It was like waking up after surgery. My head was immobile, lodged in a stiff pillow. I stared up at a globe-shaped light fixture hanging from a white plaster ceiling. The ceiling was cracked and had a yellow water stain the shape of Texas. There was no sense of time passing since I fell down. Expending a tremendous effort I lifted my head and looked down at the crisp sheet that covered my body.
Something was wrong with me. The sheet seemed too flat. I was thin.
Then I saw other people in the room. They weren’t right either. They were supposed to be dead.
There was my father. He sat next to a window. He seemed to be sleeping, with his hands propped, as in prayer, against his chest.
(It was dark outside. The window was open and I could feel the breeze and smell ozone and summer rain.)
My mother Wilda was bent forward in a chair close to my bed, her forearms resting on the sheet near my feet. She seemed tired. Then she looked up at me and the strained expression on her face relaxed into a smile.
Even Tommy, my older brother, was present. He leaned against the open door, talking to a pretty young woman in a white uniform – a nurse it seemed, with her hair permed in a style I had not seen in 50 years. Tommy, whose hair was done in a modest pompadour, smoked. The cigarette dangled from one side of his mouth and the smoke curled around his eye causing him to squint. I could smell the burning tobacco plus a strong disinfectant odor. In the distance, coming from down the hall, I heard Buddy Holly singing Peggy Sue.
My mother, who appeared to be about 45 years old now, got up and leaned across the bed to kiss me on the cheek. She was wearing a green print dress with wide lapels. Her clothes smelled of cooking and her breath smelled of cigarettes. Speaking in a lilting Alabama twang that I had not heard for 40 years, she said, “Welcome back stranger.”
I closed my eyes and felt my heart pound. I heard her say, her voice alarmed, “T.G.?” I had an irresistible urge to sleep and I did.
4 - going for walk
At 3:00 PM I decided to go for a walk. I wasn’t sure I could get back before the storm but I was getting restless. Every day, I walked eight miles, four in the morning and four in the afternoon. Some days this was the only time I saw anybody, if not to talk to then at least to acknowledge with a nod and smile.
I closed both windows, removing the carved stick which propped up one window and put my book on the table. My faded blue shorts and the tee-shirt with the unraveling Escher head were still on the bed post where I hung them to dry after this morning’s walk. The shorts came from the Salvation Army and the tee shirt was four years old, a gift from my daughter on my 68th birthday. The condition of my clothes didn’t bother me much, although I was careful to wear good shoes. This weekend I would brave the perky boys at the sports shoe store and get another pair of out-of-style New Balance walking shoes.
I stepped into the hall. It was illuminated by a single bulb which was always on. The other doors were closed and there was no noise. None of other three men who had rooms on the second floor seemed to be at home.
I walked down the narrow stairwell. As I pushed open the creaking screen door to the back yard, Linda, the 25 year old elementary school teacher who lived on the first floor pulled into the gravel drive in her old Ford Escort, parking beside my rusted old Nissan Sentra. The smell of the gravel dust mixed with the smell of the coming rain. She walked toward to the stoop. She was wearing red flip-flops and a pink terry cloth robe which opened to reveal a black bikini. I assumed she had been swimming at the city park, near our place. Frowning, she said, “Hi Mr. Hamrick. You aren’t going out in this are you?“
I always liked seeing her. Studiously avoided her body, concentrating on her face, I said. “Oh, I won’t be out that long. I think we have an hour or so before it hits.“
She looked up at the clouds and shook her blonde head, still wet from swimming, “Well, they closed the pool because of the storm. If you get caught, go inside somewhere and give me a call. I’ll come and get you.”
She had insisted that I put her number on speed dial in case something happened while I was out. I answered, “You are a sweetheart.”
She smiled and went past me into the house. Her robe brushed my legs and I could smell the oil that still beaded on her skin. It was a peculiarly summer odor.
Shelby was a good walking town. (Is? I am not sure how to handle tense in a story in which time is not clear.) There were plenty of trees and the sidewalks were set back from the roads. Going down Marion and Warren streets, I could see turn-of-the-century houses that were listed on the Historic Register. Many were still well-kept. All had some connection to me, if only because of long proximity. Circling the square at the center of town I could look at the old courthouse and the statue of the Confederate soldier, facing West, not North as you might imagine. The business district that surrounded the square was somewhere between quaint and run-down. There were a number of boutiques operated by doctor’s and lawyer’s wives. Near the new courthouse many of the lawyers had offices. However, most of the businesses I remembered from my childhood were closed and when I walked by the empty stores I could smell mold and decay.
Today, because of the storm, I decided that I would only walk to the cemetery which wasn’t far from the rooming house. Bill Gold, an acquaintance from high school, had died two days ago and was now going to reside in the cemetery with other members of the class of ’57. I had stopped yesterday to contemplate the red clay hole in which Bill would spend eternity, which meant that the funeral tent ought to be up by today. I could find shelter there if I got caught.
I was going to need it. By the time I turned off Sumpter, past the Boy’s Club and the Episcopal church, entering the cemetery though the main gate, the storm was almost here. West, toward the mountains, lightning lit the clouds and thunder rumbled. The sky had become yellowish purple. It was going to be a good one. I was afraid and excited too. Maybe I would join old Bill today.
The cemetery had expanded in waves as sections were added to accommodate Shelby’s growth. The oldest part was near the entrance, through which I now walked at a fast pace. It contained graves going back to 1850. The very oldest headstones were plain granite slabs with barely legible inscriptions. Some had been pushed over or had just fallen. A line of 10 bronze crosses donated by the United Daughters of the Confederacy marked the graves of Southern soldiers who had died in various battles. Three Yankee graves were graced with stone crosses. None of the Northern boys had names.
The rain began to fall in large splatters and the maples that grew in this part of the cemetery tossed their tops. Suddenly, it was cold. I trotted now, past graves that were first occupied in the 20’s and 30’s. I jogged past two of my favorite markers. One was done in what I assumed to be an art deco style, asymmetrically decorated with three vertical lines of varying widths joined across the top by three horizontal lines. The other was a white granite obelisk, 25 feet tall, surrounded by a iron fence, with the words ‘My Loving Husband’ inscribed on the base. Framing the inscription with the bars of the fence, I once took a picture of the marker and, after adding some appropriately sentimental copy, sold the piece to the Daily Star, where I later worked as a writer, photographer and editor, off and on, for 40 years.
The rain became a wall of water; the wind roared and the lightning strikes were now continuous and nearby. Trees were being hit. Leaves and small limbs whirled by. In the distance, through the murk I could see a faint blue roof billowing against invisible stays. It was Bill’s tent. Running faster, I left the lane to proceed directly across several graves. I was struck by pure clean fear. My brain might joke about joining old Bill, but my body was scared shitless.
Suddenly, my feet stopped, as if grabbed by an invisible hand rising up from the grave below. I fell to my knees in the wet grass. Looking at the marker just a few feet away, barely able to see for the water in my eyes, I made out the words, Thompson Gaines Hamrick, Sr. That was my father’s name, my name. I lifted my arms. Face streaming with water and tears, I screamed, “I am…”. I was transfixed by blinding light. I heard the start of thunder then everything went black.
I closed both windows, removing the carved stick which propped up one window and put my book on the table. My faded blue shorts and the tee-shirt with the unraveling Escher head were still on the bed post where I hung them to dry after this morning’s walk. The shorts came from the Salvation Army and the tee shirt was four years old, a gift from my daughter on my 68th birthday. The condition of my clothes didn’t bother me much, although I was careful to wear good shoes. This weekend I would brave the perky boys at the sports shoe store and get another pair of out-of-style New Balance walking shoes.
I stepped into the hall. It was illuminated by a single bulb which was always on. The other doors were closed and there was no noise. None of other three men who had rooms on the second floor seemed to be at home.
I walked down the narrow stairwell. As I pushed open the creaking screen door to the back yard, Linda, the 25 year old elementary school teacher who lived on the first floor pulled into the gravel drive in her old Ford Escort, parking beside my rusted old Nissan Sentra. The smell of the gravel dust mixed with the smell of the coming rain. She walked toward to the stoop. She was wearing red flip-flops and a pink terry cloth robe which opened to reveal a black bikini. I assumed she had been swimming at the city park, near our place. Frowning, she said, “Hi Mr. Hamrick. You aren’t going out in this are you?“
I always liked seeing her. Studiously avoided her body, concentrating on her face, I said. “Oh, I won’t be out that long. I think we have an hour or so before it hits.“
She looked up at the clouds and shook her blonde head, still wet from swimming, “Well, they closed the pool because of the storm. If you get caught, go inside somewhere and give me a call. I’ll come and get you.”
She had insisted that I put her number on speed dial in case something happened while I was out. I answered, “You are a sweetheart.”
She smiled and went past me into the house. Her robe brushed my legs and I could smell the oil that still beaded on her skin. It was a peculiarly summer odor.
Shelby was a good walking town. (Is? I am not sure how to handle tense in a story in which time is not clear.) There were plenty of trees and the sidewalks were set back from the roads. Going down Marion and Warren streets, I could see turn-of-the-century houses that were listed on the Historic Register. Many were still well-kept. All had some connection to me, if only because of long proximity. Circling the square at the center of town I could look at the old courthouse and the statue of the Confederate soldier, facing West, not North as you might imagine. The business district that surrounded the square was somewhere between quaint and run-down. There were a number of boutiques operated by doctor’s and lawyer’s wives. Near the new courthouse many of the lawyers had offices. However, most of the businesses I remembered from my childhood were closed and when I walked by the empty stores I could smell mold and decay.
Today, because of the storm, I decided that I would only walk to the cemetery which wasn’t far from the rooming house. Bill Gold, an acquaintance from high school, had died two days ago and was now going to reside in the cemetery with other members of the class of ’57. I had stopped yesterday to contemplate the red clay hole in which Bill would spend eternity, which meant that the funeral tent ought to be up by today. I could find shelter there if I got caught.
I was going to need it. By the time I turned off Sumpter, past the Boy’s Club and the Episcopal church, entering the cemetery though the main gate, the storm was almost here. West, toward the mountains, lightning lit the clouds and thunder rumbled. The sky had become yellowish purple. It was going to be a good one. I was afraid and excited too. Maybe I would join old Bill today.
The cemetery had expanded in waves as sections were added to accommodate Shelby’s growth. The oldest part was near the entrance, through which I now walked at a fast pace. It contained graves going back to 1850. The very oldest headstones were plain granite slabs with barely legible inscriptions. Some had been pushed over or had just fallen. A line of 10 bronze crosses donated by the United Daughters of the Confederacy marked the graves of Southern soldiers who had died in various battles. Three Yankee graves were graced with stone crosses. None of the Northern boys had names.
The rain began to fall in large splatters and the maples that grew in this part of the cemetery tossed their tops. Suddenly, it was cold. I trotted now, past graves that were first occupied in the 20’s and 30’s. I jogged past two of my favorite markers. One was done in what I assumed to be an art deco style, asymmetrically decorated with three vertical lines of varying widths joined across the top by three horizontal lines. The other was a white granite obelisk, 25 feet tall, surrounded by a iron fence, with the words ‘My Loving Husband’ inscribed on the base. Framing the inscription with the bars of the fence, I once took a picture of the marker and, after adding some appropriately sentimental copy, sold the piece to the Daily Star, where I later worked as a writer, photographer and editor, off and on, for 40 years.
The rain became a wall of water; the wind roared and the lightning strikes were now continuous and nearby. Trees were being hit. Leaves and small limbs whirled by. In the distance, through the murk I could see a faint blue roof billowing against invisible stays. It was Bill’s tent. Running faster, I left the lane to proceed directly across several graves. I was struck by pure clean fear. My brain might joke about joining old Bill, but my body was scared shitless.
Suddenly, my feet stopped, as if grabbed by an invisible hand rising up from the grave below. I fell to my knees in the wet grass. Looking at the marker just a few feet away, barely able to see for the water in my eyes, I made out the words, Thompson Gaines Hamrick, Sr. That was my father’s name, my name. I lifted my arms. Face streaming with water and tears, I screamed, “I am…”. I was transfixed by blinding light. I heard the start of thunder then everything went black.
11 - breakfast with mother
Treading barefoot down the long hall, I smelled bacon frying. I had been an inconsistent vegetarian before, drawing the line at eating four footed creatures. Partly that had been my idea, partly it was my daughter’s doing. I stopped and looked at a collection of family pictures arranged along the wall. I wondered what had happened to her, to her children, my grandchildren. Did they still exist somewhere maybe mourning the demise of old Paw Paw? Or were they accidents that were yet to happen - that would never happen now?
Mother was standing at the stove using a fork to turn the bacon which sizzled in a cast-iron frying pan. She leaned back to avoid the splatter. It was already warm in the kitchen and she was wearing a sleeveless housedress. With her free hand she wiped a strand of reddish brown her from her forehead. She said over her shoulder, “Hey stranger. Hungry?”
Reaching around to get the coffee pot from the back burner, brushing against her moist shoulder, I said, “Well yes, I am.” I would eat the bacon. Things had changed.
“Good. It will be a minute.”
I sat down at the yellow Formica top dinette table, not too different from the table in my room - my other room. The places where my father and Tommy sat last night at supper had been cleared. I looked at the white enamel clock built into the back panel of the stove. It was 8:30. They must have already gone to work at Shelby Millwork. I worked there too this summer but nobody had said anything about me going in today.
Mother finished the bacon. She carefully poured grease out of the frying pan into a bowl then put on the eggs.
I turned to my coffee and the Observer. The date on the paper was July 11th, 1960. The lead article was about the Democratic National Convention which started today. Although Kennedy was the likely winner there was still a possibility for Johnson or Stevenson. I wondered if I could place a bet.
Mother said, “Here you go.”
Using the tips of her fingers as tongs she served four pieces of bacon and two slices of toast, white bread, heavily buttered. Then she forked the eggs onto my plate. The eggs were slightly brown from the bacon grease. Pouring herself another cup of coffee, she sat at the place normally occupied by my father. She shook a cigarette loose from a pack of Kents, pulled a match loose from a book, lit the cigarette, and blew a cloud of smoke in my direction.
I expected to cough but this T.G.’s body seemed used to it.
I said, “You know those things are going to kill you some day.”
She frowned, “That’s fine talk coming from you Mr. Cigarette Smoker.”
I had forgotten, After secretly stealing cigarettes since I was 15, last year I had started smoking in front of my parents. There was a pack of Winstons on the desk in my room.
I said, “Maybe I’ll quit.”
Dramatically stubbing the cigarette out in a small glass ashtray, she said, “Well if you quit, so will I.”
Reaching my hand across the table, I said, “You’re on. It’s a deal.”
She hesitated, then put out her hand, which was smooth and strong. “Deal.”
I returned to the paper and she picked up another section. In a few minutes, she said, “T.G.?”
“Yes.”
“I was wondering - your father and I were talking - are you still going to switch to Carolina this fall? Because if you are, the paperwork has got to be done.”
I remembered. After mediocre Freshmen and Sophomore years at N.C. State in their pre-engineering program, I was going to switch to liberal arts at Carolina, which if history repeated itself would lead eventually to a journalism degree, a job on the local newspaper and the rest of my life.
“I don’t know. I am not sure now.”
Putting down her newspaper, sliding her chair away from the table, she said, “Well, you’ve got to decide soon.”
“Sure. And, thanks for fixing my breakfast.”
She seemed surprised by that.
Mother was standing at the stove using a fork to turn the bacon which sizzled in a cast-iron frying pan. She leaned back to avoid the splatter. It was already warm in the kitchen and she was wearing a sleeveless housedress. With her free hand she wiped a strand of reddish brown her from her forehead. She said over her shoulder, “Hey stranger. Hungry?”
Reaching around to get the coffee pot from the back burner, brushing against her moist shoulder, I said, “Well yes, I am.” I would eat the bacon. Things had changed.
“Good. It will be a minute.”
I sat down at the yellow Formica top dinette table, not too different from the table in my room - my other room. The places where my father and Tommy sat last night at supper had been cleared. I looked at the white enamel clock built into the back panel of the stove. It was 8:30. They must have already gone to work at Shelby Millwork. I worked there too this summer but nobody had said anything about me going in today.
Mother finished the bacon. She carefully poured grease out of the frying pan into a bowl then put on the eggs.
I turned to my coffee and the Observer. The date on the paper was July 11th, 1960. The lead article was about the Democratic National Convention which started today. Although Kennedy was the likely winner there was still a possibility for Johnson or Stevenson. I wondered if I could place a bet.
Mother said, “Here you go.”
Using the tips of her fingers as tongs she served four pieces of bacon and two slices of toast, white bread, heavily buttered. Then she forked the eggs onto my plate. The eggs were slightly brown from the bacon grease. Pouring herself another cup of coffee, she sat at the place normally occupied by my father. She shook a cigarette loose from a pack of Kents, pulled a match loose from a book, lit the cigarette, and blew a cloud of smoke in my direction.
I expected to cough but this T.G.’s body seemed used to it.
I said, “You know those things are going to kill you some day.”
She frowned, “That’s fine talk coming from you Mr. Cigarette Smoker.”
I had forgotten, After secretly stealing cigarettes since I was 15, last year I had started smoking in front of my parents. There was a pack of Winstons on the desk in my room.
I said, “Maybe I’ll quit.”
Dramatically stubbing the cigarette out in a small glass ashtray, she said, “Well if you quit, so will I.”
Reaching my hand across the table, I said, “You’re on. It’s a deal.”
She hesitated, then put out her hand, which was smooth and strong. “Deal.”
I returned to the paper and she picked up another section. In a few minutes, she said, “T.G.?”
“Yes.”
“I was wondering - your father and I were talking - are you still going to switch to Carolina this fall? Because if you are, the paperwork has got to be done.”
I remembered. After mediocre Freshmen and Sophomore years at N.C. State in their pre-engineering program, I was going to switch to liberal arts at Carolina, which if history repeated itself would lead eventually to a journalism degree, a job on the local newspaper and the rest of my life.
“I don’t know. I am not sure now.”
Putting down her newspaper, sliding her chair away from the table, she said, “Well, you’ve got to decide soon.”
“Sure. And, thanks for fixing my breakfast.”
She seemed surprised by that.
14 - shooting with Frankie
Frankie never required much effort. He was my best friend for fifty years until he got lung cancer and died. If you wanted to talk he would listen. If you didn’t want to talk he would talk and listening was usually optional. That’s how it was walking down the path behind his Aunt Charlotte’s farm. He talked and I nodded and muttered a few “um hms”.
The path was an old farm road that went generally downhill toward the river and a field which had not been cultivated since before Frankie’s Uncle Charlie died. Pines and oaks grew in close only allowing patches of light to shine through. The red clay was crusty, hard on the surface and loose just below. We walked single file to one side of the road; a gulley had been washed out on the other side. I tried to stay in Frankie’s footprints. Wearing the Luger now in the shoulder holster under a short sleeve shirt I remembered walking with a gun down another trail, following another person, and being followed. Depending on how you figured the time, it was either 45 years in the past or seven years in the future.
Frankie carried a paper bag filled with tin cans and bottles which rattled and clanked.
“Hamrick!”
Frankie was trying to tell me something. I said, “Yeah, sorry.”
“I been trying to ask you a question.”
“What’s that?”
We had left the farm road and were traversing through the woods. The way was easy. The ground was covered in leaves and there wasn’t much undergrowth. The trees were large and old; maybe part of the original forest. We would have been easy targets. I reached up and touched the butt of the Luger.
“School. What are you going to do this fall? Are you still going to switch to Carolina?”
“My mother asked me the same thing this morning. I don’t know.“ I hesitated. “Maybe I’ll stay at State.”
“I thought you were having trouble, couldn’t get the math?”
“Well that’s right. But maybe I could figure it out. What about you?”
We had arrived at the washed out bank which served as a back stop. It was like a small amphitheater. Frankie walked over to a log that had fallen in front and reaching into his bag, carefully placed the bottles and cans, half for him, half for me.
“I guess I’ll stick with economics.” He looked at me, “You want to start out at 25 feet then move back to 50?”
“Sure.”
Heel and toe, he paced 25 steps from the log. “Me first, the targets on the left?”
“Be my guest.”
Reaching into the hip pocket of his jeans, he pulled out the Smith and Wesson .38 which he had inherited when Uncle Charlie died. Holding the pistol straight out, like a target shooter, he took off the safety, thumbed the hammer and fired. The gun went boom and the clear glass jar on the far left exploded. I said, in a louder voice, “Good shot.”
He smiled and fired again, causing a tin soup can to go flying off. He hit three of the next four targets, missing the last one probably because he was shooting too fast.
Gesturing with the empty pistol, he said, “Your turn.”
I pulled the Luger from my shoulder holster, jerked the slide back and quickly popped off eight rounds. I hit all of my targets, the sounds of shattering glass mixing with the pistol’s crack. Afterward, neither of us said anything for a moment. The noises reverberated in the confined space.
Frankie said, “Holy shit.” He rarely cursed. “How did… where did that come from?”
Already beginning to stuff squat bullets back intro the Luger’s clip, which I did not remember removing, I said, quite honestly, “I don’t know. The rules don’t seem to apply to me anymore.”
Frankie looked at me oddly.
The path was an old farm road that went generally downhill toward the river and a field which had not been cultivated since before Frankie’s Uncle Charlie died. Pines and oaks grew in close only allowing patches of light to shine through. The red clay was crusty, hard on the surface and loose just below. We walked single file to one side of the road; a gulley had been washed out on the other side. I tried to stay in Frankie’s footprints. Wearing the Luger now in the shoulder holster under a short sleeve shirt I remembered walking with a gun down another trail, following another person, and being followed. Depending on how you figured the time, it was either 45 years in the past or seven years in the future.
Frankie carried a paper bag filled with tin cans and bottles which rattled and clanked.
“Hamrick!”
Frankie was trying to tell me something. I said, “Yeah, sorry.”
“I been trying to ask you a question.”
“What’s that?”
We had left the farm road and were traversing through the woods. The way was easy. The ground was covered in leaves and there wasn’t much undergrowth. The trees were large and old; maybe part of the original forest. We would have been easy targets. I reached up and touched the butt of the Luger.
“School. What are you going to do this fall? Are you still going to switch to Carolina?”
“My mother asked me the same thing this morning. I don’t know.“ I hesitated. “Maybe I’ll stay at State.”
“I thought you were having trouble, couldn’t get the math?”
“Well that’s right. But maybe I could figure it out. What about you?”
We had arrived at the washed out bank which served as a back stop. It was like a small amphitheater. Frankie walked over to a log that had fallen in front and reaching into his bag, carefully placed the bottles and cans, half for him, half for me.
“I guess I’ll stick with economics.” He looked at me, “You want to start out at 25 feet then move back to 50?”
“Sure.”
Heel and toe, he paced 25 steps from the log. “Me first, the targets on the left?”
“Be my guest.”
Reaching into the hip pocket of his jeans, he pulled out the Smith and Wesson .38 which he had inherited when Uncle Charlie died. Holding the pistol straight out, like a target shooter, he took off the safety, thumbed the hammer and fired. The gun went boom and the clear glass jar on the far left exploded. I said, in a louder voice, “Good shot.”
He smiled and fired again, causing a tin soup can to go flying off. He hit three of the next four targets, missing the last one probably because he was shooting too fast.
Gesturing with the empty pistol, he said, “Your turn.”
I pulled the Luger from my shoulder holster, jerked the slide back and quickly popped off eight rounds. I hit all of my targets, the sounds of shattering glass mixing with the pistol’s crack. Afterward, neither of us said anything for a moment. The noises reverberated in the confined space.
Frankie said, “Holy shit.” He rarely cursed. “How did… where did that come from?”
Already beginning to stuff squat bullets back intro the Luger’s clip, which I did not remember removing, I said, quite honestly, “I don’t know. The rules don’t seem to apply to me anymore.”
Frankie looked at me oddly.
17 - dreams that were not dreams
I went to bed and dreamed the dreams that were not dreams.
It was 1946.
We lived on Lee Street near the deep woods on the edge of Shelby, in a small white frame house with a white picket fence. It was across the road from Shelby Millwork where my father was the superintendent.
I went to Washington School. One morning at recess I rolled my shirt sleeves up over my tiny biceps, imagining that I looked good, like my father or my uncle. The other children were noisy, darting shapes. Phil materialized from the mob, sneered, and said, “Hey, do you think you are a tough guy?”
Watching, I heard myself stutter, trying to come up with a rational answer to his question.
He laughed.
Again.
This time when Phil spoke I started to walk away. But he pulled my shoulder. I turned and grabbed his nuts, squeezing as hard as I could. He took a whooping breath and his eyes rolled back. I held on for dear life. Watching him suffer I squeezed harder.
I was grand.
It was 1950.
I was on the playground with Charles who would grow up to be an attorney and who 57 years later wandered among the crowd at our fiftieth reunion shooting pictures with a really good digital camera. We were near the jungle gym, just outside the cafeteria where they served livermush, cornbread and creamed potatoes. Normally we were friends, visiting one another’s homes, trading Hardy Boy books. But today we disagreed about something. Other children heard and closed in. They made us go around the corner where no one could see. They wanted us to fight. They pushed Charles back against the wall. They pushed me in front of him. His head tossed from side to side, hair sticking to the rough brick, hair and tears and snot all over his face, in his eyes and mouth. I didn’t hit him. I did not hit them either. My arms had no strength; I was slowed by dreamlike lethargy.
That night I opened the drawer where my uncle (who lived with us then) kept his pistols, like hard babies, oiled and cleaned, sleeping fitfully on a greasy cloth.
Again.
I was walking home when the same group of boys came up to me. I was carrying my uncle’s little .44 derringer in my pocket. I pointed the pistol at Jack the ring leader and said, “Leave me alone.”
He laughed and said, “That gun ain’t real.”
I shot him between the eyes which stayed opened wide in surprise even after the hole appeared in his forehead.
I was sick.
It was 1952.
Frankie and I crossed over to another place.
We started beyond the little white frame house at the end of the Lee Street entering nearby pine woods where even the smaller children sometimes played
We walked down the trail to the big mossy rock that ran slick with water when it rained. The other children didn’t come here often. It was where my uncle tried out newly purchased or traded guns (my favorites were the long-barrel German luger, the big .455 Webley carried by the British in WWI and II, and the 10-gauge shotgun with which I once brought down a small pine tree in two blasts).
Just beyond the rock was the Old Tree, where the trail forked around the base of another hill. The left fork descended toward a spring and the run-down house where Vera our maid lived. I suppose she might have walked up the trail to our house. The right fork snaked behind a colored neighborhood. A limb from the Old Tree angled out ominously over the path and it was easy to imagine that someone had been hung there.
We left the trail and climbed the next hill into deeper, darker woods. No one, not even my uncle or the people from the colored neighborhoods went there.
We pushed past low hanging limbs and spider webs draped in wait for the last insects of Fall. We walked by the cave under fallen rocks that smelled inside of old leaves and animals. Getting lost was not a possibility. The forest was in us as much as we were in it.
Finally we came to the small clear stream known only as The Creek. This was as far as we had ever been. Frankie said, “Let’s go on.”
We forded the stream, crossed a field and climbed the strange cone-shaped hill that had attracted us from the beginning.
Up close the hill seemed steeper and taller. The ground was loose and difficult. Scrub trees grew on the lower slope. The top was covered in patches of broom sage and other dried-up vegetation. Shreds of mica glittered in the low sun. It was windy and the air seemed colder. The sky was a deeper shade of blue.
We looked around. The woods extended in all directions. Except for the field below, there were no signs of people - no houses or roads. It could have been the end of the world, or the beginning.
I said, “This place is spooky.”
Frankie said, “Let’s get back.” and we returned to the woods and home.
Again.
I said, "No lets stay here for a while."
I was large, expansive.
It was 1946.
We lived on Lee Street near the deep woods on the edge of Shelby, in a small white frame house with a white picket fence. It was across the road from Shelby Millwork where my father was the superintendent.
I went to Washington School. One morning at recess I rolled my shirt sleeves up over my tiny biceps, imagining that I looked good, like my father or my uncle. The other children were noisy, darting shapes. Phil materialized from the mob, sneered, and said, “Hey, do you think you are a tough guy?”
Watching, I heard myself stutter, trying to come up with a rational answer to his question.
He laughed.
Again.
This time when Phil spoke I started to walk away. But he pulled my shoulder. I turned and grabbed his nuts, squeezing as hard as I could. He took a whooping breath and his eyes rolled back. I held on for dear life. Watching him suffer I squeezed harder.
I was grand.
It was 1950.
I was on the playground with Charles who would grow up to be an attorney and who 57 years later wandered among the crowd at our fiftieth reunion shooting pictures with a really good digital camera. We were near the jungle gym, just outside the cafeteria where they served livermush, cornbread and creamed potatoes. Normally we were friends, visiting one another’s homes, trading Hardy Boy books. But today we disagreed about something. Other children heard and closed in. They made us go around the corner where no one could see. They wanted us to fight. They pushed Charles back against the wall. They pushed me in front of him. His head tossed from side to side, hair sticking to the rough brick, hair and tears and snot all over his face, in his eyes and mouth. I didn’t hit him. I did not hit them either. My arms had no strength; I was slowed by dreamlike lethargy.
That night I opened the drawer where my uncle (who lived with us then) kept his pistols, like hard babies, oiled and cleaned, sleeping fitfully on a greasy cloth.
Again.
I was walking home when the same group of boys came up to me. I was carrying my uncle’s little .44 derringer in my pocket. I pointed the pistol at Jack the ring leader and said, “Leave me alone.”
He laughed and said, “That gun ain’t real.”
I shot him between the eyes which stayed opened wide in surprise even after the hole appeared in his forehead.
I was sick.
It was 1952.
Frankie and I crossed over to another place.
We started beyond the little white frame house at the end of the Lee Street entering nearby pine woods where even the smaller children sometimes played
We walked down the trail to the big mossy rock that ran slick with water when it rained. The other children didn’t come here often. It was where my uncle tried out newly purchased or traded guns (my favorites were the long-barrel German luger, the big .455 Webley carried by the British in WWI and II, and the 10-gauge shotgun with which I once brought down a small pine tree in two blasts).
Just beyond the rock was the Old Tree, where the trail forked around the base of another hill. The left fork descended toward a spring and the run-down house where Vera our maid lived. I suppose she might have walked up the trail to our house. The right fork snaked behind a colored neighborhood. A limb from the Old Tree angled out ominously over the path and it was easy to imagine that someone had been hung there.
We left the trail and climbed the next hill into deeper, darker woods. No one, not even my uncle or the people from the colored neighborhoods went there.
We pushed past low hanging limbs and spider webs draped in wait for the last insects of Fall. We walked by the cave under fallen rocks that smelled inside of old leaves and animals. Getting lost was not a possibility. The forest was in us as much as we were in it.
Finally we came to the small clear stream known only as The Creek. This was as far as we had ever been. Frankie said, “Let’s go on.”
We forded the stream, crossed a field and climbed the strange cone-shaped hill that had attracted us from the beginning.
Up close the hill seemed steeper and taller. The ground was loose and difficult. Scrub trees grew on the lower slope. The top was covered in patches of broom sage and other dried-up vegetation. Shreds of mica glittered in the low sun. It was windy and the air seemed colder. The sky was a deeper shade of blue.
We looked around. The woods extended in all directions. Except for the field below, there were no signs of people - no houses or roads. It could have been the end of the world, or the beginning.
I said, “This place is spooky.”
Frankie said, “Let’s get back.” and we returned to the woods and home.
Again.
I said, "No lets stay here for a while."
I was large, expansive.
23 - in fluttering light
It started on the way home from school when the phrase, “April is the cruelest girl” popped into his mind. That made no sense. Walking in front of him with her head up, looking neither to the right or left, April appeared proud, sad, maybe lonely – but not cruel.
Maybe it had been the poem. He muttered under his breath, “April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land.” But that made no sense either, even as the metaphor Mrs. Thompson had tried to explain. December or January might be cruel. Walking in a cold rain down Warren street, hunched inside the old oversize bombardier jacket that once belonged to his father, the sky as gray as what, death? That was cruel. July or August could also be cruel. Lying awake at night in a pool of sweat (because his mother turned the air conditioning back after the sun went down), trying to sleep, waiting for the air from the circulating fan to pass over his body, knowing it would only cool the exposed skin - that was cruel.
But what could be cruel about April?
The sun broke through the thick oak leaves that shadowed this part of Marion Street. Caught in the fluttering light, April seemed ethereal, on fire. He heard himself yell, “April!”
She stopped and turned, seeming to smile. “Yes.”
He found himself running to her. This was the first time he had talked to her away from school. Now she was standing in front of him, solid and real. She wore a sleeveless black blouse. Her skin was creamy tan. He could, if he dared, touch her heart-shaped face, her curving body.
He said, speaking in someone else’s voice “Ah, you know that poem, The Wasteland, in English today?”
“Yes, I remember it.” Her voice was throaty, low.
“Well, I was wondering what you thought, I mean, did it make any sense to you?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. Why?”
They were walking side-by-side now. April's house, a large Spanish-style bungalow with cactus growing wild in the front yard and curved iron bars over the deep recessed windows was just ahead. “It bothers me. What does it mean, April is the cruelest month? How can a month be cruel? People can be cruel. It would make more sense to say April is the cruelest girl, although I know that you are not cruel.”
She frowned, “You’ve been thinking about that? Anyway, I could be cruel. I could be anything. You don’t know me. Nobody does.”
A car pull up just behind them and stopped. A door slammed. A male voice yelled, “April!”
It was Brad Lail, football player, baseball player, and renown fighter - not a bully, more a fearless defender of strongly held opinions. Brad had claimed April in their sophomore year and now, two years later, would have been shocked if anyone tried to take his place. They had probably disagreed about something after school, which was why she was walking.
Easily, like a large graceful animal, Brad trotted over. He stepped into place beside April. Abby fell behind. April walked faster, her long smooth arms held tense, not swinging to match her pace. Ignoring Abby, Brad said, “I want to talk with you.”
Her face set into a frown, staring straight ahead, April said, “I don’t want to talk with you.”
Abby wanted to leave. Their fight seemed as intimate as lovemaking. However, this was his usual route home and it didn’t seem right to turn around or stop.
Suddenly, Brad took notice of him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
April hissed, “Brad!”
Abby said, “I am walking home from school.” Although resentful, he was about to leave when he found himself adding, “Why do you want to know?” Something was happening.
Brad seemed surprised. “Because we’re having a fight and I don’t want anybody around.” A stern look now on his face, he added, “So, get out of here.”
Abby watched himself with other’s eyes. Everything was bright and sharp, like a print with too much contrast. He said, “No.”
Brad said, “What the…?”
Abby swung at him.
Brad blocked the punch and countered with a hard right. The universe exploded. Dreamlike, Abby was aware of reeling backward, of sitting down hard, of catching himself with his outstretched hands. Tears ran down his cheeks and an exquisite pain radiated from his nose, which seemed stopped up and twice as big.
His first clear impression was Ida asking, “What’s wrong with you?”
Then Brad, hand still balled in a fist said, “Are you through?”
The moment had passed. Abby answered with a nasal, stopped-up voice, “Yeah, I’m through. I am sorry. ”
Brad relaxed his fist and continued, seriously, as if this sort of thing happened to him every day, “Yeah, well I’m sorry too. That was partly my fault; I should not have said that to you and I should not have hit you so hard. But you threw a good punch. If you had come in straighter, a little faster, you would have nailed me.”
Except for the pain, Abby felt unaccountably good. “Well, I’ll try to remember that the next time.”
"Boys will be boys, won't they?" April looked down at them, a mixture of irritation and amusement replacing the fear on her face.
Abby squinted up. April's head was halloed by the afternoon sun. He was pleased that she seemed to regard both he and Brad with equal disfavor. Then his attention was caught by a grunt followed by a flap-flap-flapping sound. It was Ida stepping down from the low wall that bordered her yard and walking over to them in her pink bedroom slippers with the red, heart shaped bows. She said to her daughter, "April don't be that way."
A mask fell over April’s face. She looked at her mother, turned away, and walked quickly to the house.
April's mother was a round woman with champagne hair that lay flat on the back of her head and stuck out in front. Her pink housecoat had a stain over one large breast. Looking down at Brad and Abby, an odd smile on her face, she said, "Abby Burns, what has happened to you?"
"Ah, I …"
She interrupted, "Well, you'll have to come in the house and let me fix you up."
Turning to Brad, she said in mock-harsh tones. "And you, you bad boy, you had better get on home."
Brad stood up. He started, "Ida, I…" then shrugged, turned and walked back to his car.
Watching Brad leave, Ida suddenly shifted her attention, smiled and threw up her hand. She yelled, her voice sweet and southern, "Hello T.G.."
Abby followed her bleary gaze. It was T.G. Hamrick, a 72-year old retired newspaper man who lived in a rooming house around the corner. He was wearing shorts and a ratty old tee shirt. He had a intense face and wild gray hair, which made him look like a demented Albert Einstein. Sometimes Abby’s father invited him into the house, taking him down to his lab, once or twice while Abby was there.
T.G. stopped. Ignoring Ida, he stared at Abby for a long moment. Then he turned around and trotted back down the street toward the edge of town, where Abby lived.
Maybe it had been the poem. He muttered under his breath, “April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land.” But that made no sense either, even as the metaphor Mrs. Thompson had tried to explain. December or January might be cruel. Walking in a cold rain down Warren street, hunched inside the old oversize bombardier jacket that once belonged to his father, the sky as gray as what, death? That was cruel. July or August could also be cruel. Lying awake at night in a pool of sweat (because his mother turned the air conditioning back after the sun went down), trying to sleep, waiting for the air from the circulating fan to pass over his body, knowing it would only cool the exposed skin - that was cruel.
But what could be cruel about April?
The sun broke through the thick oak leaves that shadowed this part of Marion Street. Caught in the fluttering light, April seemed ethereal, on fire. He heard himself yell, “April!”
She stopped and turned, seeming to smile. “Yes.”
He found himself running to her. This was the first time he had talked to her away from school. Now she was standing in front of him, solid and real. She wore a sleeveless black blouse. Her skin was creamy tan. He could, if he dared, touch her heart-shaped face, her curving body.
He said, speaking in someone else’s voice “Ah, you know that poem, The Wasteland, in English today?”
“Yes, I remember it.” Her voice was throaty, low.
“Well, I was wondering what you thought, I mean, did it make any sense to you?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. Why?”
They were walking side-by-side now. April's house, a large Spanish-style bungalow with cactus growing wild in the front yard and curved iron bars over the deep recessed windows was just ahead. “It bothers me. What does it mean, April is the cruelest month? How can a month be cruel? People can be cruel. It would make more sense to say April is the cruelest girl, although I know that you are not cruel.”
She frowned, “You’ve been thinking about that? Anyway, I could be cruel. I could be anything. You don’t know me. Nobody does.”
A car pull up just behind them and stopped. A door slammed. A male voice yelled, “April!”
It was Brad Lail, football player, baseball player, and renown fighter - not a bully, more a fearless defender of strongly held opinions. Brad had claimed April in their sophomore year and now, two years later, would have been shocked if anyone tried to take his place. They had probably disagreed about something after school, which was why she was walking.
Easily, like a large graceful animal, Brad trotted over. He stepped into place beside April. Abby fell behind. April walked faster, her long smooth arms held tense, not swinging to match her pace. Ignoring Abby, Brad said, “I want to talk with you.”
Her face set into a frown, staring straight ahead, April said, “I don’t want to talk with you.”
Abby wanted to leave. Their fight seemed as intimate as lovemaking. However, this was his usual route home and it didn’t seem right to turn around or stop.
Suddenly, Brad took notice of him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
April hissed, “Brad!”
Abby said, “I am walking home from school.” Although resentful, he was about to leave when he found himself adding, “Why do you want to know?” Something was happening.
Brad seemed surprised. “Because we’re having a fight and I don’t want anybody around.” A stern look now on his face, he added, “So, get out of here.”
Abby watched himself with other’s eyes. Everything was bright and sharp, like a print with too much contrast. He said, “No.”
Brad said, “What the…?”
Abby swung at him.
Brad blocked the punch and countered with a hard right. The universe exploded. Dreamlike, Abby was aware of reeling backward, of sitting down hard, of catching himself with his outstretched hands. Tears ran down his cheeks and an exquisite pain radiated from his nose, which seemed stopped up and twice as big.
His first clear impression was Ida asking, “What’s wrong with you?”
Then Brad, hand still balled in a fist said, “Are you through?”
The moment had passed. Abby answered with a nasal, stopped-up voice, “Yeah, I’m through. I am sorry. ”
Brad relaxed his fist and continued, seriously, as if this sort of thing happened to him every day, “Yeah, well I’m sorry too. That was partly my fault; I should not have said that to you and I should not have hit you so hard. But you threw a good punch. If you had come in straighter, a little faster, you would have nailed me.”
Except for the pain, Abby felt unaccountably good. “Well, I’ll try to remember that the next time.”
"Boys will be boys, won't they?" April looked down at them, a mixture of irritation and amusement replacing the fear on her face.
Abby squinted up. April's head was halloed by the afternoon sun. He was pleased that she seemed to regard both he and Brad with equal disfavor. Then his attention was caught by a grunt followed by a flap-flap-flapping sound. It was Ida stepping down from the low wall that bordered her yard and walking over to them in her pink bedroom slippers with the red, heart shaped bows. She said to her daughter, "April don't be that way."
A mask fell over April’s face. She looked at her mother, turned away, and walked quickly to the house.
April's mother was a round woman with champagne hair that lay flat on the back of her head and stuck out in front. Her pink housecoat had a stain over one large breast. Looking down at Brad and Abby, an odd smile on her face, she said, "Abby Burns, what has happened to you?"
"Ah, I …"
She interrupted, "Well, you'll have to come in the house and let me fix you up."
Turning to Brad, she said in mock-harsh tones. "And you, you bad boy, you had better get on home."
Brad stood up. He started, "Ida, I…" then shrugged, turned and walked back to his car.
Watching Brad leave, Ida suddenly shifted her attention, smiled and threw up her hand. She yelled, her voice sweet and southern, "Hello T.G.."
Abby followed her bleary gaze. It was T.G. Hamrick, a 72-year old retired newspaper man who lived in a rooming house around the corner. He was wearing shorts and a ratty old tee shirt. He had a intense face and wild gray hair, which made him look like a demented Albert Einstein. Sometimes Abby’s father invited him into the house, taking him down to his lab, once or twice while Abby was there.
T.G. stopped. Ignoring Ida, he stared at Abby for a long moment. Then he turned around and trotted back down the street toward the edge of town, where Abby lived.
28 - someone watching
Babs quietly sobbed as did some other relatives. Wind rustled the leaves of the big oak which grew nearby.
Abby felt nothing except sick unease. He could vomit, as he had done this morning after the visit by Pruett the police detective, but he could not cry. He looked up.
April stood with her parents. She was wearing a white dress which was so bright in the sun it hurt his eyes. Seeing him she lifted her hand in a little hesitant wave. He smiled and nodded.
Directly across from line of the folding chairs where he, Babs and Stephen sat were the flower-shrouded coffins of his parents.
He could smell the flowers. They made him even sicker.
Beyond the coffins was a mound of rust red dirt covered with a green blanket that was supposed to resemble grass.
Beyond the dirt was a hill.
Beyond the hill at the edge of the cemetery was a row of pine trees and beyond that train tracks.
Beyond the tracks were the remains of an old lumber plant.
Beyond the plant, across the street, was a row of run down houses.
Beyond the houses were deep woods that went unbroken all the way to the river and beyond that the horizon where mountains lay like blue sleeping dogs.
Someone was watching.
Lutz stood and raised his bony hands. The service was over.
Abby felt nothing except sick unease. He could vomit, as he had done this morning after the visit by Pruett the police detective, but he could not cry. He looked up.
April stood with her parents. She was wearing a white dress which was so bright in the sun it hurt his eyes. Seeing him she lifted her hand in a little hesitant wave. He smiled and nodded.
Directly across from line of the folding chairs where he, Babs and Stephen sat were the flower-shrouded coffins of his parents.
He could smell the flowers. They made him even sicker.
Beyond the coffins was a mound of rust red dirt covered with a green blanket that was supposed to resemble grass.
Beyond the dirt was a hill.
Beyond the hill at the edge of the cemetery was a row of pine trees and beyond that train tracks.
Beyond the tracks were the remains of an old lumber plant.
Beyond the plant, across the street, was a row of run down houses.
Beyond the houses were deep woods that went unbroken all the way to the river and beyond that the horizon where mountains lay like blue sleeping dogs.
Someone was watching.
Lutz stood and raised his bony hands. The service was over.
33 - many worlds
A light breeze blew down the river. It smelled like moldy vegetation. T.G. appeared to think for a moment. “I died and came back.”
April started to laugh then looked at the old man’s eyes. They were pale blue like arctic ice. She was quiet.
“Weird isn’t it? The first time I came back as a young man. The second time as an old man - the way I was when I started. That was four years ago. When I approached your father.”
Abby said, “I remember him talking about a crazy old man.”
“Yes. But he believed me.”
“That seems odd.”
“It’s all odd. But I convinced him. He told your uncle Stephen. I convinced him too.”
“Stephen was involved? ”
“Very much. How much do you know about him?”
Abby shrugged. “He and my father were roommates at Yale. He introduced my father to my mother. He is a physicist and teaches at Columbia. He comes down here fairly often. More in the past four years. He spent a lot of time with my father. With my Aunt Babs too.”
He looked at T.G., waiting.
T.G. leaned forward placed his hands on his knees, looked down, then looked up. “Stephen believes in the many worlds hypothesis. That is the key. Do you know what it is?”
“I’ve read about it in science fiction books.”
April spoke. “I don’t know what it means.”
“In quantum physics things don’t really exist until you look at them. Until then they’re undefined, undermined. It’s called being in a superimposition of all possible states. Everything - every possibility is all piled up. The final result is random. It depends on probability.”
T.G. looked at Abby then April. She frowned.
T.G. said, “Have you ever heard of Schrodinger’s Cat paradox?”
Abby nodded. April shrugged.
T.G. looked at April, looked away. “A cat’s in a box with a vial of poison. Depending on the outcome of a quantum event - it doesn’t matter what kind, or what kind of mechanism is used, the vial is broken or stays intact. Until you look, the quantum event remains undefined - in a superimposition of all possible states.. Which means so long as you don’t look - until you collapse the probability wave and cause the event to go one way or another, the cat is both alive and dead. That’s the paradox.”
Abby said, “Where does the many worlds part come in?
“According to the standard theory when you look at something undetermined, when you collapse the probability wave, things go one way or the other - the cat either lives or dies. According to the many worlds theory, when you look, both things happen. There is no randomness. The universe just splits. There are two cats - one alive and one dead, and two of you - one with the dead cat and one with the live cat. A separate world is created for every possibility, for every point-of-view.”
Abby stood up, looked toward the river, invisible beyond the edge of the cliff.
T.G. continued, “Scientists like Stephen say that once you get past the strangeness, the many worlds theory actually makes more sense. The uncertainty goes away. The universe becomes determined again.”
Abby said wonderingly, “There is one world for every point-of-view.”
April started to speak, but T.G. waved her to be quiet. “Shh - your friend is having a breakthrough.”
“This isn’t the only place. That’s what you said.”
“I said that.”
“Is that what they did, build a many worlds machine?”
“Yes.”
“A point-of-view machine?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what I was doing - in the machine? Moving between worlds? How….?”
“It turns out that the point-of-view - the soul - whatever you want to call it - really exists. Not in normal space but in the space behind normal space - if that makes any sense. Colm’s machine temporarily detaches point-of-view from the body, from normal space. Shakes it loose, allows it to wander. That way you, or Colm, or somebody, could choose - whether to go with the dead cat or the live cat.”
T.G. picked up a twig and drew a tree-like shape in the dirt just beyond the toe of his scuffed New Balance walking shoe. “It’s like traveling along an infinitely branching tree. The material of this tree is the space behind regular space. The tree grows through regular space. Every time the universe splits a new branch is added - a new point-of-view. When you used the SPATIAL control you moved at the same level between nearby branches. When you used the TEMPORAL control you moved back down a branch. Of course it wasn’t you - the physical you - that was moving, but your point-of-view, picking alternatives, looking out from the tree into infinite worlds. A point of perception, but this time with a memory.”
T.G. stood up, said matter-of-factly. “That’s what happened to me when I died. My point-of-view got switched between a me in one world and a me in another world.”
Abby rose, facing T.G. “All right maybe I believe all this but you didn’t have a machine, how could…”
“There are others. They don’t need machines - or maybe they’ve got a machine I don’t know about. That’s possible. But when I die I move into another me; my point-of-view takes over. I know that.”
T.G. looked beyond the cliff, toward the river. “And I can get inside other people - in their dreams, their thoughts. I don’t make it happen. It just happens.”
“How do you know? Have you seen them?”
“The others? No. They just move me around, tell me what to do - in a manner of speaking.”
“My parents…”
“The man that killed them had been taken over - he was another point-of-view. From another branch. He would have killed you too.”
“But in another world…you said…”
“Yes, in the next world over they are alive. Other points-of-view. Other versions of you. Of them.“
“Why?”
“Why did the others do it - kill your parents? Kill me?”
“Yes. I suppose”
“I don’t know. Maybe they have a plan.”
“Is that why you killed that man? To save me - my point-of-view?”
“Yes. That was my idea, not the others.”
April walked over beside T.G., looked at him, looked down at the rocks 100 feet below. “Where does your point-of-view go when you die?”
T.G. walked to the edge of the cliff, looked down. “A good question. I don’t know. “
He touched his chest with his forefinger. “My point-of-view persists. Remembers where it has been. I don’t think that’s the way for most other people. They are scattered over many points-of-view - none of which knows about the other. When they die - well, it doesn’t make any difference. That’s just it.”
Abby stayed back. “What happens now?”
April tottered against T.G.. “I am dizzy.”
T.G. put his arm around her waist. “We move on.”
Later when he tried to explain it to Pruett the smiling detective, Abby said they just seem to get tangled up and fall.
April started to laugh then looked at the old man’s eyes. They were pale blue like arctic ice. She was quiet.
“Weird isn’t it? The first time I came back as a young man. The second time as an old man - the way I was when I started. That was four years ago. When I approached your father.”
Abby said, “I remember him talking about a crazy old man.”
“Yes. But he believed me.”
“That seems odd.”
“It’s all odd. But I convinced him. He told your uncle Stephen. I convinced him too.”
“Stephen was involved? ”
“Very much. How much do you know about him?”
Abby shrugged. “He and my father were roommates at Yale. He introduced my father to my mother. He is a physicist and teaches at Columbia. He comes down here fairly often. More in the past four years. He spent a lot of time with my father. With my Aunt Babs too.”
He looked at T.G., waiting.
T.G. leaned forward placed his hands on his knees, looked down, then looked up. “Stephen believes in the many worlds hypothesis. That is the key. Do you know what it is?”
“I’ve read about it in science fiction books.”
April spoke. “I don’t know what it means.”
“In quantum physics things don’t really exist until you look at them. Until then they’re undefined, undermined. It’s called being in a superimposition of all possible states. Everything - every possibility is all piled up. The final result is random. It depends on probability.”
T.G. looked at Abby then April. She frowned.
T.G. said, “Have you ever heard of Schrodinger’s Cat paradox?”
Abby nodded. April shrugged.
T.G. looked at April, looked away. “A cat’s in a box with a vial of poison. Depending on the outcome of a quantum event - it doesn’t matter what kind, or what kind of mechanism is used, the vial is broken or stays intact. Until you look, the quantum event remains undefined - in a superimposition of all possible states.. Which means so long as you don’t look - until you collapse the probability wave and cause the event to go one way or another, the cat is both alive and dead. That’s the paradox.”
Abby said, “Where does the many worlds part come in?
“According to the standard theory when you look at something undetermined, when you collapse the probability wave, things go one way or the other - the cat either lives or dies. According to the many worlds theory, when you look, both things happen. There is no randomness. The universe just splits. There are two cats - one alive and one dead, and two of you - one with the dead cat and one with the live cat. A separate world is created for every possibility, for every point-of-view.”
Abby stood up, looked toward the river, invisible beyond the edge of the cliff.
T.G. continued, “Scientists like Stephen say that once you get past the strangeness, the many worlds theory actually makes more sense. The uncertainty goes away. The universe becomes determined again.”
Abby said wonderingly, “There is one world for every point-of-view.”
April started to speak, but T.G. waved her to be quiet. “Shh - your friend is having a breakthrough.”
“This isn’t the only place. That’s what you said.”
“I said that.”
“Is that what they did, build a many worlds machine?”
“Yes.”
“A point-of-view machine?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what I was doing - in the machine? Moving between worlds? How….?”
“It turns out that the point-of-view - the soul - whatever you want to call it - really exists. Not in normal space but in the space behind normal space - if that makes any sense. Colm’s machine temporarily detaches point-of-view from the body, from normal space. Shakes it loose, allows it to wander. That way you, or Colm, or somebody, could choose - whether to go with the dead cat or the live cat.”
T.G. picked up a twig and drew a tree-like shape in the dirt just beyond the toe of his scuffed New Balance walking shoe. “It’s like traveling along an infinitely branching tree. The material of this tree is the space behind regular space. The tree grows through regular space. Every time the universe splits a new branch is added - a new point-of-view. When you used the SPATIAL control you moved at the same level between nearby branches. When you used the TEMPORAL control you moved back down a branch. Of course it wasn’t you - the physical you - that was moving, but your point-of-view, picking alternatives, looking out from the tree into infinite worlds. A point of perception, but this time with a memory.”
T.G. stood up, said matter-of-factly. “That’s what happened to me when I died. My point-of-view got switched between a me in one world and a me in another world.”
Abby rose, facing T.G. “All right maybe I believe all this but you didn’t have a machine, how could…”
“There are others. They don’t need machines - or maybe they’ve got a machine I don’t know about. That’s possible. But when I die I move into another me; my point-of-view takes over. I know that.”
T.G. looked beyond the cliff, toward the river. “And I can get inside other people - in their dreams, their thoughts. I don’t make it happen. It just happens.”
“How do you know? Have you seen them?”
“The others? No. They just move me around, tell me what to do - in a manner of speaking.”
“My parents…”
“The man that killed them had been taken over - he was another point-of-view. From another branch. He would have killed you too.”
“But in another world…you said…”
“Yes, in the next world over they are alive. Other points-of-view. Other versions of you. Of them.“
“Why?”
“Why did the others do it - kill your parents? Kill me?”
“Yes. I suppose”
“I don’t know. Maybe they have a plan.”
“Is that why you killed that man? To save me - my point-of-view?”
“Yes. That was my idea, not the others.”
April walked over beside T.G., looked at him, looked down at the rocks 100 feet below. “Where does your point-of-view go when you die?”
T.G. walked to the edge of the cliff, looked down. “A good question. I don’t know. “
He touched his chest with his forefinger. “My point-of-view persists. Remembers where it has been. I don’t think that’s the way for most other people. They are scattered over many points-of-view - none of which knows about the other. When they die - well, it doesn’t make any difference. That’s just it.”
Abby stayed back. “What happens now?”
April tottered against T.G.. “I am dizzy.”
T.G. put his arm around her waist. “We move on.”
Later when he tried to explain it to Pruett the smiling detective, Abby said they just seem to get tangled up and fall.
41 - fucking transcendent moment
We had just gathered in formation when the trucks that were going to take us to the firepower demonstration came roaring down the little street in front of the company area. Sergeant Ramos said “what the fuck” to Sergeant Lewis and strutted over to the lead truck. He tapped his swagger stick (the one with the 20 mm round mounted on the tip) against the side of the truck. His hat was pulled down low over his forehead so you couldn’t see his eyes. He talked for a while with the driver then came back, not as fast now, and said something to Lewis.
Lewis walked out in front of our formation and yelled, “Fall out. You’ve got 30 minutes.”.
I wandered over to the shady side of one the trucks and sat down with my back against a tire. It had a rubber smell. Oswald leaned against the other tire. Off in the distance I could hear another training company drilling - hup thrup threep four - left - left - left right left.
The cooling engine popped as I nodded off.
When I woke up something was different. I looked around at the others standing or lying down. It was like a French painting except instead of colorful insubstantial people there were drab insubstantial Marines. Oswald’s eyes were closed, his face relaxed in a frown. He was real.
I muttered. “Peaceful.”
“Say what?”
Oswald was awake.
“Nothing.”
He looked at me, grinning in that funny way he had. We were not friends. But we talked some. He was smarter than your average Marine. He said, “Naw - I heard you say, ‘peaceful’. What were you talking about?”
What the hell.
“When I woke up from my little nap I decided that I was peaceful.”
“Really” he said in his nasal southern accent, “how’s that?”
“It occurred to me that I didn’t give a shit. I didn’t give a shit about Sergeant Ramos, about the Corps, about you even. I had this little fucking transcendent moment. Know what I mean?”
“A rare moment of peace while we lie here waiting beside these trucks that will take us to a place where a variety of weapons will be demonstrated for our amusement?”
“That’s it.”
“No I don’t know what you mean.”
“You never had a fucking transcendent moment?”
Oswald snorted. “Sure. But my fucking transcendent moments aren’t exactly peaceful.”.
Lewis walked out in front of our formation and yelled, “Fall out. You’ve got 30 minutes.”.
I wandered over to the shady side of one the trucks and sat down with my back against a tire. It had a rubber smell. Oswald leaned against the other tire. Off in the distance I could hear another training company drilling - hup thrup threep four - left - left - left right left.
The cooling engine popped as I nodded off.
When I woke up something was different. I looked around at the others standing or lying down. It was like a French painting except instead of colorful insubstantial people there were drab insubstantial Marines. Oswald’s eyes were closed, his face relaxed in a frown. He was real.
I muttered. “Peaceful.”
“Say what?”
Oswald was awake.
“Nothing.”
He looked at me, grinning in that funny way he had. We were not friends. But we talked some. He was smarter than your average Marine. He said, “Naw - I heard you say, ‘peaceful’. What were you talking about?”
What the hell.
“When I woke up from my little nap I decided that I was peaceful.”
“Really” he said in his nasal southern accent, “how’s that?”
“It occurred to me that I didn’t give a shit. I didn’t give a shit about Sergeant Ramos, about the Corps, about you even. I had this little fucking transcendent moment. Know what I mean?”
“A rare moment of peace while we lie here waiting beside these trucks that will take us to a place where a variety of weapons will be demonstrated for our amusement?”
“That’s it.”
“No I don’t know what you mean.”
“You never had a fucking transcendent moment?”
Oswald snorted. “Sure. But my fucking transcendent moments aren’t exactly peaceful.”.
43 - sculptured wall of water
The child barely struggled. One moment he was there; the next moment he was - what, a point of perception forever peering down at the flooded creek that rushed in a sculptured wall of water toward the culvert?
"T.G., get away from that bank!"
A giant woman stood at the end of the dirt path that went beside the road. She wore a dark blue dress with a white collar. Her black hair was done up in a loose bun with strands sticking out. She stood with her hands on her hips, her legs spread, her expression intent. It was my mother, younger, even prettier than when I last saw her in a previous life. The wind blew her dress around her legs. I could hear the fabric rustle like a flag.
"T.G. come on in; it's time for dinner."
She walked briskly back along the path and crossed to the second house from the creek. She stepped up on the stoop and turned around to me.
Everything was huge. The house, a small bungalow, painted gray with blue shutters and trim, was like a mansion. The oak tree in the front yard, its leaves green and gray sparkling in the warm wind, towered to the dark blue sky. The shrubs on either side of the stoop were like monuments.
"T.G. damnit, come on!"
I answered, in a piping, soprano voice, " I am coming." I ran. It felt good.
Jumping up on the stoop beside her I had to bend my neck back to see her face. She didn't seem angry now. A smile played at the corner of her large, well-shaped mouth. She patted me lightly on the head. "Please son, don’t get close to the creek. And answer me when I call."
Her touch filled me with joy. I said, "Yes mother, I am sorry."
I followed her inside, through the little living room into a short hallway. She told me to wash my hands. The bathroom door was open. I stood at a sink that I could barely see over. I lathered my hands with coarse soap and dried off on a sour smelling damp towel. In the kitchen she was putting food on the table. The kitchen was pale yellow. There were no cabinets, only shelves with brown curtains. Where the curtains had been pulled back, I could see a haphazard collection of cans, boxes, pots, pans, glasses and plates. That was her work. I marveled. We sat at a small blue wooden table covered with a red and yellow flowered oilcloth which mother had wiped with a damp cloth. I gingerly placed the palm of my small hand on the wet surface. I had never liked the feeling; the oilcloth seemed sticky. It had a particular odor.
"You're not talking much."
What was suitable conversation for a five-year old? "Ah, I'm hungry. This is really good." We were eating tomato soup and cheese sandwiches that she had grilled in the frying pan which still rested on the small, white porcelain stove. The bread was yellow in the middle from the butter and crisp brown on the edges. It was good, better than the cookies I had eaten in the Pic’s apartment. (Perhaps the old woman whose body I shared had atrophied taste buds.)
We didn’t talk anymore. She read silently from a book which she had placed on the table beside her plate, leafing through the pages with her left hand while she handled her food with her right hand. When I was through, I put my empty soup bowl on top of my sandwich plate and carefully carried the stack to a small, one-basin sink, already filled with unwashed dishes from this morning. I was not aware of mother watching me, until she said, "Well, you are full of surprises aren't you?"
"If you only knew."
She looked at me for another moment then shrugged. “Why don’t you go on outside and play, while I clean up."
“All right.”
“And stay away from that creek.”
“All right.”
I went out the back door, down the rickety steps. A tin can with yellow flowers was sitting on the top step. I walked, head down, along a worn dirt path that went toward a garden. I felt like an old man.
"T.G.!"
I looked up. A little girl, about my size, came running out of the back yard of one of the neighboring prefabricated houses. She was wearing a brown shirt-like dress that stopped just above pretty little knees. Her hair was dark brown cut in bangs across her forehead. Her eyes were large and dark. She smiled at me, "Where are you going? You look silly, bent over like that. You look like my Paw-Paw."
Who was this child? Then I remembered. It was Alice. I had grieved for her when my family left Baltimore after the war to return to Shelby. "Hi Alice."
She repeated, "Where are you going?"
"Ah, no where."
She took my hand, pulling me. "Well, come with me. I've got a secret."
I let her tug me toward the yard from which she had come. "What is your secret?"
She made a face. "Silly, it’s a secret."
I looked around trying to associate what I saw with my memories. Near the house was a homemade animal cage, the door ajar. At the corner of our backyard, was my father's garden. It was planted where a tree had fallen, rotted and produced rich black dirt (not at all like the red clay of Piedmont North Carolina). It was a jungle of vegetables: blood-red tomatoes which looked as though they were about to burst, corn several times my height, and a complicated tangled of bean and cucumber plants. I said to Alice, "Wait here a minute."
I pushed my way through the corn, hearing it rustle, feeling the stalks like bony fingers scratch against my exposed skin.
"Where are you going?"
Alice moved beside me, brushing against my shoulder. I started to tell her to leave, then didn't because it didn't make any difference. "No where. I don’t know."
I walked further among the haphazardly planted rows of corn; Alice followed. We came to a small opening in the middle of the garden, like a cave with a sky-blue roof. The smell of the plants and dirt was overpowering. Alice whispered, "Look, it’s Killer!" and pointed with a small finger to something. I looked but saw nothing. I said, "What?"
She hissed, “Over there stupid!"
"Oh"
It was a rabbit, appearing huge this close. It was snow white with black tipped rakish ears, one pitched forward, the other to the side. It's eyes were red and it's nose twitched. The rabbit seemed to study us. Alice inched forward, her hand outstretched. She managed to get within a foot of it before the rabbit bolted, disappearing with a rustle into the corn.
I said, out of breath, "I see Killer got loose. I wonder where he is going?"
Alice didn’t answer. She shivered. She looked at my house, at the neighbor’s house. Turning around she looked at the little house across our backyard. She said. “Oh, it’s home.” She stared at me. A small smile pulled at the edge of her mouth. “Well, Thompson Gaines. I guess it’s gone down the rabbit hole.”.
"T.G., get away from that bank!"
A giant woman stood at the end of the dirt path that went beside the road. She wore a dark blue dress with a white collar. Her black hair was done up in a loose bun with strands sticking out. She stood with her hands on her hips, her legs spread, her expression intent. It was my mother, younger, even prettier than when I last saw her in a previous life. The wind blew her dress around her legs. I could hear the fabric rustle like a flag.
"T.G. come on in; it's time for dinner."
She walked briskly back along the path and crossed to the second house from the creek. She stepped up on the stoop and turned around to me.
Everything was huge. The house, a small bungalow, painted gray with blue shutters and trim, was like a mansion. The oak tree in the front yard, its leaves green and gray sparkling in the warm wind, towered to the dark blue sky. The shrubs on either side of the stoop were like monuments.
"T.G. damnit, come on!"
I answered, in a piping, soprano voice, " I am coming." I ran. It felt good.
Jumping up on the stoop beside her I had to bend my neck back to see her face. She didn't seem angry now. A smile played at the corner of her large, well-shaped mouth. She patted me lightly on the head. "Please son, don’t get close to the creek. And answer me when I call."
Her touch filled me with joy. I said, "Yes mother, I am sorry."
I followed her inside, through the little living room into a short hallway. She told me to wash my hands. The bathroom door was open. I stood at a sink that I could barely see over. I lathered my hands with coarse soap and dried off on a sour smelling damp towel. In the kitchen she was putting food on the table. The kitchen was pale yellow. There were no cabinets, only shelves with brown curtains. Where the curtains had been pulled back, I could see a haphazard collection of cans, boxes, pots, pans, glasses and plates. That was her work. I marveled. We sat at a small blue wooden table covered with a red and yellow flowered oilcloth which mother had wiped with a damp cloth. I gingerly placed the palm of my small hand on the wet surface. I had never liked the feeling; the oilcloth seemed sticky. It had a particular odor.
"You're not talking much."
What was suitable conversation for a five-year old? "Ah, I'm hungry. This is really good." We were eating tomato soup and cheese sandwiches that she had grilled in the frying pan which still rested on the small, white porcelain stove. The bread was yellow in the middle from the butter and crisp brown on the edges. It was good, better than the cookies I had eaten in the Pic’s apartment. (Perhaps the old woman whose body I shared had atrophied taste buds.)
We didn’t talk anymore. She read silently from a book which she had placed on the table beside her plate, leafing through the pages with her left hand while she handled her food with her right hand. When I was through, I put my empty soup bowl on top of my sandwich plate and carefully carried the stack to a small, one-basin sink, already filled with unwashed dishes from this morning. I was not aware of mother watching me, until she said, "Well, you are full of surprises aren't you?"
"If you only knew."
She looked at me for another moment then shrugged. “Why don’t you go on outside and play, while I clean up."
“All right.”
“And stay away from that creek.”
“All right.”
I went out the back door, down the rickety steps. A tin can with yellow flowers was sitting on the top step. I walked, head down, along a worn dirt path that went toward a garden. I felt like an old man.
"T.G.!"
I looked up. A little girl, about my size, came running out of the back yard of one of the neighboring prefabricated houses. She was wearing a brown shirt-like dress that stopped just above pretty little knees. Her hair was dark brown cut in bangs across her forehead. Her eyes were large and dark. She smiled at me, "Where are you going? You look silly, bent over like that. You look like my Paw-Paw."
Who was this child? Then I remembered. It was Alice. I had grieved for her when my family left Baltimore after the war to return to Shelby. "Hi Alice."
She repeated, "Where are you going?"
"Ah, no where."
She took my hand, pulling me. "Well, come with me. I've got a secret."
I let her tug me toward the yard from which she had come. "What is your secret?"
She made a face. "Silly, it’s a secret."
I looked around trying to associate what I saw with my memories. Near the house was a homemade animal cage, the door ajar. At the corner of our backyard, was my father's garden. It was planted where a tree had fallen, rotted and produced rich black dirt (not at all like the red clay of Piedmont North Carolina). It was a jungle of vegetables: blood-red tomatoes which looked as though they were about to burst, corn several times my height, and a complicated tangled of bean and cucumber plants. I said to Alice, "Wait here a minute."
I pushed my way through the corn, hearing it rustle, feeling the stalks like bony fingers scratch against my exposed skin.
"Where are you going?"
Alice moved beside me, brushing against my shoulder. I started to tell her to leave, then didn't because it didn't make any difference. "No where. I don’t know."
I walked further among the haphazardly planted rows of corn; Alice followed. We came to a small opening in the middle of the garden, like a cave with a sky-blue roof. The smell of the plants and dirt was overpowering. Alice whispered, "Look, it’s Killer!" and pointed with a small finger to something. I looked but saw nothing. I said, "What?"
She hissed, “Over there stupid!"
"Oh"
It was a rabbit, appearing huge this close. It was snow white with black tipped rakish ears, one pitched forward, the other to the side. It's eyes were red and it's nose twitched. The rabbit seemed to study us. Alice inched forward, her hand outstretched. She managed to get within a foot of it before the rabbit bolted, disappearing with a rustle into the corn.
I said, out of breath, "I see Killer got loose. I wonder where he is going?"
Alice didn’t answer. She shivered. She looked at my house, at the neighbor’s house. Turning around she looked at the little house across our backyard. She said. “Oh, it’s home.” She stared at me. A small smile pulled at the edge of her mouth. “Well, Thompson Gaines. I guess it’s gone down the rabbit hole.”.
48 - broad outlines
The others had gone in. Alice and I sat in adjoining rockers on the front porch. I balanced a cup of coffee on the arm of my chair. She drank ice tea. Condensation beaded on the glass. The only light was from the street lamp. We were in patchy shadows behind the large camellia bushes, hidden from people passing by.
At supper and later outside with everyone present, the broad outlines of our stories had been established.
We had gone first. Mother told how we had moved from Baltimore to North Carolina where we had been ever since, father working for various woodworking plants, her keeping house although lately she had been thinking about getting a job. Tommy told about being an apprentice molder mechanic. I told about my lightning strike and what had happened this morning - at least some of it. Sitting across from me at the dinning table, Alice seemed especially interested in the lightning strike, where I had been, how long I had been out, the after effects.
When it was her turn, Alice related a similarly abbreviated history of her family. She told us they had moved from Baltimore to New York after the war. She said her mother owned a little art gallery and her father was a lawyer with a big firm in Manhattan. She said they lived near Central Park and that she was a third year physics student at Columbia and planned to get her PhD, but maybe not at Columbia. Tommy looked at me and whistled soundlessly. Cutting into the steak that my mother had unfrozen and grilled for the occasion Alice laughed and said her little brother, the baby who was born the last year we were in Baltimore, was now six feet four inches tall and weighed 200 pounds and could eat three of those.
My mother had remarked, “I think I still have one of your mother’s drawings.”
Alice replied, “She still speaks of you.”
After adjourning to the porch, wreathed in smoke from everybody’s cigarettes Alice explained her visit, relating how she had been driving to Miami to see her grandparents and happened to remember that we once lived in Shelby and decided on a whim to detour through this part of North Carolina. She looked us up in the phone book at the Gulf station downtown (across from the pretty Methodist church) and asked the nice man for directions. He said yes he knew T.G. and led the way to our house on his three-wheel motorcycle.
I said, “And here we are.”
Her voice, hesitant now, softer, answered from the dark, “And here we are. Down the rabbit hole.”
“So you are that Alice.”
“And you are that T.G.”
“Yep. Down in the hole. Where they keep the devil.”
I reached out; her hand appeared from the dark. We touched, did not let go. Her hand was smooth, strong. Her palm was wet from the tea glass.
“I thought you were a little too interested in my lightning story.”
“It was my story too. That’s when I knew it was you.” She paused. “What happened to us?”
“I don’t know. We died I guess.”
She slowly withdrew her hand. I was reluctant to let go. “How many times for you?”
“Four. I got struck by lightning when I was 72, shot when I was 20, fell off a cliff when I was 72 again, and drowned when I was five. Of course you were there the last time. What about you?”
“You have been busy. Three for me. Lightning at age 72, a car wreck at 20 and the drowning at five.”
“You are no slouch.” I gestured toward that driveway. “Was the wreck in that Volvo?”
“Yes. In my previous reincarnation. On this trip actually.”
“But not this time?”
“I don’t think so.”
“And of course there is the dropping in on people. Or into people. Do you do that?”
She shook her head. “I have done it but I am not sure I will anymore.”
“I don’t think I will either.”
“One of those feelings? Like in Baltimore when we both knew we had to get in that boat and drown.”
I sipped my coffee, which had become tepid. “Yes a feeling.”
We were silent. I heard her rocker creak. She had pulled her knees up to her chest, was hugging her legs like a little girl. She said, “You said something the last time, just before we drowned. About people with a machine. What did you mean?”
She stopped rocking, waited for me to answer.
“It was my second reincarnation. I came back to Shelby as an old man again and this time I knew - had a feeling that I was supposed to talk to this man, Colm. He had made a fortune in the computer business and retired to Shelby where he grew up. I occupied him before I told my story - that is why he believed me. He and his brother-in-law, a physicist from Yale, built a machine, a computer, that lets people do what we do. They called it the ‘many worlds machine’. His son, Abby, was the test subject.”
“Many worlds. Ah. What happened?”
“A man, somebody like us - with a shimmer - was taken over by them, the others. He killed Colm and his wife. I killed him before he could kill Abby.”
“Why?”
“Why did they do it? I don’t know. Maybe they have a plan. Maybe we do it ourselves, have some volition. I don’t know. Anyway, I fell off a cliff with a girl named April who was also taken over and I ended up in Baltimore for a little while with you. It doesn’t make much sense.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
We both rocked for several minutes, not saying anything.
I announced. “I had an accident. Or maybe they had an accident with me.”
Holding her tea glass, she twisted her rocker around so it was facing me. She put her legs down. I could see a flash of skin, pale in the street light. “What kind of accident?”
“Before the episode this morning, which was a reincarnation of the episode when I died by gunshot, I ended up between things. Beyond nothing - in no place. I can’t describe it. I think they were trying to send me somewhere and messed up. Or maybe I couldn’t do it anymore. I got stuck - or came loose. Somebody had to come and get me. After that, like you, I had a feeling that I would not be dropping into anybody anymore or dying, at least not until the last time when I go for good. That part of me is used up.”
“What kind of something or somebody came to get you?”
“I don’t know. A presence. I didn’t see anything. I mean I really didn’t see anything.”
A car with a broken muffler came roaring down Lee Street, headed out of town. I waited until the noise had passed. “Did you also have an accident?”
“No. Maybe they learned from you.” She rocked forward. Her knee touched my knee then fell away. “Is there a pattern or a theme to your travels?”
I nodded in the dark. “It’s Lee Harvey Oswald. All the people I dropped in on were involved with him in one way or another. I’ve seen him as a toddler, a teenager, and an adult. He’s an interesting guy. Do you have a theme? Do you see Oswald?”
She waited a long time. “No, I see Kennedy. I am Kennedy.”
“What do you do?”
“I try to influence him to be careful. What do you do?”
“I try to get people to kill Oswald. I don’t really want him dead. But that seems to be my job. Maybe I am supposed to rewrite history.”
I could see her head shake in the patchy dark. Her voice was certain now. “No that doesn’t make sense. In an infinite number of worlds, in an infinite number of universes there is bound to be at least one where Kennedy survives.”
“Maybe you’re right. Stephen told me about that - about the infinite worlds.”
“He was one of those with the machine?”
“The brother-in-law.”
Just then, mother, who seemed to like having a girl to look after, pushed open the screen and stepped out on the porch. She said, “Alice, you must be exhausted. Why don’t you go to bed. I’ve got T.G.’s room ready for you. You two can talk more tomorrow.”
Before going in I had a chance to whisper one more question, “Did you actually remember that we lived in Shelby?”
“No. I dreamed it. That’s what I do now.”
At supper and later outside with everyone present, the broad outlines of our stories had been established.
We had gone first. Mother told how we had moved from Baltimore to North Carolina where we had been ever since, father working for various woodworking plants, her keeping house although lately she had been thinking about getting a job. Tommy told about being an apprentice molder mechanic. I told about my lightning strike and what had happened this morning - at least some of it. Sitting across from me at the dinning table, Alice seemed especially interested in the lightning strike, where I had been, how long I had been out, the after effects.
When it was her turn, Alice related a similarly abbreviated history of her family. She told us they had moved from Baltimore to New York after the war. She said her mother owned a little art gallery and her father was a lawyer with a big firm in Manhattan. She said they lived near Central Park and that she was a third year physics student at Columbia and planned to get her PhD, but maybe not at Columbia. Tommy looked at me and whistled soundlessly. Cutting into the steak that my mother had unfrozen and grilled for the occasion Alice laughed and said her little brother, the baby who was born the last year we were in Baltimore, was now six feet four inches tall and weighed 200 pounds and could eat three of those.
My mother had remarked, “I think I still have one of your mother’s drawings.”
Alice replied, “She still speaks of you.”
After adjourning to the porch, wreathed in smoke from everybody’s cigarettes Alice explained her visit, relating how she had been driving to Miami to see her grandparents and happened to remember that we once lived in Shelby and decided on a whim to detour through this part of North Carolina. She looked us up in the phone book at the Gulf station downtown (across from the pretty Methodist church) and asked the nice man for directions. He said yes he knew T.G. and led the way to our house on his three-wheel motorcycle.
I said, “And here we are.”
Her voice, hesitant now, softer, answered from the dark, “And here we are. Down the rabbit hole.”
“So you are that Alice.”
“And you are that T.G.”
“Yep. Down in the hole. Where they keep the devil.”
I reached out; her hand appeared from the dark. We touched, did not let go. Her hand was smooth, strong. Her palm was wet from the tea glass.
“I thought you were a little too interested in my lightning story.”
“It was my story too. That’s when I knew it was you.” She paused. “What happened to us?”
“I don’t know. We died I guess.”
She slowly withdrew her hand. I was reluctant to let go. “How many times for you?”
“Four. I got struck by lightning when I was 72, shot when I was 20, fell off a cliff when I was 72 again, and drowned when I was five. Of course you were there the last time. What about you?”
“You have been busy. Three for me. Lightning at age 72, a car wreck at 20 and the drowning at five.”
“You are no slouch.” I gestured toward that driveway. “Was the wreck in that Volvo?”
“Yes. In my previous reincarnation. On this trip actually.”
“But not this time?”
“I don’t think so.”
“And of course there is the dropping in on people. Or into people. Do you do that?”
She shook her head. “I have done it but I am not sure I will anymore.”
“I don’t think I will either.”
“One of those feelings? Like in Baltimore when we both knew we had to get in that boat and drown.”
I sipped my coffee, which had become tepid. “Yes a feeling.”
We were silent. I heard her rocker creak. She had pulled her knees up to her chest, was hugging her legs like a little girl. She said, “You said something the last time, just before we drowned. About people with a machine. What did you mean?”
She stopped rocking, waited for me to answer.
“It was my second reincarnation. I came back to Shelby as an old man again and this time I knew - had a feeling that I was supposed to talk to this man, Colm. He had made a fortune in the computer business and retired to Shelby where he grew up. I occupied him before I told my story - that is why he believed me. He and his brother-in-law, a physicist from Yale, built a machine, a computer, that lets people do what we do. They called it the ‘many worlds machine’. His son, Abby, was the test subject.”
“Many worlds. Ah. What happened?”
“A man, somebody like us - with a shimmer - was taken over by them, the others. He killed Colm and his wife. I killed him before he could kill Abby.”
“Why?”
“Why did they do it? I don’t know. Maybe they have a plan. Maybe we do it ourselves, have some volition. I don’t know. Anyway, I fell off a cliff with a girl named April who was also taken over and I ended up in Baltimore for a little while with you. It doesn’t make much sense.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
We both rocked for several minutes, not saying anything.
I announced. “I had an accident. Or maybe they had an accident with me.”
Holding her tea glass, she twisted her rocker around so it was facing me. She put her legs down. I could see a flash of skin, pale in the street light. “What kind of accident?”
“Before the episode this morning, which was a reincarnation of the episode when I died by gunshot, I ended up between things. Beyond nothing - in no place. I can’t describe it. I think they were trying to send me somewhere and messed up. Or maybe I couldn’t do it anymore. I got stuck - or came loose. Somebody had to come and get me. After that, like you, I had a feeling that I would not be dropping into anybody anymore or dying, at least not until the last time when I go for good. That part of me is used up.”
“What kind of something or somebody came to get you?”
“I don’t know. A presence. I didn’t see anything. I mean I really didn’t see anything.”
A car with a broken muffler came roaring down Lee Street, headed out of town. I waited until the noise had passed. “Did you also have an accident?”
“No. Maybe they learned from you.” She rocked forward. Her knee touched my knee then fell away. “Is there a pattern or a theme to your travels?”
I nodded in the dark. “It’s Lee Harvey Oswald. All the people I dropped in on were involved with him in one way or another. I’ve seen him as a toddler, a teenager, and an adult. He’s an interesting guy. Do you have a theme? Do you see Oswald?”
She waited a long time. “No, I see Kennedy. I am Kennedy.”
“What do you do?”
“I try to influence him to be careful. What do you do?”
“I try to get people to kill Oswald. I don’t really want him dead. But that seems to be my job. Maybe I am supposed to rewrite history.”
I could see her head shake in the patchy dark. Her voice was certain now. “No that doesn’t make sense. In an infinite number of worlds, in an infinite number of universes there is bound to be at least one where Kennedy survives.”
“Maybe you’re right. Stephen told me about that - about the infinite worlds.”
“He was one of those with the machine?”
“The brother-in-law.”
Just then, mother, who seemed to like having a girl to look after, pushed open the screen and stepped out on the porch. She said, “Alice, you must be exhausted. Why don’t you go to bed. I’ve got T.G.’s room ready for you. You two can talk more tomorrow.”
Before going in I had a chance to whisper one more question, “Did you actually remember that we lived in Shelby?”
“No. I dreamed it. That’s what I do now.”
53 - on Dumaine Street
New Orleans. Sunday, June 16, 1963. 2:00 PM.
Oswald patrolled the Dumaine Street wharf, near where the U.S.S. Wasp was docked, passing out his Fair Play for Cuba handbills. He was wearing blue chinos, a white shirt and a tie. Most of the sailors just looked at him. A few laughed. But that didn’t seem to bother him. He moved on to the next person.
I stood across the street near an alley under the awning of a two story frame building. It was five minutes before he noticed me. Carrying his handbills, he walked over to where I waited.
“I know you.”
The crooked little smile was still there but his eyes and posture were angry.
I edged toward the alley.
“Yep. Moscow. In front of the U.S. Embassy. I see that you made it back.”
He moved closer. I could feel his heat. He had an odor that I had never noticed before. “Who are you? FBI? CIA? Are you one of those who have been bothering Marina? I told them to stay away.”
I stood at the entrance to the alley. “No I am not any of those people. I’m nobody.”
“Well what do you want? Why are you following me?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I just show up where you are. I guess I am a fan.”
His face twisted then he looked at me closer. His expression changed. He believed me.
“Why?”
I stepped into the alley. He followed me. We were no longer visible from the street. “You are important.”
He laughed, a short barking noise. “Well sure, But I’ve never seen you before - before Moscow anyway.”
“Oh, but I have been around. You wouldn’t believe.”
He looked at me. The sweet odor of rotting vegetables filled the alley and nearby there was music and beer.
“Remember when you were little and chased John Pic with a knife and your mother told old man Carlton ‘They have these little scuffles all the time and don't worry about it.’? I was there.”
He stared at me.
“And you remember that time in New York when you threatened Marge Pic with a knife and got you and your mother kicked out of the apartment? I saw that too.”
His breathing was heavy and his lips shook around the crooked smile.
“And you remember in the cafeteria with the Jewish Negro boy named Goldberg when you asked what existentialism means? I saw that.”
He whispered, “Shut up!”
I was silent.
“How do you know all that?”
“I’m special.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t want anything. But some people do. They think you should stop while you are ahead.”
Oswald’s voice trembled, “Ahead of what?”
“Oh, ahead of history I guess. I don’t know. You almost killed Walker. Be content with that.”
Oswald stuck his hand in his pocket, scrambling for something. Not knowing how I knew how to do it, I grabbed his wrist before he could pull his hand out and hit him twice in the stomach and twice in the face. I could feel his cheek bone crumble. He sagged to the dirty pavement. The flyers scattered.
Leaning over, I said to him, “Think about what I said. OK?”
Oswald patrolled the Dumaine Street wharf, near where the U.S.S. Wasp was docked, passing out his Fair Play for Cuba handbills. He was wearing blue chinos, a white shirt and a tie. Most of the sailors just looked at him. A few laughed. But that didn’t seem to bother him. He moved on to the next person.
I stood across the street near an alley under the awning of a two story frame building. It was five minutes before he noticed me. Carrying his handbills, he walked over to where I waited.
“I know you.”
The crooked little smile was still there but his eyes and posture were angry.
I edged toward the alley.
“Yep. Moscow. In front of the U.S. Embassy. I see that you made it back.”
He moved closer. I could feel his heat. He had an odor that I had never noticed before. “Who are you? FBI? CIA? Are you one of those who have been bothering Marina? I told them to stay away.”
I stood at the entrance to the alley. “No I am not any of those people. I’m nobody.”
“Well what do you want? Why are you following me?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I just show up where you are. I guess I am a fan.”
His face twisted then he looked at me closer. His expression changed. He believed me.
“Why?”
I stepped into the alley. He followed me. We were no longer visible from the street. “You are important.”
He laughed, a short barking noise. “Well sure, But I’ve never seen you before - before Moscow anyway.”
“Oh, but I have been around. You wouldn’t believe.”
He looked at me. The sweet odor of rotting vegetables filled the alley and nearby there was music and beer.
“Remember when you were little and chased John Pic with a knife and your mother told old man Carlton ‘They have these little scuffles all the time and don't worry about it.’? I was there.”
He stared at me.
“And you remember that time in New York when you threatened Marge Pic with a knife and got you and your mother kicked out of the apartment? I saw that too.”
His breathing was heavy and his lips shook around the crooked smile.
“And you remember in the cafeteria with the Jewish Negro boy named Goldberg when you asked what existentialism means? I saw that.”
He whispered, “Shut up!”
I was silent.
“How do you know all that?”
“I’m special.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t want anything. But some people do. They think you should stop while you are ahead.”
Oswald’s voice trembled, “Ahead of what?”
“Oh, ahead of history I guess. I don’t know. You almost killed Walker. Be content with that.”
Oswald stuck his hand in his pocket, scrambling for something. Not knowing how I knew how to do it, I grabbed his wrist before he could pull his hand out and hit him twice in the stomach and twice in the face. I could feel his cheek bone crumble. He sagged to the dirty pavement. The flyers scattered.
Leaning over, I said to him, “Think about what I said. OK?”
54 - Dealey Plaza
I entered the Texas Book Depository from the loading dock and went up the back stairs to the 6th floor. Oswald was hiding in a narrow space behind a stack of cardboard boxes, crouched on his knees, looking out an open window. The rifle rested on his lap. The motorcade had not yet entered Dealey Plaza
The space was bright.
I was wearing sneakers so he didn’t hear me. I said, “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
He swung around.
“You!”
...
(to the end)
The space was bright.
I was wearing sneakers so he didn’t hear me. I said, “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
He swung around.
“You!”
...
(to the end)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
