I went out with her and Mike went out with her friend Sally. That's the way it was, I
know
it happened.

  So today I wrote a letter to Dave. I told him what had happened. I begged him to check up at her home and write quickly and tell me it was a joke or some amazing set of coincidences. Then I got out my address book.

Dave's name is gone from the book.

  Am I really going crazy? I know perfectly well that the address was in there. I can remember the night, years ago, when I carefully wrote it down because I didn't want to lose contact with him after we graduated from college. I can even remember the ink blot I made when I wrote it because my pen leaked.

  The page is blank.

  I remember his name, how he looked, how he talked, the things we did, the classes we took together.

  I even had a letter of his he sent me one Easter vacation while I was at school. I remember Mike was over at my room. Since we lived in New York there wasn't time to get home because the vacation was only for a few days.

  But Dave had gone home to Chicago and, from there, sent us a very funny letter, special delivery. I remember how he sealed it with wax and stamped it with his ring for a gag.

  The letter is gone from the drawer where I always kept it.

  And I had three pictures of Dave taken on graduation day. Two of them I kept in my picture album. They're still there…

  But he's not on them.

  They're just pictures of the campus with buildings in the background.

  I'm afraid to go on looking. I could write the college or call them and ask if Dave ever went there.

  But I'm afraid to try.

Thursday afternoon

  Today I went out to Hempstead to see Jim. I went to his office. He was surprised when I walked in. He wanted to know why I'd travelled so far just to see him.

  "Don't tell me you've decided to take that job offer," he said.

  I asked him, "Jim, did you ever hear me talking about a girl named Jean in New York?"

  "Jean? No, I don't think so."

  "Come on, Jim. I did mention her to you. Don't you remember the last time you and I and Mike played poker? I told you about her then."

  "I don't remember, Bob," he said. "What about her?"

  "I can't find her. And I can't find the girl Mike went out with. And Mike denies that he ever knew either of them."

  He looked confused so I told him again. Then he said, "What's this? Two old married men gallivanting around with…"

  "They were just friends," I cut in. "I met them through a fellow I knew at college. Don't get any bright ideas."

  "All right, all right, skip it. Where do I fit in?"

  "I
can’t find
them. They're gone. I can't even prove they existed."

  He shrugged. "So what?" Then he asked me if Mary knew about it. I brushed that off.

  "Didn't I mention Jean in any of my letters?" I asked him.

  "Couldn't say. I never keep letters."

  I left soon after that. He was getting too curious. I can see it now. He tells his wife, his wife tells Mary-fireworks.

  When I rode to work late this afternoon I had the most awful feeling that I was something temporary. When I sat down it was like resting on air.

  I guess I must be cracking. Because I bumped into an old man deliberately to find out if he saw me or felt me. He snarled and called me a clumsy idiot.

  I was grateful for that.

Thursday night