Early Warning

PRECHTER DID INDEED have a theory, and it was interesting enough. When Frank floated the name “James Upjohn” in the air around them, Prechter turned toward it like a sunflower toward the sun. Prechter seemed to be rich, but that was not the point — the point was to be right. Frank apologetically recorded their conversation for “Mr. Upjohn, who can’t make it because of the press of business,” but there was no need to apologize: Prechter waxed all the more emphatic and eloquent at the thought of explaining himself to such a deity. Frank said that Mr. Upjohn would be getting in touch, he was sure. Or he was unsure. Prechter had that look when they shook hands goodbye of being stretched on a rack of longing, his goal within sight but out of reach.

Otherwise, Frank nodded to a few men he recognized, ate lunch, eavesdropped, did his best to breathe and not fall asleep. One man was sure that the Dow would hit 2,000 by Christmas (Frank had heard that one before). Another man had heard Maggie Thatcher supported apartheid in South Africa, to which the man across the table from him replied, “Well, you know, the old dear is sending help to Pol Pot, though she would deny it unequivocally.”

“She’s not the only one,” said someone else. Because of the time change, Frank fell asleep in his room at eight-thirty and was up by four. At dawn, he left the Jerome and turned left. Aspen reminded him oddly of Iowa — maybe it was the wide streets and short buildings — he half expected to see a grain elevator over his shoulder. Even this early, the sunlight was getting ready to be brilliant. It was September 24th, wasn’t it? Lillian would have been sixty today. He reminded himself to call Arthur when he got back to the hotel. He stared at his reflection for a moment in the window of a café that was already open, saw kids — hikers, it looked like — lined up at the counter, pointing to the menu overhead, or else sitting in their boots, equipment piled beside them, their hands arced around large yellow cups. When a girl passed him, grabbed the door, opened it, and entered, Frank could smell vanilla, chocolate, and butter. His reflection looked metallic, as if his skin were flaking away to reveal the tin man beneath. He had lost ten pounds in the last year, though his doctor said he was in perfect health. The weight loss seemed to enlarge his hands in an unpleasant way. He looked at them and put them behind his back. When he looked through the window again, his eyes had adjusted. Looking through the window was like looking through binoculars, and what he saw, across the room, standing, kissing a girlfriend on her red hair, and then going for another cup of coffee, was himself.

He shaded his eyes, leaned forward. The kid was in his early twenties, blond, broad-shouldered, over six feet. He had teeth, and he showed them — his smile for the waitress was merry, triangular, almost heart-shaped. His eyes were no doubt blue, though Frank couldn’t tell that from where he was. The real resemblance was in his walk as he went back to his table, the shape of his hips, the tilt of his torso, and, oddly, the shape of his head. Frank could see his uncle Rolf, but cheerful rather than dogged. Frank turned away and went back across the street. He stood quietly, telling himself that he was getting some air, whatever air there was to get, but really, he was waiting, and when the kid and the redheaded girlfriend exited the café and headed down the block, Frank, on his side of the street, followed them. Lydia, his long-vanished mistress, must have produced a child. Perhaps that was why she had vanished. She had vanished in ’65, which could be right for the age of this kid, but he’d thought she was his own age, so she’d have given birth in her mid-to-late forties. Possible? Not possible? Frank wasn’t sure, but he found himself, as he watched them from the other side of the street, doing a thing that he always did, gauging the value of the girlfriend. This one was bulky but strong, carrying a backpack; her legs in her shorts were postlike and sturdy. Her hair was piled on her head. It fell out of its clip once, and flopped forward. She coiled it up without thinking about it, still talking. She was good enough, in her way.