Rapture

At lunchtime the next day, Jeff went out and bought a jogging suit. It was gray, with maroon trim. He also picked up an expensive pair of running shoes. He had no intention of taking up jogging, but when he got home that evening and tried on the outfit, he was surprised by how comfortable it felt. He could picture himself lounging around the house in it.

Jeff went nowhere that weekend. He stayed indoors, smoking, drinking, and staring vacantly at the television. Occasionally he nibbled a piece of fruit or a raw vegetable. He slept in his underwear and didn't bother to shave. He never turned on a light, and he kept the drapes drawn. Because he'd switched the air conditioner off, his rooms were not merely hot, but stifling. He stayed away from the bath and shower, didn't brush his teeth or even splash cold water on his face. He sat in the dark or wandered from one room to another. He seemed to be sweating all the time, but it wasn't just from the heat and it certainly wasn't due to anxiety. He thought of it as a kind of purification, as if his body were literally and physically exorcising a deadness within itself. This ritual was a rebirth, and if he'd been able to shed his skin, he would have done so proudly.

All he'd have had to do to make a plane reservation was pick up the telephone and dial one of the airlines, but as early as Friday night Jeff knew he wasn't going anywhere. Not that weekend. It wasn't hesitation born of fear. He knew the difference now. He was a man who had come a long way over a great period of time, and this was nothing more than a final pause, a last check, to be sure he knew what he wanted to do. Once it began, there would be no going back.

And he was right, as it turned out. Over the course of the weekend, he gradually came to the conclusion that July was too early. He'd have to wait a little longer, at least until sometime in August, before he went back to Connecticut to see Georgianne again. Yes, he decided, the first half of August would be right.

Jeff woke early on Monday morning. He drew back the drapes, opened every window, and cleaned the rooms. After a long shower, a shave, and scrubbing his teeth, he put on his favorite shirt, tie, and suit, and his best pair of shoes. He felt terrific. At the office, when Ted and Callie asked him how the hike had gone, he smiled and answered ambiguously, and they smiled back at him but didn't press for details. He looked dapper and perky, and that was good enough for them.

The days ticked by with an almost sensual rhythm that gave Jeff great pleasure. He was a sleepwalker who had finally been awakened, a zombie restored miraculously to life, and now that he was learning how to live again, the simplest things were astonishingly delicious to him-the morning air, the play of light at dusk, the buzz of an insect, or the sensation of speed when he accelerated sharply on the freeway. Even if none of his plans worked out, he had gained this much, thanks to Georgianne.

He blocked out the second weekend in August. It might not be necessary, but he felt he should cover his bases with Ted and Callie. It would be a long weekend. He finished work on Thursday evening and flew out of Los Angeles early Friday morning, paying cash for his ticket and traveling as Philip Headley. At La Guardia he had to show the phony driver's license for the first time, when he hired a car-from a different rental agency than the one he had used on his trip in May. He felt a slight tingle of nervousness, but there was no trouble with the license.

He drove to Bridgeport and parked the car in a downtown municipal lot, telling the attendant it would be there for one or two nights. Carrying one light suitcase, he walked around the center of the city until he found another car-hire outfit, from which he rented another vehicle, which had Connecticut plates.

It's like a game, he thought as he drove out of Bridgeport-the secret transcontinental mission, the false identity, paying cash all the way-all slightly unreal, but with nothing less than real love at stake. If he failed, would it be Philip Headley's failure? Would he be able to return home and go back to living as Jeff Lisker? Well, yes, but never again as the old Jeff Lisker. He was dead, for sure. No matter what happened, the new life would not be aborted. Besides, he had various fall-back positions....

The run from Bridgeport to Danbury was not a great distance, but it was all country road. Jeff reached the outskirts of the city sometime after six in the evening. He got a room at the first motel he came across, the Brook Green, apparently named after the trickle of water out back and the golf course beyond it.