DÉJÀ
VU
by
Anthony Servante
“My
girlfriend’s in love with you,” said the sandy-haired man seated
next to Nigel Conners at the lunch counter.
Nigel
set his cup of latte in its saucer and eyed the sad-faced man for
signs that it was all some joke. After all, this was Guy Pollrich,
his good friend for the past five years. Or was it six?
“You’re
joking, right?” asked Nigel, already satisfied that in fact it was
some more of Guy’s over-tuned sense of irony, and resumed picking
at his plate of scrambled eggs, hash browns, and bacon.
“No
joke here, man,” he said blankly. “Does it look like I’m
joking?”
The
forkful of catsup soaked eggs never reached Nigel’s open mouth.
Nigel stabbed the fork into the thin pile of potatoes, screeching the
bottom of the porcelain plate. The grating sound drew quick cringing
glances from the diners in the Pancake House. Nigel sighed
reluctantly as he faced Guy, who was fighting back tears. This was
no joke.
“Hey,
I’m sorry, dude,” Nigel said, raising his hands defensively, “but
how could I not think it was just a joke, huh? I mean, come on,
Sophie in love with me? Get real.”
Guy
stared into his cup of Mocha Java Black and lifted it for a sip. It
tasted acidly, over-brewed, just the way Sophie liked to drink it.
He carefully considered his next words, trying to keep his emotions
at bay. He wouldn’t stand in her way if she chose Nigel.
Without
meeting eyes with Nigel, Guy said, “She feels she’s known you all
her life. She says she can’t remember a time that you weren’t
around. Hell, she remembers things about you like they happened
yesterday, things that were supposed to have happened when she was a
kid.”
“That’s
ridiculous,” Nigel said almost apologetically. “I’ve only
known you guys for five or six years.”
Guy
shot him a look of surprise. “Now you’re joking, right?”
“What
do you mean? Nigel asked impatiently.
“We
only met a few months ago,” Guy answered.
###
The
freeway was jammed as usual with early morning traffic. Nigel
figured that Guy must still be upset and got on the crowded freeway
without thinking. They had hardly spoken since they left the café.
Twice Guy turned on the radio and after a few seconds turned it off.
It was stop and go driving, and the top speed was fifteen miles per
hour at best. They still had to clear the Downtown area where people
were yet heading for work. Once they snarled their way out of the
Civic Center, the traffic would let up. Nigel was going to suggest
that they get off at Spring Street and take side streets to Sophie’s
apartment in McArthur Hills but decided to let Guy be the one to
break the silence.
It
had to be a mistake, Nigel thought to himself. How could he remember
things from years back if he had only just met Sophie and Guy a few
months ago? Yet the memories were there, but more like dreams than
waking reality. They seemed like fuzzy, tangled images of places and
people but in a chronology that didn’t make sense. He couldn’t
have imagined the faces and names that he pictured in his mind’s
eye. He tried tracing a mental path backwards. He was twenty-seven
years old, five years since graduating from USC. He sold used books
out of the store he bought a few years ago. Guy and Sophie walked in
one day looking for a book of short stories by Richard Matheson
called “Third from the Sun.” But when was that? He could
picture them walking into the store, but what season was it? He
could remember how quickly Sophie and he got along, like old friends
with common interests. He could remember how the three of them went
out to dinner at Sophie’s insistence, and how they met for
breakfast the following morning. They discussed Matheson and Robert
Bloch and Ray Bradbury, the Arkham edition authors, the Weird Tales
pulp magazine writers, the adaptations to film of their favorite
stories, television shows like “The Twilight Zone” and “Alfred
Hitchcock Presents” and “The Outer Limits” and “Tales from
the Darkside.” It was a never-ending
conversation that they were still having every time they met. But
when was that first meeting? Was it at the bookstore a few months
ago? Did their lengthy conversations create an illusion that he had
known her for a long time? Or had they met before the bookstore?
Then
he remembered.
Of
course, “The Outer Limits.” It didn’t fit in with all the
other memories. She had mentioned the TV show from the Sixties, but
he had nervously avoided talking about it, except for the episode
about the bees, where the queen bee takes on human form to infiltrate
the lab of a scientist who was experimenting on the possibility that
there was a language in the buzzing of the bees. The queen orders
the bees to kill the scientist’s wife. Nigel shivered at the
thought of the swarming hive covering the helpless woman, stinging
her to death with thousands of venomous stabs. But what did that
have to do with Sophie?
Nothing,
he thought, and maybe everything.
Guy
turned the car into the driveway and parked next to the 1970 custom
rebuild VW Bug that belonged to Sophie. Both he and Nigel walked up
the stairs to Sophie’s apartment. Guy followed Nigel, and when
they reached her door, Guy grabbed the surprised Nigel by the
shoulder and held a fist to Nigel’s face. “How the hell did you
know where her apartment was? Been here before, huh?”
“What’s
wrong with you, man?” Nigel protested, slapping the fist aside.
“Her Bug was parked in slot 20 and here we are at apartment 20.
You don’t need to be Einstein to figure that out.”
“What
the hell’s going on out here?” It was Sophie at her opened door.
“Nothing,”
said Guy, releasing Nigel’s shoulder. “We just have to talk.
Now.”
“Okay,”
agreed Sophie, sensing the confrontation that was long overdue.
“Come in.”
The
inside of Sophie’s apartment reminded Nigel of his grandmother’s
front room. There were antique odds and ends atop dozens of
hand-built wall shelves that were completely free of dust. Tiny
ceramic figures, from ballerinas to clowns, crowded the bookshelves
instead of books. The thick brown drapes were drawn and refused even
the slightest ray of any outside light into the room. On the mantel
over the unused fireplace sat rows of framed and unframed
photographs, mostly black and white shots of people she couldn’t
possibly know. These were second-hand store pictures she must have
found interesting enough to decorate her place. Over the photos, on
the wall, was the oil painting that Guy had had commissioned for
Sophie from a snapshot taken of her at Disneyland. She was posed in
front of The Mad Hatter’s Wild Ride. But not one of these
decorations jogged Nigel’s memory as he believed they might when he
circled the living room, gazing and touching items. In the back of
his mind he had hoped that there would be some reminder from five or
six years back, a gift he had given her, a photo with the three of
them together, anything to quell the throbbing that had started in
his head when he first entered Sophie’s apartment.
Still,
there was Sophie. She was six years older than Nigel and two years
younger than Guy. She was slim and pretty like those girls in the
Thirties movies. She seemed to Nigel like a child in the body of a
young woman with that balanced mix of innocence and experience. She
once told him that he too seemed like a grown-up trapped in a young
man’s body.
“How
long have you known Nigel, Sophie?” Guy asked coldly.
“Three
and a half months,” she answered back just as coldly. “Why? Is
today our anniversary or something?”
“Nigel
says that he’s known us, or at least you, for five or six years.”
Guy was struggling to control the anger that was giving edge to his
words. He took a deep breath before continuing. “Now, have you
been keeping something from me?”
She
gave Nigel a puzzled look. “Are you serious? I’ve only known
you for three and a half months. Are you okay?” She put her hand
to his forehead and jokingly felt for a fever.
Their
eyes met and locked for a moment.
Guy
slammed his fist against the coffee table, knocking over the ceramic
Humpty Dumpty figurine. It landed unbroken on the shag carpet.
“Just look at the two of you. You always find an excuse to paw at
each other, and then you end up staring into each other’s eyes.
What the hell am I supposed to think?”
Sophie
joined Guy on the sofa and cupped his fist in her caressing hands.
He pulled his hand away and picked up the figurine. “Remember when
I got this for you at Disneyland? That was our third date. I was a
freshman at Woodrow Wilson High, and you were a senior. You
remember?”
“Of
course I do,” she said with a smile at the memory. He picked up
quickly on her fascination with all things ceramic and won her over
with his many gifts, all of which she cherished and built her
collection upon.
“Tell
Nigel your memories of him,” he ordered her.
The
smile vanished from her lips. “I don’t think it’s a good
idea.”
“Tell
him what you told me the first time you met him,” he said slowly
with the hint of a threat between each pause. His fingers tightened
around Humpty’s large head.
“Nigel,”
Sophie said, standing for emphasis, “I remember you from before
three and a half months ago, more than five or six years ago even. I
remember playing with you when I was a little girl. It was you. You
got that scar on your cheek when you were six years old. You tripped
and landed face-down on a rock. I wept when the ambulance rushed you
to the hospital. You were all covered with blood. I was so glad to
see you when your Mom brought you home. You had six stitches on your
cheek. You let me touch them, and I kissed you there.
“When
we talked at your bookshop those months ago, you mentioned ‘The
Outer Limits’ and something clicked in my head. It didn’t fit
the pattern of memories I lived, and yet it triggered memories of a
life with you that I couldn’t have lived. It all seems so
dream-like. There are spaces in my memory where you aren’t there,
but you’re in all the rest. I know I only just met you, but you’re
a living part of my memory.”
Nigel
felt dizzy. He closed his eyes, and his mind raced to a black and
white television scene of bees attacking a woman, then the woman was
a little girl, and then the bees were attacking him. Nigel was a
little boy now, his skinny arms flailing at the hundreds of buzzing
attackers. He battered away dozens of the soldiers until only one
bee remained. It stood as tall as a man, upright and staring down at
the six-year-old Nigel. Its bristled black upper legs held a weapon
that resembled rusty metal larva. The insect gun hummed as its tip
opened. Leveling the glowing white tip at Nigel, the giant bee aimed
and fired a ray of plasma and light at Nigel.
He
opened his eyes, screaming.
###
It
was several minutes before Nigel was calm enough to answer any
questions. Sophie was crying the whole time. Guy, the stronger and
larger of the two men, managed to restrain the frantic Nigel as he
attempted to claw the flesh off his chest, ripping at his shirt and
popping off the buttons. There was a close moment, however, when
Nigel knocked Guy off balance. With Guy out of the way, Nigel dug
his fingernails into the soft tissue above his left breast. It was
Sophie who stopped him from causing any permanent damage by putting
her hands over his and looking him in the eyes. He became quiet and
contemplative. He glanced around as if he didn’t recognize his
surroundings. Sophie led him to the sofa and sat him down as Guy got
to his feet and seated himself on the coffee table.
“What
did you remember?” Sophie asked.
“I
have known you all of my life,” Nigel realized.
Guy
listened intently, his mind completely clear of the jealousy that had
hounded him earlier. This was a matter that had nothing to do with
love. It was now a mystery that needed to be explained, for his
girlfriend and friend were involved in it, and if he could just
understand enough of what was happening, he might be able to help.
“I
remember you living next door to me,” Nigel began.” We were no
more than six or seven years old. We were playing in the backyard
and saw the beehive hidden between the branches of the tree. It was
a strangely shaped hive. Rounder than the ones I had seen in the
cartoons. You threw a rock and hit it, and it made a clanging noise.
Then it started to hum and the bees came flying out in hundreds.
But they ignored us. In the cartoons the bees always chase the
people who disturb the hive. But these didn’t attack. The yellow
ones set up a defensive field of buzzing bees around the hive while
several black bees examined the spot where the rock had struck the
hive. Then a large white bee emerged from the hive and the black
bees flew to it and a high-pitched buzzing sounded as if they were
talking.
“Then
you picked up another rock, only bigger, and whipped it through the
wall of yellow guards, bouncing it off the hive once again. Again
the hive clanged. Again the bees ignored us, although the guard bees
doubled their number and increased their buzzing roar. The yellow
field was too thick to see what the white and black bees were doing.
I was too young to understand the danger we were in, but that growing
roar told my better instincts that it was time to leave. Suddenly,
all the bees flew back into the hive, and then the hive itself began
to glow. It looked like a football-shaped light bulb, except that
the bottom tip glared whiter and whiter and hummed louder and louder.
“You
picked up another rock, and as you aimed it, a white beam shot from
the humming tip of the hive and struck the rock. It shattered in
your hand. A rather large piece hit you on the right temple and
knocked you out. You dropped to the grassy ground. You looked like
you were asleep. I tried to wake you up, but you stayed asleep. I
got mad and picked up a rock. Even though something in my head kept
telling me to run, I readied the rock to strike the glowing white tip
of the hive. I threw the rock at the same time that another white
beam blasted away. It cut right through the rock and hit me on the
chest, and I could feel myself disintegrating,—no, more like
evaporating. I remember dying. They must have thought you were
already dead, ‘cause they left you alone.”
Sophie
stared down, trying hard to remember the hive. She looked up first
at Guy then at Nigel and said, “I remember being taken to the
hospital when I was a little girl. I was told that some little boy
named Benjamin had thrown a rock at me. But I knew that it was not
true. I asked about the little boy that I was playing with and I was
told that he ran away, but that he would come back soon. As time
went by, I often asked if the boy had returned, and one day I was
told that maybe he went to Heaven. All my life I waited for that
little boy to come back. I grew up thinking about where he was and
what he was doing. And when I met you, somehow I knew that you had
come back. But it can’t be you, can it? That little boy was about
my age. I’m six years older than you, Nigel.”
Guy
then said, “Maybe you heard about the disappearance of that little
boy when you were young and grew up thinking that you knew him.
That’s not an uncommon belief in a child. Some kids grow up
thinking they’re rich, and thinking back as adults, they realize
that their house wasn’t so big, and their Christmas tree wasn’t
all that tall, and their neighborhood wasn’t all that safe. You
may be coming to the realization now about your own life. You and
Nigel probably grew up with the story of that boy’s disappearance.
I mean, you both grew up around here. You had to be familiar with
the local folklore.”
Nigel
didn’t seem very convinced. He asked Sophie, “What was the name
of the family that lived next door to you?
“Rodriguez,”
she answered.
“See,”
said Guy, “your name is Conners, and you can’t tell me you can
confuse a Conners with a Rodriguez.”
“Do
they still live there?” Nigel asked Sophie, ignoring Guy.
“Yes,
after my parents passed away a few years ago, I oversaw the sale of
our house and visited Mrs. Rodriguez to ask about news of her missing
son. She refused to discuss it. Her husband was never the same
after the boy’s disappearance. He went in search of his son,
abandoning his wife and second son. An
auto accident took
his life, according to the Real Estate agent.”
“How
old is the other son?” Nigel wanted to know.
“He’s
several years younger than me, so that would make him around
twenty-five or twenty-six,” Sophie said.
“That
would make him about a year older than me, give or take a year,”
Nigel figured. “He would have been a toddler when his brother
disappeared.”
“A
brother he never got to know,” Guy added.
“We
have to go see them,” Nigel insisted and rose to his feet.
“That
old woman lost her son and husband,” Guy reminded him. “She
doesn’t need any more misery.”
“Show
me where they live,” Nigel requested of Sophie.
“Let
me get my sweater,” she said.
###
Nigel
knocked on the door harder than he wanted to. The young man who
answered seemed upset at the unnecessarily loud knocking. “What’s
your problem?” he challenged Nigel when he opened the door. Then
he saw Nigel and his anger dissipated. Nigel opened the screen door
and walked in, passing the unresisting and confused young man.
Sophie and Guy trailed right behind him.
“It’s
the same, Nigel said to the walls. And the three people who followed
him into the living room appeared curious at the words. “Through
that door is the kitchen. Down that hallway on the right is the
master bedroom. On the left is the bathroom. Down this hallway are
two rooms. One was a bedroom for two children, a six-year-old and a
two-year-old; the other was the sewing room. Behind that door there
is a walk-in closet full of photos and old clothes.”
Nigel
stepped into the kitchen with the others close behind, hypnotically
lured by his confident demeanor in the house. “Behind that door,”
he said, pointing with both hands, “is the backyard. I believe it
is time for me to go outside and stir the bees.”
Before
he could exit the back door, Mrs. Rodriguez entered the kitchen with
a bag of groceries. “Who are your friends, Ernesto?” she asked
her son. But he was strangely unresponsive. So she set the bag down
to introduce herself to the visitors. She shook hands with Guy
first, then Sophie, and upon reaching Nigel, she froze. “Benny?”
she wondered.
“Benny,”
Sophie echoed the harsh recognition of the name, “not Benjamin.”
And
before Nigel could say ‘Mother,’ Mrs. Rodriguez fainted dead
away.
###
Guy
and Ernesto carried Mrs. Rodriguez to the sofa in the front room.
Ernesto didn’t allow Nigel to help. Once the old woman was resting
quietly, Ernesto asked Nigel, “Who the hell are you?”
They
looked at each other with the same sense of recognition. “I am
your brother,” Nigel answered.
“I
don’t have any brothers,” countered the defensive Ernesto. “My
older brother died when he was six years old.”
“Yes,
I died when I was six, but here I am again. I am Benjamin Rodriguez,
named for my father. My father’s brother’s name was Ernesto, who
you’re named for. He died of Tuberculosis when he was nineteen.
Surely Father must have told you.” Nigel stared into the confused
face of the young Ernesto, waiting for a response.
“You
don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “If you were
Benjamin, you’d be five years older than me. You look like you’re
my age.”
“I
don’t have all the answers,” Nigel sighed. “That’s why I had
to come back, to find out why I was killed and yet I live. I know
that you know in your heart that I’m your brother. Just as I know
that this was our next-door neighbor, the little girl who stirred up
the nest of bees. It is time for me to face the white little buzzer
who cheated me out of being a Rodriguez.”
Nigel
exited the back door, followed by Guy and Sophie.
Ernesto
made the sign of the cross.
###
Mrs.
Rodriguez awoke as if from a pleasant dream. “I saw your father in
my dream,” she told Ernesto. “He found little Benny and brought
him home. He brought home your big brother.”
“Benny’s
in the backyard, Ma,” he said. “Should I go get him?”
She
grabbed a hold of his arm. “No, stay with me. He’ll be back,”
she said and held her crucifix firmly.
###
The
backyard was dead. The plants, the grass, the shrubs, the weeds—all
dead. The soil was also dead, and so were the earthworms that once
thrived in it. The great Oak tree that shaded nearly the entire yard
now stood bare-branched and grey like petrified stone. The trio of
friends approached the tree cautiously, glancing slowly up, searching
for the hive.
“There
it is,” Sophie said, pointing at the metallic football. “After
all this time, it’s still there.”
“That’s
no beehive,” Guy warned them.
“Whatever
it is, let’s wake it up,” suggested Nigel. “Do you remember
how I used to hold your hand all the time? I had a crush on you.”
“I
only remember my liking you to hold it,” admitted Sophie while Guy
remained transfixed by the metal hive.
And
the old friends held hands.
“It’s
doing something,” said a startled Guy.
It
had started to hum. Then the lower tip of the hive began to glow.
“It’s glowing like it did back then,” Nigel said. “It seems
to know we’re here. Maybe you two should go back inside. It only
owes me an explanation.”
“That’s
where you’re wrong, Benny,” said the teary-eyed little girl
standing next to him as a grown woman. “You mean ‘owes us.’”
They
looked over to Guy. “I’m staying too,” he said.
Two
small squares on the hive slid aside and the white bee emerged to
inspect the three humans paying an unexpected visit.
Nigel
picked up a rock and aimed it at the hive. Sophie released Nigel’s
hand and snatched the rock away. “I believe that’s my job,”
she said, a beautiful smile across her lips.
The
white bee ordered his troops to take an offensive position. The glow
at the base of the hive pulsed as if white-hot. An aperture
appeared. The hum was high-pitched like a shriek. Fire, the white
bee ordered. The beam of plasma death shot at Sophie. Guy yanked
her toward him just as the blast singed her sweater and plowed an
eight-foot path along the ground behind them. Guy saw the second
beam coming at them. He shielded Sophie and the plasma ray struck
him. His nerves imploded as his body at the molecular level melted
to ash. The pile of dust in human form fell across Sophie, who
swallowed some of the acidic ash. Coughing, she brushed Guy’s
remains from her clothes and face.
As
the white bee considered the next target, Nigel yelled, “Why did
you kill me? How did I return?”
“Benny,
get out of here,” Sophie cried.
“Not
until I have some answers,” he responded.
The
white bee flew at him and Nigel ducked. It buzzed by him once more
and then positioned itself by the plasma blaster. The shriek
increased a pitch and the tree shook violently. Sophie yelled at
Nigel to run, but he stood his ground and pointed an accusing finger
at the white bee. “You owe me an explanation.”
Then
several more white bees flew out of the hive and joined the white bee
by the blaster. As they conferred, Sophie went to Nigel’s side and
took his hand in hers. “What are they?” she asked.
“The
ones with all the answers,” Nigel grinned.
The
conference ended and the white bees approached the pair of humans,
halting to hover before them. The large white bee slipped off its
phony insect legs to reveal tiny human looking arms. The hands on
these arms removed the phony insect head and wings, revealing a
jet-pack contraption keeping him aloft and human-like head resembling
an insect’s version of what a human would look like. Tiny though
the phony insect was, its voice was loud and clear. “You are
returned. No more must you be. We are watch beings. We experiment.
We practice your DNA. Now is no time. You must be uncreated once
again. Not like the gone one there and there," it said, nodding
toward Guy’s ashes. “Time for our work to perfect. Time too
many yesterdays to aim home. You again must not interfere. Kill
time past. The white light is too blue. Now we uncreate you.
Return not too soon or kill. Or hope home we are at your next
arrival. Now again have explanation.”
The
white leader donned his bee disguise and flew back into the square
opening followed by the others. The doors slid shut. The shrieking
pitch elevated as the white pulsing plasma light turned thick blue.
Then the blue beam struck Nigel full on the chest. Sophie embraced
him and she too was engulfed by the ray. They melted to form two
molecular eggs.
“Sorry
you hurt,” said the white leader as it watched the uncreation on
the viewing section of the floor. It then signaled two black bees to
complete the task.
The
black bees had prepared the appropriate equipment as they had done
several times over the past twenty years. And even though they
thought it was a waste of time, they knew the experiment must be
completed before they could go home. Each time their vessel was
damaged by these creatures, the more marooned they felt. If the
almighty White One permitted it, this would be the last uncreation.
The
eggs were inserted into the temp-boxes, and each black bee carried a
box for miles and miles in search of a molecular match. One egg was
injected into the bloodstream of a young mother of two, the other
into an older single woman who recently split up with her boyfriend.
The bees returned home to report the success of their mission. The
white leader bee ignored the news and watched intently at the floor
monitor where the human house creature was hosing away the pile of
dust in the back yard.
###
Jennifer
hated moving around the city so much, from high school to high
school, like a gypsy. It was just that Mom couldn’t stay in one
place for too long. Maybe if there were a steady man in her life she
could settle down, Jenny thought. Well, at least, Jenny found it
easy making new friends. She had enough practice. Right away she
noticed the shy-looking boy eating lunch by himself everyday. He was
cute in a strange kind of way. He was reading a book by Richard
Matheson called “Shock.” It was one of her favorites. She went
over and sat next to the blushing boy.
“I
read that book,” she told him.
“Really?”
he asked rhetorically, impressed that a girl read the good stuff.
“Sure,
I like all that horror and fantasy stuff,” she bragged. And even
though a nagging little voice in her head told her not to, something
stronger than her bad memories and bad dreams took hold and tugged
the words to her lips:
“Do
you like ‘The Outer Limits’?”
