Psychic

by F. P. Dorchak

  “Look,” Buddy casually began, “it’s pretty hard having a conversation all by your lonesome, at least it is for me,” he said, chuckling, “but if you don’t eat these, I will!”

  Travis saw him, clear as day. Across the table from him. Munching on pancake and smiling that big French-Canadian, shit-eating grin of his. Travis inhaled, then listened to all the normal breakfast-rich sounds and smells associated with restaurants; they seemed real… the smell of coffee and cooked meat… eggs and pancakes… the normal early morning rustle of subdued conversation and clanking of silverware and plates.

  “Look, we gotta talk,” Buddy said, reaching across for more. “I know we haven’t seen much of each other lately,” he said, eating Travis’s pancake, “but things have been prit-tee busy, eh? Mind if I have some of your eggs?”

  Travis looked around the room. Some continued to glance toward him, but, for the most part, most seemed to have lost interest and were back into their own little worlds and food. Travis looked back to Buddy, who, this time, remained there, still eating his food.

  “Hey!,” Buddy said, “you listening to me? Focus here, okay, pal?” he said, making a “V” with his index and middle fingers, alternating them between his and Travis’s eyes. Then his voice lowered and he looked around. “I found oot some things… aboot The Cent—”

  Then he was gone.

  That was almost more of a shock than having had him show up in the first place. While he’d been sitting there, it was like he’d always been there, and now he just… disappeared… while he watched.

  “You better start eating some of those before someone thinks we’re dating,” Buddy’s disembodied voice said. Travis hurriedly looked around searched the booth before him, both above and below the table. No Buddy.

  “What’s going on here?” Travis whispered, trying to remain casual. “How come only I can see you?”

  Buddy again reappeared, but this time had a plate of his own omelette and pancakes before him. Buddy was in the mid-action of sitting down with a bottle of Tabasco in hand. He immediately slathered it all over his Big Daddy Trucker Omelette. “Gotta love this stuff, eh?” he said, capping the bottle and placing it back on the table between them. “Man, if The Motherland had this stuff, it wouldn’t be sew damned cold up there! Oooh-wee!”

  Travis leaned forward, trying not to look crazy to the restaurant’s patrons. He picked up and replaced the Tabasco bottle. He was also unable to avoid validating that Buddy LaRouque was — indeed — again, sitting before him and having breakfast — his own, this time.

  “Look, I told you, eat — I’m not talking anymore until you eat. You’re such a skinny shit, eh!”

  Travis sat back, shot another glance around the room, and began poking at his food. Suddenly his appetite wasn’t what it had been.

  Buddy continued talking, but Travis was having a hard time paying attention. It was suddenly very hard to think… to focus. It was like… he was being stretched across some weird psychic canvases… two of them, one of which he wasn’t supposed to be on. He felt his mind expand, his body tingled… vibrating in a deep, internally unnerving, way. He looked back to Buddy, but he was gone. As was Buddy’s food, of course. The Tabasco sauce remained. Had probably always been there. Looking to other tables, he spotted several bottles of the stuff.

  This time Travis caught on, and though he still cast a nervous glare around the room, he did so unobtrusively, and continued to pick at his food until Buddy returned.

  “Well,” Buddy said, fading back in, “that was great!” Buddy’s cheery demeanor turned serious. “Okay, enough play,” Buddy’s tone got serious. “I’ve found oot aboot one of your former presidents—”

  “Could you please get to the point? You keep fading out—”

  “—but I’m not sure this is even the place to do it,” Buddy said.

  Buddy wiped his mouth with a napkin and set it aside. His form continued to fade in and out.

  “Buddy,” Travis insisted, whispering, but Buddy kept right on talking. Travis watched him. When he was sure no one was looking — or pretty confident, anyway — he slid a spoon across the table at him. Predictably, it slid right on through Buddy’s image, hit the booth’s seatback, and landed in the booth seat. Buddy hadn’t moved an inch to react to it — or chide him about it. Travis tossed his knife at him. Same thing, only this time the utensil bounced off the seat and clattered to the floor. Travis acted as if it was an accident, as others again looked over to him.

  “Buddy,” Travis whispered, “I’ve been sleeping with Gina—”

  Still nothing. Buddy was carrying on his own conversation, so, Travis began to eat… and listen. But, Buddy kept fading in and out. It was getting tiresome. Travis pushed away his plate and picked up the ticket Edna had deposited when she’d delivered his food.

  “C’mon, c’mon…” he said, anxiously, “come back…”

  But as he sat there, Buddy never rematerialized. In fact, Travis felt as if his entire presence was now… gone. And there was a nagging alarm going off about something about Buddy.

  He sipped his coffee.

  Still nothing.

  Again, massaging his brow, Travis casually glanced about the room and found those two children he’d seen earlier staring at him. They stood against a wall on the far side of the room, alongside a table full of truckers and their glares. A “Liar’s Table” sign hung above the table. He stared at the children and the truckers. Hey, why not take a picture, it’ll last longer, one meaty stare from a trucker suggested. Travis looked away.

  An involuntary spasm caused him to crush the receipt, and when he did that, it seemed to pull him outside of himself. He blinked, wiped his face, and blinked again. Okay, maybe he should just go. Get into work, and try to put this little episode behind him — or prepare for whatever was to happen next. But he really wanted to know what Buddy had to tell him about The Center, and what that nagging feeling about Buddy was in the first place.

  Travis got up and pulled out his wallet, when he momentarily swore he was holding a double-blind tasking envelope. Okay, he thought, let’s get with the program, and again forced his wallet back into his point of view. He pulled out a couple of bills, paused, then pulled out a five, leaving that for Edna. She more than deserved that for his public display of weirdness. Travis went to the register, paid his ticket, said a fond and uncomfortable “later” to both Becky and Edna… and departed. But once he got into his Jeep a realization struck that actually caused him to break out into a profuse and frigid sweat.

  Who the hell was Buddy LaRouque?

  Chapter Fifteen

  1

  Mel Roberts had another Vernors and sat back on the couch. He felt worlds better after having talked with Lizzie. It was amazing how much better a person could feel after having unloaded a heavily burdened mind; finally… someone to confide in — to… talk to…

  But as he’d replayed the events of his life to Lizzie, well, somehow the recent events just hadn’t seemed right. Something was missing. He knew the reality of the facts themselves, but something about them just didn’t sit right. Yes, there had been a car crash — an accident — yes, his parents had been killed, and, yes, he had been left on his own, to forever fend for his parentless self, in his Family of One.

  Was that so hard to believe?

  So many others had survived on their own without adult guidance, and at younger ages… hadn’t they? And had he absolutely no other kin — aunts, uncles, nor cousins?—to help raise him? He didn’t know much about the law, but wouldn’t the state… or some agency… appoint someone to oversee him? There was just something weird about everything.

  And there was more.

  He’d only just realized it after the phone call, and it was something that quite disturbed him. He felt — and this was hard to even admit to himself — but, about his parents, he actually felt…

  Emotionless.

  “How can I even think such a thing!” he said, shooting to his feet.

&
nbsp; But the thought was there… and there, he’d said it. Put it out into the universe, as his mom would have said (would — had she — really?). After the initial outburst at finding the upstairs pictures, he’d found that all familial emotion (substitute “love”; there was no longer any need to distance himself from the facts) actually seemed to have waned.

  And while talking to Lizzie he’d never said anything about “love” (it’d occurred to him during the course of their conversation), and he’d felt extremely awkward discussing — using — the word. Feeling the actual emotion.

  “Love”… it just wasn’t there.

  How could he not love his parents?

  Had they been evil? Deserved to die?

  No. They’d been there his entire life, had been the best parents in the world, only to — one day — disappear. To forever be gone. Just like that.

  How the hell could he not have any feelings toward them? About their abrupt departure from this world… from his life?

  Mel stared at the television, his only family, now. Stared at the wall behind it… the walls surrounding him and the TV… the couch… the floor. Tried to let whatever intangibility might be drowning deep within him to bubble its way to the surface, where (he told himself) he could finally identify, grab, and categorize it. Make whatever it was that was wrong with him make sense.

  Did he have any feelings toward his parents?

  He sat in the flickering light of the television. Stared blankly through the television screen.

  None. Nothing.

  Not a damned thing.

  2

  John Fitzgerald Kennedy sat behind a high-end, highly polished, cherry conference table, with what looked like a dossier opened before him.

  He felt on fire.

  A clock ticked quietly in the background. To his right, on the table, was a partially emptied-but-still-damp-with-condensation glass of iced tea. He stared at it.

  Diverting his attention to the pen he held, he thoughtfully rolled it about in his fingers, then looked to the hand itself. Bursting with incredible energy, and not at all sure why he did so, he tossed away the pen and shot to his feet, his entire body electrified.

  My God, he thought, unsure of what to do with himself, as he paced a quick couple of steps back and forth. What the hell is going on here?

  Kennedy looked about the room. It was familiar — the original conference room at The Center, circa 1970s. Kennedy rushed to the adjacent bathroom — to the mirror — and peered in at himself.

  No. This can’t be…

  John Fitzgerald Kennedy stared into the mirror. At an image that couldn’t possibly be — not in a million years. Kennedy alternately touched the mirror image and his physical face.

  Blinked.

  Stretched his mouth.

  Felt and pushed about his nose and cheeks.

  He was goddamned young again!

  He took a step back, performed a confused and nervous two-step; emitted a surprised half-grunt, then again shoved his face before the mirror.

  Touched.

  Examined.

  Flexed.

  He looked around the bathroom, then slowly made his way back out into the richly paneled executive conference room.

  Looked to his attire.

  It was all as he remembered it — it had to be a dream — but it didn’t feel like one…

  Good Lord… he was really young again!

  How young?

  He looked for a calendar.

  There, on a wall.

  Tuesday, June 5, 1973.

  He was fifty-six years old!

  He wouldn’t throw that outta bed. Definitely young enough for a previously seventy-seven-year-old man!

  Back to the bathroom mirror.

  As he again looked into that long-ago face he thought he’d never, ever see again, he suddenly grew short of breath in a microburst of hyperventilation and leaned over the sink. Momentarily closing his eyes, he managed to slow his breathing. Again looked back up into that long-lost visage.

  As sure as he was breathing, the face staring back at him was his very own — that of a fifty-six-year-old man.

  Time, it seems, had indeed — somehow — rolled back.

  He flexed his arms, inhaled deeply, and stretched.

  By God. It was real. It was truly no-shit real!

  Kennedy returned to his desk; sat in the leather-bound chair. Stared into the open space of the empty and richly adorned-and-lit conference room. Not only was he young again, but he was also back at The Center… which could only mean one thing…

  He slammed the palms of his hands down on the desk and chair.

  Both felt solid and real enough.

  Stomped his feet on the carpeted floor.

  Also solid, real, and appropriately hushed.

  Pinched himself — okay, that hurt.

  Kennedy took in as much of his surroundings and mental state as possible.

  Did this feel like a dream?

  No… it felt like he was seventy-seven-suddenly-turned-fifty-six, that’s what it damn well felt like.

  Kennedy flexed and unflexed his hands, high on the energy of returned vigor electrifying his body and soul — even if vigor meant fifty-six versus twenty-six. Who was he to quibble? He was truly in his fifties — again — truly young again, but with all the knowledge and accumulation of his later years intact.

  For what more could a person ask?

  (Jackie…)

  He felt like a god… when a sudden sobering wave of weariness hit him.

  Did that also mean he had to re-live the entire past twenty-one years over again?

  Kennedy’s shoulders slumped.

  He didn’t think he had that kind of stamina — nor inclination — to do things over.

  “Mister President?”

  Kennedy looked up. Evelyn Lincoln — still his personal secretary — had poked her head into the room. She looked exactly as he remembered her, in her mid-sixties. And she hadn’t noticed anything odd or unusual about him, so he really must appear as normal as he’d looked in ’73.

  “Mr. Sorensen to see you.”

  And, yes, Ted had stayed with him, as well! They’d been a well-oiled machine in those heady, adrenaline-fueled days.

  Kennedy quickly retraced his thoughts. Ted Sorenson. Why would he be here to see him? What were the pressing issues of the day? He shot a look back to the papers back on the conference table.

  Interviews.

  June 5, 1973—who were they interviewing?

  Kennedy headed back to that dossier.

  “Mister President,” Ted said, purposefully striding into the office and interrupting Kennedy’s return to the dossier, “sorry to bother you, sir,” he said, nodding in acknowledgement to Evelyn as she left, “but our candidate is here.”

  Program One. Okay, think… yes, they would have been discussing appointees about this time, whom to put in charge of—

  Rosen. Howard Rosen. Yes, they were supposed to interview one Howard Rosen.

  “Ah, yes… Howard Rosen — send him in—”

  Sorenson looked to him strangely.

  “Sir, there is no ‘Howard Rosen.’ It’s Victor Black.”

  Jesus Christ, Victor Black was the front runner?

  It was as if his memory had done a sudden about-face remove-and-replace, and a totally new memory supplanted. A cold sweat enveloped him.

  Black had been the man he’d appointed in ’73, and was the man he was apparently going to — or supposed to, anyway — re-appoint, now — today.

  Shit!

  Was he doomed to repeat history? Could he change things? Even if — in his mind — he knew he shouldn’t appoint Victor Black, would history allow him to take a different route… to change its course? And if he did, who was to say he couldn’t take over the program later, if not appointed now? He did have twenty years to do so…

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Ted?”

  “Black, sir? He’s just outside.” Ted looked to him, concerned
. “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Yes, yes, ah, I’m fine, Ted, nevah bettah, and really, you should start calling me ‘Jack’…”

  Kennedy had to watch how he reacted to things — especially regarding Black. He couldn’t betray his thoughts, what he knew. If he was going to change history, he had to do so on the sly, watch how he was going to change it, and, he couldn’t, by any means, ever show his hand — especially with Black waiting outside his office this very moment.

  Black… the thought of meeting the man, here, appointing him, thoroughly disgusted him.

  Whomever he was now — then — all those years ago — now, good Lord it was confusing — Kennedy knew what he would become and every fiber of his being revolted in its knowledge. Even if he’d meant well in ’73, during these interviews, Kennedy knew he was going to turn into the most vile and corrupt set of genetics on the planet.

  “Bring him in,” Kennedy said, pensively folding his hands into a steeple on the desk before him.

  Kennedy tried to recall all he knew of their encounter. What meeting would this be for them? First? Fourth? Damn, this was going to be tricky. He had a good memory, but, Christ, this was over twenty years ago!

  “Mister President… Victor Black.”

  Kennedy approached Black in his usual, outgoing and stately manner, extending his hand in greeting. It was all he could do to keep from retching.

  “Mistah Black — Victah — it is a pleazah,” Kennedy said.

  Victor Black, dressed in a dark conservative suit and a red power tie, extended his hand in return.

  But, there was something decidedly different about him, from what Kennedy remembered… even way back then.

  “Mr. President — it is an honor.”

  Their hands locked in a firm greeting, but as Kennedy looked into Black’s penetrating gaze, he could have sworn there was more there than just first-meeting introductions. Maybe it was Kennedy’s twenty years of experience and maturity since this event, but whatever it was — and whether or not he had recognized it on their first meeting all those years ago — Kennedy uneasily sensed that there was more to those deep, dark eyes — and they were dark — than belied the soft and respectful tones of their current encounter.