Nightmare at 20,000 Feet

“What’ll it take to convince you, damn it?” Morton said. “Do you have to lose your life first?”

“Look,” Chris said pettishly. “I don’t believe it. That’s it. Forget it now, let it go.”

“Listen, Chris, I can show you…”

“You can show me nothing!” Chris cut in.

Morton was patient. “It’s a recognized phenomenon,” he said.

Chris looked at him in disgust and shook his head.

“What dreams you white frocked kiddies have in the sanctified cloister of your laboratories. You can make yourself believe anything after a while. As long as you can make up a measurement for it.”

“Will you listen to me, Chris? How many times have you complained to me about splinters, about closet doors flying open, about rugs slipping? How many times?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t start that again. I’ll get up and walk out of here. I’m in no mood for your lectures. Save them for those poor idiots who pay tuition to hear them.”

Morton looked at him with a shake of his head.

“I wish I could get to you,” he said.

“Forget it.”

“Forget it?” Morton squirmed. “Can’t you see that you’re in danger because of your temper?”

“I’m telling you, John…”

“Where do you think that temper of yours goes? Do you think it disappears? No. It doesn’t. It goes into your rooms and into your furniture and into the air. It goes into Sally. It makes everything sick; including you. It crowds you out. It welds a link between animate and inanimate. Psychobolie. Oh, don’t look so petulant; like a child who can’t stand to hear the word spinach. Sit down, for God’s sake. You’re an adult; listen like one.”

Chris lit a cigarette. He let Morton’s voice drift into a non-intelligent hum. He glanced at the wall clock. Quarter to twelve. In two minutes, if the schedule was adhered to, she would be going. The train would move and the town of Fort would pass away from her.

“I’ve told you any number of times,” Morton was saying. “No one knows what matter is made of. Atoms, electrons, pure energy—all words. Who knows where it will end? We guess, we theorize, we make up means of measurement. But we don’t know.

“And that’s for matter. Think of the human brain and its still unknown capacities. It’s an uncharted continent, Chris. It may stay that way for a long time. And all that time the suspected powers will still be affecting us and, maybe, affecting matter, even if we can’t measure it on a gauge.

“And I say you’re poisoning your house. I say your temper has become ingrained in the structure, in every article you touch. All of them influenced by you and your ungovernable rages. And I think too that if it weren’t for Sally’s presence acting as an abortive factor, well… you might actually be attacked by…”

Chris heard the last few sentences.

“Oh, stop this gibberish!” he snapped angrily. “You’re talking like a juvenile after his first Tom Swift novel.”

Morton sighed. He ran his fingers over the cup edge and shook his head sadly.

“Well,” he said, “all I can do is hope that nothing breaks down. It’s obvious to me that you’re not going to listen.”

“Congratulations on one statement I can agree with,” said Chris. He looked at his watch. “And now if you’ll excuse me I’ll go and listen to saddle-shoed cretins stumble over passages they haven’t the slightest ability to assimilate.”

They got up.

“I’ll take it,” said Morton but Chris slapped a coin on the counter and walked out. Morton followed, putting his change into his pocket slowly.

In the street he patted Chris on the shoulder.

“Try to take it easy,” he said. “Look, why don’t you and Sally come out to the house tonight? We could have a few rounds of bridge.”

“That’s impossible,” Chris said.

The students were reading a selection from King Lear. Their heads were bent over the books. He stared at them without seeing them.

I’ve got to resign myself to it, he told himself. I’ve got to forget her, that’s all. She’s gone. I’m not going to bewail the fact. I’m not going to hope against hope that she’ll return. I don’t want her back. I’m better off without her. Free and unfettered now.

His thoughts drained off. He felt empty and helpless. He felt as though he could never write another word for the rest of his life. Maybe, he thought, sullenly displeased with the idea, maybe it was only the upset of her leaving that enabled my brain to find words. For, after all, the words I thought of, the ideas that nourished, though briefly, were all to do with her—her going and my wretchedness because of it.

He caught himself short. No!—he cried in silent battle. I will not let it be that way. I’m strong. This feeling is only temporary, I’ll very soon have learned to do without her. And then I’ll do work. Such work as I have only dreamed of doing. After all, haven’t I lived eighteen years more? Haven’t those years filled me to overflowing with sights and sounds, ideals, impressions, interpretations?

He trembled with excitement.

Someone was waving a hand in his face. He focused his eyes and looked coldly at the girl.

“Well?” he said.

“Could you tell us when you’re going to give back our midterm papers, Professor Neal?” she asked.

He stared at her, his right cheek twitching. He felt about to hurl every invective at his command into her face. His fists closed.

“You’ll get them back when they’re marked,” he said tensely.

“Yes, but…”

“You heard me,” he said.

His voice rose at the end of the sentence. The girl sat down.

As he lowered his head he noticed that she looked at the boy next to her and shrugged her shoulders, a look of disgust on her face.

“Miss…”

He fumbled with his record book and found her name.

“Miss Forbes!”

She looked up, her features drained of colour, her red lips standing out sharply against her white skin. Painted alabaster idiot. The words clawed at him.

“You may get out of this room,” he ordered sharply.

Confusion filled her face.

“Why?” she asked in a thin, plaintive voice.

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me,” he said, the fury rising. “I said get out of this room!”

“But…”

“Do you hear me!” he shouted.

Hurriedly she collected her books, her hands shaking, her face burning with embarrassment. She kept her eyes on the floor and her throat moved convulsively as she edged along the aisle and went out the doorway.

The door closed behind her. He sank back. He felt a terrible sickness in himself. Now, he thought, they will all turn against me in defence of an addle-witted little girl. Dr. Ramsay would have more fuel for his simple little fire.

And they were right.

He couldn’t keep his mind from it. They were right. He knew it. In that far recess of mind which he could not cow with thoughtless passion, he knew he was a stupid fool. I have no right to teach others. I cannot even teach myself to be a human being. He wanted to cry out the words and weep confessions and throw himself from one of the open windows.

“The whispering will stop!” he demanded fiercely.

The room was quiet. He sat tensely, waiting for any signs of militance. I am your teacher, he told himself, I