Amnesia in Autumn

It could be Rhode Island. Or Montana. I didn't know where I was. But I was standing atop a high hill, a steep road descending down, trees, orange and red, on either side. It was about noon, bright, and next to me was a solitary building, one-story, cement, the color of coffee ice cream, blinds tight, blocking any view into the windows. It was inviting so I tried the door. It was locked, so I walked down the hill. I didn't know where I was, or who I was, let alone how I got here. It was as if I began about a minute ago. I reached into a sport coat pocket, withdrew a wallet. It had a Diners Club card and some bills adding to 23 dollars. The card said I was James Engels, assuming this was, indeed, my wallet. A safe assumption, I went with it.

At the bottom of the hill I crossed a short trestle bridge, looked down at the black creek and my wavy reflection, and entered a small town. I found a corner grocer, bought a loaf of Pepperidge Farm, a jar of Skippy, a jar of Welch's, a roll of wax paper, a butter knife, and a pint of milk. With my bag of groceries I beat feet to a tiny park, settled at the picnic table, made a batch of PBJ sandwiches. Famished, I ate three of them, with milk, and wrapped the rest, individually, in wax paper, put them in the brown paper bag, rose, tossed the empty milk container in the trash can, and went to look for a place to stay while I tried to sort things out, to sift through, well, nothing. Or close enough to nothing for discomfort. I found a small hotel, the Randolph, on a side street, Elm, booked a night, and was grateful when my card was accepted. Whoever James Engels is, his credit is good.

In my room, I opened the window and let October brisk whisk away stuffiness.

An envelope was slipped under the door. I opened the door to see a slim young woman, Oriental–Japanese, I'd say, from my time in Tokyo. She looked at me, blankly, inscrutable, and walked away. "Hey! Stop! What is this? Who are you?" Saying this, I picked up the envelope.

"No speak Ing-grish. No speak," she said over her shoulder while hustling around a corner and down the stairs. I opened the envelope. There was a $100 bill in it!

I raced after her. "Hey! Please, tell me, who sent you?"

Standing in the stairwell, she opened her trench coat to reveal her complete nakedness, and murmured, "Come here, big boy. Kiss-kiss mamasan..."

I did, only to be kneed, good and hard, in the groin. Her mouth was a little weak, but her knee was rock solid.

I stumbled back to my room and lay on the bed, groaning. "Little witch!"

In the morning I found a Rexall, bought a razor and a can of Barbasol, deodorant, and a flight bag. Back in my room, I shaved, soaked a long while in a tub of hot water, dressed, packed all of my little collection of stuff, including sandwiches, in the flight bag and hit the street looking for... I had no idea what. It was about 10, and if nothing else, sunny and mild. And I was well-rested, clean as a whistle. Thank God for the little things. Sometimes they mean a lot, they really do. You work with what you've got.

I strolled along an empty Main Street. Passing a phone booth, I heard the phone ring. Out of curiosity, I picked up. A voice I knew—I could see the man's face, but could not place a name—said, "Hiya, Jim. Keep going down Main, when you get to Maple, take a left and follow it to the edge of town. There you'll find an abandoned house. You can stay there." Click, bzzz…

Not knowing what else to do, I followed his instructions. The house was a weather-beaten Victorian surrounded by thorny overgrown acreage. I went up the steps to find the door locked, but when I tried the back door, it opened—with a decided creak. Inside was musty. I placed my bag atop a kitchen table and nosed around, headed upstairs. There were furnished bedrooms, framed photogravures on walls. Dusty? Most assuredly. It was as if a family in 1890 had simply up and left, taking only the clothes on their collective back. In a bathroom, on the sink, was a soap dish with a dried-out bar of Ivory. Closets were full of long dresses and suits and high-button shoes. An ornate jewelry box revealed a string of pearls, a silver ring clutching an emerald, broaches, a cameo. I went back downstairs to the kitchen. At the sink was a hand pump. I tried it a few times. Eventually water, albeit rusty, sprang forth. After a few more tries the water ran clean. I could see, through the kitchen window, a small windmill. Okay, I had water. No electricity, of course, but water.

Other than being old, the house was in fine repair, it seemed. No vandalism, or natural cataclysms. And on closer inspection upstairs, it was apparent that the roof didn't leak. So far, so good.

I guess this is home. At least for now. From a bookshelf I selected a volume by Jules Verne, blew dust off it, sat in what must've been Papa's chair, commenced reading. What else was there to do?

I couldn't focus on the novel for very long. And frankly, there was a lot else to do if this was to be home. So I did housecleaning for an hour or two, just a dent in what was needed.

Around dinner time I wandered back to town, located a diner and ordered a steak, mashed potatoes, green beans and a cup of coffee. The waitress was swell, a real looker. Under different circumstances, I'd hazard a stab at making time with her. In the background a phone rang. A moment later, the short order chef stepped out and hollered, "Jim Engels! Is there a Jim Engels here?"

"Wha'? That's me!" I was surprised, yet not surprised.

It was that voice again. "Hiya, Jim! I hope you're enjoying your dinner. And ya know what? Be a little bold. Ask that waitress for a ride home. It's her quitting time." Click, bzzz…

When she handed me the check I said, "I'm... I'm, well, new to town, I guess. Could I trouble you for a ride home, if'n it's your quitting time?"

"It is! And, well, why not? We're neighborly here in Trottsville! Meet ya in the lot."

I drank the rest of my coffee, settled up at the register and stepped into the evening. She waved to me standing next to an MG, top down. She wore a madras shift. "My name's Bonnie! Bonnie Fairchild. What's yours?"

"Jim. Jim Engels."

"Where are ya from, Jim?" We motored down Main, twilight, lights coming on here and there, glowing in the eventide.

"Gosh," I said. "Doncha just love this time of day? It's neither here nor there. And this time of year? Autumn. No longer summer with its brutal heat and humidity. And not winter, fierce and unforgiving, cold as a, as a... Well, really cold, y'know?"

"Agree! It's just right. Say, where's your place?"

I gave her the directions, and rambled on about October. "It's crisp and clear, all is in focus. But at the same time, all is slipping away. It makes me feel, I dunno... I guess melancholy is the word." We pulled up to my humble abode.

"You live here!"

"Well, yes..."

"The old Randall place is abandoned."

"It was. Until now."

“When we were kids, we thought it was haunted. I've never been inside..."

"C'mon in. I'll show you around."

"Phew! This place could use a good vacuuming!"

"I just got here. Today, as a point of fact. I shook out the bedding and dragged a broom around, but I have my work cut out for me."

"Huh! How much did this place cost—if you'll excuse me for being so forward! Gosh, I'm sorry! You don't have to answer that. It's none of my business. Gee, I hardly even know you."

"I hardly even know me," I thought, but said, "That's okay! I think we're going to be good friends. Anyhoo, it was pretty darn cheap. A giveaway, you could say."

What did I know about me? I guess I knew my name. I recall flashes of Tokyo, bustling and crazy. I get phone calls from the void from someone I know from somewhere. And standing before me is a gorgeous brunette, so gorgeous that I could jump out of my skin. "Tell me more about yourself, Bonnie." I smiled, my very best Sunday smile.

"Some other time. I should be going. Why don't you ask me to dinner, Jim? Say, Gino's? Saturday? We can get better acquainted over dinner and cocktails."

It was dark now. The MG's taillights, drawing away, bright red.