The Visitor

I knew, and I mean knew, that it had happened. It did take place. I was not dreaming, I was not on drugs. He visited me. He, my long lost brother in arms. Across centuries, across galaxies, here, now. On that beach. It was him, I had no doubts. Now, to convince Walter about that.



—



The room was small and stuffy and he had now sat so still and said nothing for so long that I wondered whether he was still awake.

He was though. I could see his eyes, and they were open. Open and resting on his hands, on his hairless hands one on top of the other, in turn resting on the cluttered table. He could have been inspecting them, could have been figuring something out about them, or pondering on what to say next; it was anybody's guess.

Then, after another warm while, he finally looked up from his musing or inspection, found me again and smiled, though I believe mainly to himself. Then he shook his head slowly and said—with emphasis on I: "I think." Then he tapped his temple with his index finger. "I think that this all took place up here. I think you imagined it."

Then, after another brief silence, he added, "You've always had a vivid imagination."

When I still didn't answer him, he said, "Come on, Samuel. You don't really think this could have happened, do you? That it…," but there he stopped, as if struck by another thought, too important to pass up.

He always called me Samuel, never Sam, like the rest of the world.

His right hand had returned from its temple-tapping and re-covered its mate. And they were hair-less, his hands. I had often noticed that before and now I noticed it again. Odd. They almost shone. He still smiled, and still to himself more than to me, as he studied me over the rim of his glasses, apparently done talking after all, waiting for my response.

I shook my head, wasn't really sure what to say. I had thought, or at the least had hoped that he would believe me. I looked away, at the curtained window, and as I did I heard him draw a long, audible lungful of air. "What you have to realize, Samuel, is that sometimes, even though you think you see or feel something, it's not necessarily the case. It may be, and in this case it most certainly has to be, some chemical or other playing tricks with your brain."

Turning back I saw him give me another long, searching look before he summed up, "I'd hate to disappoint you, but there has to be some biological, some chemical explanation. There has to be."

:

He had moved since I saw him last. Prior to that, for as long as I had known him, he had either lived with his aunt on 2nd Street or in that warm little room he had rented from Mrs. Finch on Lake. Now he had his own place. I think they call them studio apartments, or is it bachelor pads, or bachelor apartments? Not sure, but this, too, was small, and warm. This, too, struck me as a den of sorts.

And it was almost as badly lighted as his room on Lake. His drawn curtains kept the day out and the only sources of light were the cold fluorescent over the kitchen counter timidly spilling into the room and the reading light by the table which was still highlighting his hands. The rest of the apartment lay in shadow and smelled of a day or two of not much cleaning up.

:

Yes, I had hoped that he would believe me. I really had. But he didn't. Not even a little.

"I know what you're saying," I said at length, "and there's a part of me who wouldn't mind it so much if you were right, it would make things so much simpler. But this took place, Walter. It was too real to have been an illusion. It was not some sort of biological aberration. It wasn't. The thing is I know, I mean k-n-o-w. This happened."

He was watching me more closely now, as if appraising me. I studied him back. I knew those eyes very well. Light blue, although hard to determine through his glasses in this light.

Light blue and slightly mocking. That was Walter Abbot.