HE COULDN’T REMEMBER

Mt Benger Mail, 12 October 1938, Page 4

HE COULDN’T REMEMBER

By HUGH B. CA VE

“It’s him, all right,” the policeman said to the desk sergeant. They both looked critically at the thin, sandy-haired man who sat without emotion on the station bench. “It’s him, all right, but he can’t remember a thing'. He was walking around kind of moony-like. Doesn’t even know his own name. ’ ’ He asked the sandy-haired man: “Don’t you know your name?” “No.” “Well, your name’s Andrew Lane and your home’s on Beacon St. Does that mean anything to you ?’ ’ The sandy-haired man shook his head. He was thinking: “This is just another police station.” “I’ll send a man home with you,” the sergeant said. An hour later the sandy-haired man climbed the steps of a house on Beacon St., and the policeman besides him rang the bell. It was a large brown stone house. The door opened. The woman on the threshold was young and wide-eyed and very pale. A little boy with big eyes clung to her. The woman said in a very low' voice, “Andrew,” she said, [“don’t you know us?”

The sandy-haired man shook his head. His memory went hack only a little way, to a time when he had walked out of a large hospital. Since then he had been tired and hungry and sick. But this name they were calling him, this “Andrew,” meant nothing. And' the woman and boy were nothing, except that the woman was kind and lovely and the boy was a blue-eyed and shy and adorable.

The woman said quietly: “You’ve been asleep, Andrew. We must think of it that way and begin over again.” The sandy-haired man thought: “If this woman is my wife —if this boy is my son—l’m glad.” He said: “I’m afraid you’ll have to be very patient with me for a while.”

One Sunday many weeks later, he and his wife and his son walked home from church. Snow covered the ground, and the sandy-haired man’s face was ruddy with health. The woman beside him was lovelier than ever. The little boy clung proudly to his father’s hand.

They met a big man in uniform, and the sandy-haired man shook hands heartily. “Come out and

Jl story that shows how amnesia may be a blessing

have dinner some evening, sergeant,” he said. “If it hadn’t been for you ”

Sergeant Benton thought: “Lord, but you’ve changed!” He said: “Sure I’ll come, Hr Lane. Sure I will.” Two weeks later, Sergeant Benton elbowed through a crowd of people around a truck and a prossirate form in the gutter. The truck driver was saying, “He ran across the street. He was drunk.” The sergeant peered into the dead .man’s face and his big body began to tremble. He said. “My God!” and hurriedly went through through the man’s pockets.

At the station house he made a telephone call “Mr Lane?” he said. “I—l just want to thank you for that dinner the other night. I’ve never had a better one. or in a happier home. If I may say so, sir, you’re a very lucky man. Very lucky.”

Hanging up, he made sure that no one was watching him, then took a handful of letters, a driver’s license and a billfold indentification card, tore them into small pieces, and crossed himself.