Opening Moves

by Phil Lollar

  In front of her, Whit, still weeping with joy, whispered, “Thank You, Father God, thank You, thank You.”

  She took his hands in hers. “Are you ready?”

  “If you are, dear one.”

  They bowed their heads. She took a breath.

  “Dear Jesus . . .”

  Chapter Seven

  The present . . .

  And just like that, she was changed forever.

  Connie Kendall became a new creation.

  It was the sweetest, best memory of her life, and yet her life since then had just gotten better and better. Yes, she had setbacks—mainly in the form of arguments with Eugene—but she had also learned so much about what it means to be a Christian. She had even led Bible studies with the kids. She didn’t mind being around them anymore, either. In fact, a few of them—Donna Barclay, Lucy Cunningham-Schultz, and Robyn Jacobs—had actually become her good friends. She found new friends her own age at school and church as well.

  Connie got to witness, and even participate in, most of the incredible things Whit was doing at Whit’s End (okay, with Eugene’s help), including the creation of his greatest invention yet: the Imagination Station, a strange and amazing device that let people experience events from the Bible and history firsthand. Wild!

  It was safe to say, without a doubt, that this was the happiest she had ever been.

  Even if she wasn’t privy to everything Whit was doing.

  And Eugene was.

  The front door opened and the doorbell tinkled. Connie couldn’t see the entryway from where she was standing. Who would be coming in now? It was late, the sunlight had completely gone, the soda fountain was empty, and she was getting ready to shut it down for the night. The door closed, and the visitor rounded the corner and came into view.

  It was councilman Philip Glossman.

  Connie was so taken aback, she dropped a soiled sundae dish into the tub. It clattered against the others but didn’t break.

  At the sound the councilman spotted her, raised a hand in greeting, and smiled. “Hello!”

  Whit had told her all about Philip Glossman. He was the guy who tried to have the building in which they were standing torn down to put up a strip mall. The guy whom Whit’s wife, Jenny, had battled until she literally collapsed on the city-council chamber floor and later died. Connie couldn’t remember ever seeing him come in before. She felt an immediate dislike for him, but she tried to keep her expression passive and her voice as polite as possible. “Mr. Councilman.”

  Glossman looked pleasantly surprised and took a few steps toward her. “I’m flattered! I wouldn’t expect very many people your age to know who I am, uh, Connie.”

  He knew her name? How did he know her name? “Yes, that’s right. Now, I’m flattered.”

  His smile widened. “Don’t be.” He pointed to her shirt. “It’s on your name tag.”

  Of course it was—she was such an idiot. She willed herself not to look down at her own name and make herself look like an even bigger idiot. Her dislike of him deepened with each passing moment, but she half chortled. “Ha! Right. Well, I was just about to shut down the soda fountain for the night, but I can still get you something if you like.”

  He shook his head. “No, no, nothing, thank you. I actually came by to see if your boss is all right.”

  She blinked. “All right?”

  “Yes, you know . . . in good health.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Yeah, of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be?”

  Glossman’s gaze wandered lazily around the room. “Oh, I just haven’t seen him at very many city-council meetings lately.” His gaze returned to her. “He’s usually a regular.” His expression changed to one of concern. “Of course, given his history in the council chamber, I’m rather surprised he ever goes to the meetings. You do know what happened there, don’t you? With his wife?”

  She stared daggers at him, though her expression didn’t change. “Yes, I know.” She almost added, “. . . what you did to her,” but she stopped herself.

  He looked down and shook his head sadly. “Tragic.”

  Her dislike was morphing into loathing. He was so fake. Did he really think she was buying this act?

  He looked back at her. “So Whittaker’s all right, then?”

  “He’s fine. He’s just been busy lately.” Why did she tell him that?

  His eyebrows rose. “Oh? With what?”

  She forced a smile and tried to keep her voice light. “Oh, you know Whit . . . uh, Mr. Whittaker. He’s always working on some project or another.”

  Glossman smirked. “Yes. Always working well into the night.”

  Why did he say that? Had he been spying on Whit? She felt a flash of anger and then a pang of guilt. If he had been spying, she couldn’t exactly fault him for doing something she had also been doing.

  He leaned in conspiratorially. “I guess what he’s working on is top secret, eh?” He was trying to charm her, but he was too unctuous.

  She took a breath. “Mr. Councilman . . .”

  He pulled back and chuckled. “I’m just teasing. Is he here now? Could I see him?”

  “No, he’s in a meeting.” Be quiet, Connie. Stop telling him things!

  His brows rose again, and he retrieved a pocket watch from his waistcoat and checked it pretentiously. “Really? This late? Must be with someone important.”

  Before she could stop herself, she scoffed. “No, he’s just with Eugene.”

  He replaced the watch. “Eugene? Oh yes, the other employee.”

  How did he know that?

  Then he added, “The brainy one.”

  She stiffened. What was she—chopped liver? She’d had enough of this pompous windbag. She opened her mouth to tell him to leave, when he surprised her.

  “I’m sorry; that didn’t come out right. Not that you aren’t brainy as well. I’m sure you’re Eugene’s equal in every way.”

  She seethed. Got that right!

  Glossman smiled. “Well, I won’t keep you. Please tell Whittaker I stopped by. Give him my best and tell him I hope to see him at the next city-council meeting.” He turned and headed toward the front door, where he stopped and turned back. “And Connie, sincerely, Whittaker is a fair and decent man, one of the most decent I’ve ever known. He’ll do right by you, I’m sure. I really wouldn’t read too much into him meeting with Eugene without you.”

  She smiled as brightly as she could. “Don’t worry, Mr. Councilman. I won’t.”

  He gave her a slight nod, turned again, and was out the door. She watched him from the front window as he cantered down the steps and strolled off into the dusk.

  It was all she could do to keep from throwing a sundae dish after him.

  She whipped around and looked up the stairs. She couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t believe it. But Eugene was up there, and she was down here.

  She sank into a chair, ashamed, hating herself for what she was thinking. Her eyes welled with tears, and she lowered her head. “Dear God,” she whispered, “please help me.”

  Chapter Eight

  A half hour earlier . . .

  Whit and Eugene made their way to Whit’s office, a cozy, comfortable room, tastefully decorated with wood-paneled wainscoting and pictures of his family and friends on the one wall not taken up by bookshelves and a fireplace. A large oak desk sat in front of an impressive bay window with a lovely view of McAlister Park and the town of Odyssey beyond it. Whit entered and moved to a large bookcase near the office door. “Come in, Eugene.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’d better close the door.”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course.” Eugene pushed the door closed and turned back to his boss, who seemed to be examining him carefully. Eugene had the sensation of being under a microscope. He cleared his throat. “Um . . . is everything all right, Mr. Whittaker?”

  Mr. Whittaker looked apprehensive, as though he was about to do something he didn’t want to do but also knew he needed to do. He inhaled
deeply and said, “Eugene, I want you to take a good look at this bookcase.”

  Eugene blinked. “The . . . bookcase?”

  “Yes.”

  Eugene wasn’t quite sure what to do or say. He gave the bookcase a quick once-over. “It’s . . . it’s a very nice bookcase, Mr. Whittaker.”

  Mr. Whittaker chuckled. “Thank you, but I’m not looking for compliments, Eugene. I want you to make note of a particular book—right here—The Last Battle by C. S. Lewis. See it?”

  “Yes, sir. The Last Battle.”

  Mr. Whittaker took the book from its place on the shelf and opened it. “This book has a secret: there’s a key on the inside front cover.”

  “A key.”

  “Yes.” Mr. Whittaker held it up. It was an old-fashioned caboose key, an oval on one end connected by a thin rod to a small hatchet shape on the other end, with symmetrical cuts in the blade. “See? And as soon as I put it in this lock—right here next to the bookcase—you’ll see what the key is for and why I hide it.” He started to insert the key in the lock and then stopped. “Tell you what. It’ll be better if you do it.” He handed Eugene the key.

  “Oh! Right.” Eugene stepped up to the lock and inserted the key in the hole. It fit perfectly. “You know, Mr. Whittaker, I’ve often wondered why you had a keyhole next to this bookcase.”

  Mr. Whittaker smiled. “Turn the key, and you’ll find out.”

  Eugene did as he was told. There was a metallic click, and the whole bookcase moaned and moved aside, as though on a hinge. The shelves concealed a whole other room. Eugene smiled. “Ah! There’s a hidden room behind the bookcase. Very clever! It brings to mind an old-fashioned mystery novel—not that I’ve ever read one myself.”

  Mr. Whittaker looked into the room. “I had it built when I moved into the building. Come in. I have some things to show you.”

  A low electronic hum came from the room and increased in volume as they entered. The room was about the size of a large walk-in closet, and electronic equipment lined an entire wall of it from floor to ceiling. The equipment beeped softly. Small screens glowed in various places, and a large screen stood in the center. Tiny lights on it blinked randomly. Eugene felt his heart flutter. “Excellent, Mr. Whittaker! State-of-the-art, if I may say.”

  Mr. Whittaker nodded. “That’s one reason why the room is hidden.” He turned to the largest screen. “Hello, Mabel.”

  The screen lit up, and as the lights blinked and flashed, a mechanical yet feminine voice responded, “Hello, John Avery Whittaker.”

  Eugene’s jaw dropped. “It talks no less!”

  Mr. Whittaker nodded again. “I’ve installed components for voice activation and artificial intelligence.”

  Eugene felt as though hearts were floating from his eyes to the machine. “I’m extremely impressed! Is this what you’ve been working on for the past few weeks?”

  “Partly. Have a seat, Eugene. There’s more you need to know.”

  Eugene pulled up a chair and sat as Mr. Whittaker turned back to the screen.

  “Mabel, load program menu please.”

  The screen blinked, lights flashed, and words appeared on the screen. “Program menu loaded.” Mr. Whittaker turned to Eugene. “Do you remember when you first started working here, how you computerized all of the trains and displays in the Bible Room?”

  Eugene lowered his gaze slightly. “Yes, sir. You weren’t particularly pleased and had me dismantle them.”

  Mr. Whittaker put a hand on his shoulder. “And I’m sure you recall why. Everything was so computerized, the kids couldn’t enjoy themselves. But that didn’t mean your idea was a bad one. So I’ve computerized everything again—not to take it away from the kids, but so we can see which displays they’re using and which ones they aren’t.”

  Eugene perked up. “I see. You can determine which ones they like and which ones they don’t.”

  “Exactly. We’ll also be able to turn everything on and off from this computer if absolutely necessary.”

  Eugene quickly perused the program menu. “Yes—the train set, the Bible Room mirror, Noah’s ark, headsets, the Imagination Station, the Environment Enhancer.”

  Mr. Whittaker smiled. “Everything’s there.”

  “Very efficient.” Then Eugene noticed it. “What’s this program, Mr. Whittaker? Applesauce.”

  Mr. Whittaker took a deep breath, and his smiled faded. “I can’t talk about that one, Eugene,” he said seriously. “And you shouldn’t ever touch it or try to use it.”

  Eugene sat back in his chair and frowned. “Really? Why not, if I may ask?”

  “You may ask, but I can’t tell you.”

  Eugene’s eyebrows rose. “A top-secret program of some sort?”

  Mr. Whittaker scowled. “Something like that. Just stay away from it. You can use all the others, but not that one. Understand?”

  Eugene had never seen Mr. Whittaker this serious before. He gulped and nodded. “Yes, sir. Understood.”

  Mr. Whittaker’s demeanor softened a bit. “I’m showing all of this to you as a matter of trust, Eugene. I don’t want anyone else to know this room exists. I thought you should know about it just in case anything should happen to me. You’re the only one who would know how to use this room properly.”

  Eugene felt pride swell in his chest. “I’m honored, Mr. Whittaker. Very honored.” He turned to the screen. “Mabel, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

  The machine’s lights blinked and flashed. “Likewise, I’m sure.”

  Eugene’s face lit up like the machine. “Oh, how clever!”

  Mr. Whittaker laughed.

  They stayed in the computer room for about a half hour, and Mr. Whittaker showed Eugene a few more programs and functions Mabel could perform. Finally Mr. Whittaker decided to call it a night. They left the room, and Mr. Whittaker closed the bookcase and locked it, placing the key in The Last Battle and the book in its proper spot on the shelf. Mr. Whittaker told Eugene he had more work to do in the office, and Eugene took that as his cue to leave his boss alone.

  Eugene closed the office door behind him, marveling at what he had just seen and experienced. He felt immense gratitude toward Mr. Whittaker for entrusting him with such an important and incredible secret and wished he were better at expressing such mundane emotions.

  He made his way down the hallway toward the Train and Bible Rooms to shut them down for the evening, when he remembered that he didn’t need to do that anymore. Mabel would do it for him. He was quite gratified that Mr. Whittaker saw the wisdom of placing all of the attractions and devices at Whit’s End under the control of a central computer system. That was the first idea Eugene had when he came to work there, and he knew it was a good one. He regretted that his boss took so long to process the idea, but he knew Mr. Whittaker wasn’t the kind of man who would let a good idea go to waste.

  The front-door bell downstairs tinkled, and his thoughts drifted back to the days when he was first hired. That bell also fell under his watchful eye—and ear.

  Chapter Nine

  Six months earlier . . .

  Eugene opened the front door of Whit’s End, and the tinkling of a bell met his ears. Pleasant enough, he thought, but hardly efficient. He quickly surveyed the room—a rather quaint, old-fashioned ice-cream shop filled with youngsters, with a counter at the far end, where two older gentlemen stood, one balding with spectacles and wearing overalls, and the other wearing a herringbone jacket over a red sweater-shirt, with a mane of silver-white hair, round glasses, and a bushy, white mustache.

  Eugene crossed the room and approached the men, putting on his cheeriest attitude. “Good day, gentlemen!”

  “Hi,” said Mr. Mustache.

  “Hello,” said Mr. Overalls.

  “There’s a more efficient way to let you know a customer has come in than that small bell above the door.”

  Mr. Overall’s eyebrows rose, and Mr. Mustache looked bemused. “Probably. Are you a salesman?”

  “No,
sir. My name is Eugene Meltsner, and I’m a science student and recognized genius at the Campbell County Community College. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  Mr. Mustache said, “I’m John Whittaker, and this is Tom Riley.”

  “Howdy,” Mr. Riley said cheerfully.

  Eugene’s brain whirred. “Howdy. An abbreviated form of the phrase ‘How do you do?’ or in the older English, ‘How do you fare?’ In answer, I fare well, thank you.”

  Mr. Riley’s eyes narrowed. He leaned over to Mr. Whittaker and muttered, “What’d he say?”

  Mr. Whittaker muttered back, “I think he said he’s fine.”

  “Did I ask?”

  Mr. Whittaker chuckled. “I guess you did.” In a louder voice he asked, “What can I do for you, Mr. Meltsdown?”

  Eugene shook his head slightly. “Meltsner. Richard Pierce, my counseling professor at the college, suggested I speak to you. So I am.”

  “I see. Speak to me about what?”

  The man seemed slow on the uptake. “Studying under you. Professor Pierce said that you are somewhat remarkable as an inventor and scholar, and that I would find your approach to life very—shall we say—different, if not altogether fascinating, and certainly beneficial to my pursuant education.”

  Mr. Riley again leaned toward Mr. Whittaker and muttered, “What’d he say?”

  “I think he wants to work for me.”

  Eugene interjected, “If that’s possible. Professor Pierce said I could receive class credits.”

  Mr. Whittaker exchanged glances with Mr. Riley and said, “Your timing couldn’t be better, Hubert.”

  “Eugene.”