So that’s how my nine early stories came to be lost.

Lost and Found

by Phyllis Eisenstein

It started one winter night when I couldn’t find the screwdriver.

I told my roommate Cath, “I’m sure I left it on top of the refrigerator. I used it to put the light fixture back together, and then I laid it on top of the fridge while I made a snack. That wasn’t more than three hours ago, and now it’s gone.”

“The roaches borrowed it,” said Cath, who was washing the week’s accumulation of dirty dishes. “You always say they’ll walk off with the place someday.”

“Be serious.”

“Poltergeists, then.”

I poked her shoulder. “Did you take it?”

“I was in the living room reading Freud. Do I need a screwdriver for that?”

“Well, what happened to it, then?”

“Honest to God, Jenny, I don’t know. It’ll turn up. What thief would climb three flights of stairs just to steal a lousy screwdriver?”

I wondered about that. For several minutes I’d felt that someone was standing behind me, watching me. Not Cath; someone else, someone I couldn’t see. The suggestion of a burglar struck too close to my own suspicions. I resisted the impulse to peek into the broom closet, but I did check the back door; it was securely locked.

I shook off my uneasiness and returned to my room, determined to study through the rest of the evening. I’d been loafing a lot lately; with exams a week away, I played solitaire at my desk rather than review my chemistry notes. It helped dispel the tension. I sat down and picked up the deck. After half a dozen poor rounds, I promised myself I’d play only one more, and I dealt it out with vicious slaps. When the game turned sour, I began cheating, but no matter what I did, I couldn’t win. No wonder: pawing through the cards, I realized that the ace of spades and the ten of clubs were missing. I peered under the desk; there was the ten, but no ace. I checked the drawers, the bookcase, the floor beneath the bed, the dart board. Nowhere. I’d won a game earlier in the day—how could I have done that without the ace of spades?

If Cath was playing a joke on me, I’d wring it out of her.

She must have heard me step into the living room, for she looked up from her book. “Jenny, you look terrible. What’s the matter? You _can’t_ be studying too hard.”

“Did you take a card from my desk?”

“Card? What kind of card?”

“A playing card.”

“Today?”

“A little while ago.”

“I haven’t been in your room today.”

“The ace of spades is gone.”

Cath shut her book and shook her head. “That’s terribly symbolic,” she said. With her green pen, she added small horns to the portrait of Freud gracing the dust jacket. “I’d say you were getting absent-minded, Jenny.” She meditated a moment. “Knowing you, of course, you couldn’t have used it as a bookmark.”

I sat on the arm of the chair. “Cath,” I said very seriously, “have you ever thought you might be a kleptomaniac?”

She looked me in the eye. “No, but I guess _you_ have. Couldn’t you use your time a little more constructively?”

Growling under my breath, I took the hint and stalked back to my room. I sat down at my desk, put my feet up, and let my eyes and mind roam. Something was odd about the bookshelf in front of me. My University mug was gone. My quartz paperweight was gone. My leatherbound copy of _Othello_ was gone. I turned in my chair and looked at the rest of the room, wondering where I could have put the stuff. Was I sleepwalking? My tennis racket was missing from its peg above the bed; the stack of records on the floor had shrunk by half. I looked into the wastebasket, wondering if I had unconsciously thrown anything there, but it was empty. That wasn’t right: hadn’t I thrown away some old English papers this afternoon?

Where _was_ everything?

Again, the creepy feeling of being secretly observed stole over me. Someone was staring at my back, perhaps waiting for me to leave so he could come in and get more. More what? None of my stuff was particularly valuable.

I heard a muffled shuffling noise behind me. I turned and looked at the closet door. I didn’t have the nerve to open it.

I shouted, “Cath!”

Suddenly I felt naked and weaponless. What if it was a burglar? He was trapped in there, probably desperate, maybe armed. Even though there were two of us, it might be wiser to call the cops and let them handle it.

Cath came in. “What do you want?”

“The closet,” I whispered.

“What?”

“I think there’s someone inside.”

We stood there a moment. I could feel my guts twisting. The last thing on earth I wanted to do was open that door. I

wanted to run out of the room, out of the apartment, as fast as I could.

Cath shrugged, stepped forward, turned the doorknob, and yanked the closet door open.

My heart, and everything under it, suddenly pressed at the top of my throat.

There was nothing in the closet but clothing.

I had a mild case of jitters for the next couple of minutes. Cath clucked her tongue, then led me to the kitchen and poured me a cup of tea.

“Take it easy, Jenny,” she said, forcing me into a chair by the table. “You can’t crack up till after exams are over.”

“I . . . I . . . thought . . . someone was in the closet.” I gulped some tea; the cup clattered as I set it down in its saucer.

“We’ve been home all afternoon and evening. How could anyone have gotten in?”

I attempted a nonchalant shrug, but it turned into a shudder. “I don’t know.”

Cath pulled me into the living room after I finished my tea, and she handed me a paperback sex novel. “You sit in this nice soft chair and read something light, to relax. I’ll sit over there and study.”

I read, but I couldn’t concentrate; I was too nervous to string the words and phrases together.

Then I heard something. A scuffling, rustling sound.

“Did you hear something?” I asked. “From my room?”

“Roaches,” Cath said without looking up. “Or mice. Forget it.”

I heard it again. “Cath!” I gasped hoarsely, springing across the room.

She caught my arm as I passed her. “Maybe we’d better go to a movie.”

Then there was another noise, louder this time.

“I hear something in your room,” she said.

“Roaches,” I whispered.

“Okay, let’s see what it is. Wait here a minute.” She went to the kitchen and returned with two long, sharp carving knives. She gave one to me.

“What do you think it is?” I murmured.

“Some nut trying to get in a third floor window.”

But when we stepped into my room, we saw that the window was closed and locked, as it had been for several months. Outside, silent snow fell vertically through the darkness; the thick, white frosting it had slathered on the window sill remained velvet-smooth, undisturbed. The closet door, however, was slightly ajar, although Cath had shut it firmly just a little while ago.

“There can’t be anyone in the closet,” Cath said. “There simply can’t be.” Still, she went to the closet and threw open the door.

Someone was in the closet, all right. Two someones, both young and muscular, one male, one female. They were fair¬haired and evenly tanned, and they wore only scanty metallic briefs and weblike sandals. We stared; they stared back.

“Are you Jennifer Erica Templeton?” the man demanded of Cath.

“Not me,” said Cath. “Her.” The tip of her knife wavered in my direction.

“Jennifer Erica Templeton?” he asked me. “Born June 3, 1958, in Chicago, to Albert and Sara Templeton; student at the University of Chicago from 1975 to 1983, B.A. M.A., Ph.D. Anthropology?” He rattled off the data as if it were name, rank, and serial number, and then he paused expectantly.

His friend nudged him. “I told you this was only ‘77, dear. She doesn’t have any degrees yet, and her field is still Chemistry.”

I found myself nodding.

The man lunged, grabbing at my head. As I elbowed him in the solar plexis, I heard a snipping sound behind my right ear, and then he reeled away, clutching a handful of my hair. “Authentic souvenir!” he croaked.

“All right, all right,” the woman said, hauling him back into the oddly deep space of the closet. “Now that you’ve got one, too, let’s go home!” She slammed the door, and for several seconds a rummaging noise sounded beyond it. Then there was silence.

Cath stared at me, her mouth agape. She reached out and very slowly and gingerly pulled open the door. The strangers had vanished; once again, the closet was shallow and inhabited only by my clothes.

“Jenny,” Cath whispered, “what’s going on?”

I looked at her for a minute, and then I looked at the closet. I fingered my scalp where the spray of stubble interrupted the smooth flow of hair. “I’m not sure,” I replied, “but tomorrow I think I’m going to transfer to the Anthropology Department.”