Free In Springdale Town by Robert Freeman Wexler Page A

where Sammy stirred something in a pot on the stove.
    I pulled back, not wanting her to see me. I couldn’t talk to her, not after.... How could she be cooking dinner as though nothing had happened? I crossed to the front door and turned the glass knob carefully, opened it just enough to squeeze my body through, and escaped into the evening air.
    The area was familiar; Sammy had one of the houses overlooking the town. It would take me at least ten minutes to reach the bed and breakfast. As I walked, I kept expecting her to come after me. At the corner I turned onto the street leading down to the town. The train station was between me and the bed and breakfast. I looked at my watch, which showed ten minutes past eight. There was an 8:50 train. By midnight, I could be back in the city, in my own bed.
    I increased my pace, letting the slope pull me. I had no time to explain the situation to the proprietor of the bed and breakfast–what would I say?–or to retrieve my suitcase. I had only packed for a couple of days anyway. I could leave it. But I needed to pop out these damn contact lenses.
    Life on the street appeared serene, but in the faces of those who passed, I sensed knowledge of the events that had transpired in that funhouse, or whatever it was. These people...this town...repelled me. I wondered what would happen if that tall policewoman, Officer Mercurio, saw me. Or Scooter, that comical name I had once applied, now preposterous. A sense of unreality clothed the air. I couldn’t bury the feeling that I was escaping something–that if I had stayed with Sammy, eaten dinner, gone to bed with her after, I would have trapped myself in this town forever.
    By the time I got to the train station I still had fifteen or so minutes. I bought a ticket from the machine and went back out. I wanted to run, but I had to stay calm. Best not to be noticed. The bed and breakfast wasn’t far. The foyer was empty. I heard voices off to the left, in the lounge. My room was at the top of the stairs. I fetched what I needed and returned to the street in less than a minute.
    ~
    By the tracks, I stood watching the steps up to the platform, obsessing on the notion that I would soon view, emerging from the top of the stairs, first the heads of Scooter or Officer Mercurio, then the rest of their bodies as they climbed each step, propelling them toward me to prevent my escape.
    Only one other passenger waited, a man in a dark suit standing near the tracks. My position, without the anonymity of a crowd, exposed me to too much scrutiny. I walked farther down the tracks, selecting a bench hidden by an overhanging shadow, and I waited.
    When the train came, it brought the relief of knowing I would soon be home. I boarded, choosing a seat in the car opposite the steps. A jolt of dizziness shook me, and I slumped forward. That room, what I had done there–it all returned to me, and I watched, a flash of memory so real I felt that I was there again, though apart from myself. The shot, and that man–my doppelganger–the impact of the bullet with his head. His body twitched, rose a few inches, then settled. A glow seeped from him, pinkish like the breathable jelly, and the glow conformed to his features, aped the contours of his body. Where the head had been, the luminescence formed a replacement, solidified, then began to contract, shrinking and taking the body with it until nothing remained but a pink silhouette on the sheets. Then it too faded.
    I stared out the train window, trying to see beyond the dark platform, to the town, to the maple trees and peaceful streets, Sammy’s house. My fingers cramped, and my right arm spasmed. I relaxed my hand–I had been clutching my contact lens case. The raised L and R indented my palm. I unscrewed the caps and popped my lenses out, relieving my tired, gritty eyes, and with my glasses on, I resumed my vigil.
    By now, Sammy would have noticed my absence. What was her role in this? She had given me some crap