Mermaids on the Golf Course by Patricia Highsmith Page B

he had Freddy to deal with, and Freddy was trying to hold his arms. Simon kicked with his knee—ineffectively—got his right arm free and swung at Freddy’s chin. Simon dashed again for the gorge.
    He was aware of a sharp and long-drawn-out pain, on his head, against his ribs.
    His next sensation came through his ears. He imagined that he heard a chorus, though the tune was not discernible. Simon knew he had just passed through a crisis. What kind of crisis? Death. He was dead. Vaguely he recalled that he had wished to die. Where? No matter. So there was a consciousness after death then, not pleasant or unpleasant, and very hazy now, but clarity would come, if he tried for it. Human voices. And what were they speaking? Maybe a strange language that he would have to learn. He imagined that his eyes saw something, and that the color was gray with some pink in it.
    “Hello, Simon . . .”
    “Simon . . .” said another voice.
    “The second time . . .”
    Simon could not move his arms. His feet also refused to move, or his knees to bend. He thought he was lying flat on his back. Shadow turned into images of human figures. A voice murmured in German. A thin man with a black mustache and white shirt bent over him, thrust a needle into Simon’s left thigh or hip, but Simon felt nothing. It was Chris’s house again. Or was it another world that merely looked like Chris’s house?
    “You’re okay, Simon. You’ll be all right.” This was Carl bending over Simon.
    Simon realized that he was again on the big leather sofa which was at least three yards long. “And Chris?”
    The number of voices reached a crescendo, then died down.
    “Go ahead!” a man’s voice said in a tone of impatience.
    “Chris died around one o’clock. Very peacefully. He—” This was Carl again, speaking softly. “Now it’s nearly midnight. You’ve got to stay put for a while, Simon. Best not to move you tonight, the doctor said.”
    “Wh—” Simon was growing increasingly sleepy. He tried without success to form the word “Why?”
    “Tell him!” said Detweiler’s voice.
    “You’ve got two broken arms, Simon, no doubt a few cracked ribs, and a very swollen ankle. Now do you understand why you can’t move?” Jonathan spoke gently, then moved back from the sofa and became a shadow that disappeared among the others.
    When Simon next woke up, it was different. Dawn was coming through the tall curtains that were not totally closed. And Detweiler—yes, it was Detweiler’s form, propped on a similar big sofa some three yards away and parallel to the one Simon was lying on. A dim light from a standing lamp flowed down on Freddy, who had fallen asleep over his book. Freddy was in pajamas and bathrobe again.
    And Chris was dead, Simon remembered, his body probably no longer in the house. They were all alone, Detweiler, Jonathan, Carl, and the others who had not left. And Simon was in a state in which he could not move, like someone dead, too. He gasped, but the sound did not awaken Detweiler. He was going to live. He was broken a bit, and he would remain broken, even when the bones mended.
    An existence now with Chris gone. That was the fact. And Simon had to see himself in a different way, not exactly reborn—at his age—but as having died and come back to life. He felt he had really done this. Call himself fifty, yes. And give the William lead to Russell Johnson. Tell him today. And carry on in Chris’s tradition. Chris wouldn’t want to see him downcast. Chris wouldn’t have wanted him to try to kill himself, and at exactly the same time that Chris himself had died, Simon realized. Chris would have said, “Absurd, Simon. For me? I’m not that important. The rest of your life is important.”
    Simon laughed a little, and pain hit his ribs on both sides. Simon kept on smiling.
    “Awake?” said Detweiler, and his book fell with a thud to the floor. “Good morning, Simon. Need something?—Hey, you’re looking a lot