Slideways

by Jeffrey Grode

  He felt his pockets and discovered his wallet, phone, and keys were missing. Patrick checked his wrist. No Timex. A cool wind caressed his bare toes. No shoes or socks? At least he still had his glasses. He suspected Baldy dumped him here, and took his valuables. Were they really CSD? Why did they let him go? All things considered, he felt lucky to be alive.

  Was this about his joint project with Albert? Patrick hadn’t spoken with him for weeks. He tried to imagine what a portal watch might be, and why these men were desperate to find one. Had Albert worked on a watch?

  None of his current DOD projects involved watches or handheld tech gear. If anyone tried to pry classified information from him, he was obligated to notify his manager. A shit storm would ensue. The DOD and FBI agents would crawl up his butt and ask all kinds of uncomfortable questions. If they found out about his pet project, they would confiscate his notes and equipment in the cellar. He couldn’t let that happen. I’m too close to stop now.

  His brain throbbed as if it was determined to crawl out of his skull. He cradled his head in his hands. I need to go home and secure the lab.

  Patrick heard a man clear his throat. He opened his eyes and saw a policeman in a green uniform standing over him with a nightstick. The officer rapped the wooden stick lightly against Patrick’s bare feet. “Hey, Buddy, you okay?”

  “I’ve felt better.” Patrick sat up on the bench.

  “Head over to the mission if you need help. You know where it is?”

  Patrick thought about borrowing the officer’s phone to call for a ride. No. He didn’t want to explain what happened, or get law enforcement involved.

  “No, sir. Is the mission nearby?”

  The officer pointed his nightstick past Patrick. “Yea. Three blocks beyond the church on Gore Avenue. You can get a shower and food there. Maybe some shoes. Get help, then move on. If I see you sleeping here again, I’ll charge you with vagrancy. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll be movin’ for sure. Thanks.” As he stood, the bones in his back ached in protest. Barefoot, he trod toward the church. I must look like a beggar. The building resembled Holy Rosary Church in Carmichael, but with new stained glass windows. He stopped to clean his glasses. The sign in front read, Apostle of the Holy Redeemer.

  As he waited for an opening to cross the street, more people filed into church. The men wore suits and the women wore colorful brimmed hats and long plain dresses.

  While Patrick crossed the street, he noticed the cars seemed odd - makes and models he didn’t recognize. Almost all had solar panels on the roof, and they all ran quiet. Electric? Where am I, exactly? He stopped at the nearest parked car and checked the license plate. Yep, Pennsylvania. He looked underneath the dark blue sedan. No tailpipe. He stretched his head around the opposite side of the car. No gas caps. Patrick watched the cars for a while, until he remembered he needed to wash up.

  Three blocks down, Patrick reached Gore Avenue and saw the mission sign across the street. He picked up his pace. A five-foot wooden cross hung above the mission door. Little neon lightning bolts glimmered up and down the cross.

  He crossed the street and climbed the stairs. Near the door, a sign read: Mission of the Green Apostle. Welcome to Those in Need.

  Once inside, he narrowed his eyes. A five foot bronze statue of Al Gore stood with three lightning bolts emblazoned across his chest. He’d never seen anything like that before, or so many solar panels, or cars without gas tanks . . . on Earth. Blinking rapidly, he realized CSD had set him free on Terra. At least I’m still alive.

  An elderly woman in a black nun’s habit sat behind a reception desk and invited him into the mission proper where he received medical attention, used clothing, shoes, and a shower. The kind Sisters fed him a light breakfast and offered him a cot so he could rest. Patrick thanked them for the food, but declined the offer for rest. He smiled. A new world awaited just beyond their door.

  One block from the mission, he found a free trolley loading passengers, and rode around the city to get his bearings. The streets ran along the same lines as Earth’s Carmichael, but many street names were different. Buildings appeared familiar, though many were decorated with vertical solar panels.

  The trolley stopped every few blocks to exchange travelers. Patrick hoped it would loop around toward Albert’s house so he could speak with him about the portal watch, CSD, and how to go back home. He ground his teeth. Even though Albert and he had adopted a congenial working relationship, Patrick was tempted to throttle the man. He didn’t appreciated being beaten by thugs in Albert’s stead. What had his doppelganger done?

  The trolley turned again, and Patrick found himself staring at the park bench where he’d awoken this morning. At the next stop, ten ladies wearing Sunday dresses and wide brimmed hats filled the seats in front of him.

  Patrick turned back to the window. Content to study the city, he paid little attention to the women’s conversation, until he heard one bark a laugh he’d not heard for many years. Craning his neck forward to study the women, he saw naught but the back of their Sunday hats. He listened closer to their singsong gaggle, and heard but a whisper of a voice he once loved. A dizzy chill passed through him.

  When the trolley stopped at the picnic grounds, the ladies in their Sunday best disembarked. He followed from a distance. They sauntered to the pavilion, and met other men, women, and children armed with wicker baskets, tablecloths, and baked goods. The men and women readied the tables, and the teenagers set up a croquet course. Children, mallets in hand, played croquet and called to each other on this bright and wonderful day.

  Patrick sat sixty yards away under the shade of a silver maple tree. A tall redheaded woman in a light lavender dress strolled by with a small girl wearing pink. They kept to the perimeter of the match. He couldn’t hear what the woman said, but the little girl gurgled with laughter.

  Under the pavilion in a dark purple dress and matching hat, stood a woman who closely resembled his deceased wife, Betty. A pink dahlia flower adorned her dress. She looked exquisite. He recalled how often his Betty had smiled when they were young, and danced, and laughed, and how they held each other and made love. They’d last held hands on her deathbed. He told her he would love no one else, and she said she’d wait for him in heaven. Was this heaven? Miss Betty looked alive and well under a crisp blue sky. His brow furrowed. No. Not his Betty, but Albert’s. It didn’t matter. He had to meet her.

  The croquet match had been over for some time and the picnickers finished eating. Patrick stood under the tree and began to stretch his legs. He tried to build the courage to walk over and speak with her, but felt ridiculous meeting her in worn clothing from the mission.

  Turning his back on the picnic pavilion, he took a few strides toward the street, stopped, and shook his head. Hadn’t he toiled for years to create a device to speak with Miss Betty beyond the grave? Cowards be damned. Here stood a live version, albeit a doppelganger, and he couldn’t make himself—. He took another step toward the trolley stand.

  “Sir?” called Betty’s voice. “Please wait.”

  Turning around, he saw the woman appeared to be of the same age and graceful beauty as his wife might possess had she survived . . . the same intelligent eyes and firm set to her jaw. He suddenly felt dizzy. She approached carrying a small basket and a ceramic cup. He fidgeted, snuck a peek back at the trolley, and then turned back to face her.

  She came within five feet and stopped. Her eyebrows arched and then she frowned.

  Patrick cringed when he sensed he’d frightened her. “Hello, Betty?”

  “I’m Betsy. I don’t believe we’ve met.” She shivered. “You resemble Albert, but lack his demeanor. You’re . . . Patrick McDugan, aren’t you?” Her eyes studied him.

  “Yes.” He looked down as he gathered his thoughts. Albert must have told her about his doppelganger, although he hadn’t been sure until now. Albert had told him about a wife, but had balked when Patrick had asked to meet her. He’d said he wanted to ma
intain some privacy, and it would be safer for her if she wasn’t directly involved. “I’m so glad to meet you. I married a woman who looked very much like you . . . in another world. Her name was Betty, but she passed on to her reward some six years ago. You do remind me of her, and that is a joy in itself.”

  Betsy drew closer. “You look so much like him. Albert said you were his twin in many respects.”

  Patrick smiled, but his eyes glazed over.

  “Oh. Please, Patrick, sit down.” She motioned toward a nearby picnic table in the shade. Betsy followed him to the table. “You look tired and hungry. These are for you.”

  Patrick sat and accepted the basket of food and drink. He tasted the sweet lemonade and started to feel better. “Thank you. I’d not realized how thirsty I was.”

  She remained standing while he ate. “Where is Albert? I haven’t seen him for a month.”

  “I hoped you knew. I need to speak with him.” Patrick explained how he came to be in Terra.

  “I’m sorry they hurt you,” she said. “We’re not all evil here.” She studied his bruised face. “How did you and my husband meet?”

  Patrick explained how his communication equipment had made contact with Albert’s prototypic portal device, and how they’d cracked opened the barrier between parallel worlds. “Albert’s me doppelganger.”

  “Truly amazing.” Betsy took a step closer. “What do you know about a portal watch?”

  Patrick shrugged “Nothing. I lost contact with Albert a month or so ago.”

  “Last I spoke with him, the UAC had him working on a miniaturization project,” Betsy said.

  He nodded. “Your etched crystal technology is new to me, but he may have miniaturized his portal device. He is brilliant. ”

  “Yes he is.” Betsy sighed. “As are you. Do you know the Dugan house on the hill outside of town?”

  “I haven’t seen yours, but believe it may be very much like me own.”

  “Please, meet me there so we may speak more privately. Take the Orange Trolley eastbound after dark. I’ll wait for you at the house, and then we can sort this out.” She smiled.

  “Thank you.” He stood, but felt a little lightheaded. I don’t know how, or want, to say goodbye.

  She tipped her head. “God bless you, Patrick, and may the Holy Redeemer shine his green light upon us all.”

  “Yes, indeed. Could I ask one small favor? If it’s not too forward of me, may I shake your hand?”

  “Yes, of course.” Betsy offered hers.

  Patrick felt the cool touch of her skin and she squeezed gently in return. He wanted to embrace her and tell her how much he’d missed her over the years. Instead, he released her hand. “Thank you.” His eyes blurred. “Just makin’ sure you were real.” Patrick handed her the basket and left.

  Later that night, Patrick stepped onto Albert’s front porch holding a bouquet of yellow, white, and blue wildflowers. This is so strange. At first glance, Albert’s house appeared to be a duplicate of his own, but with cedar shingles instead of beige vinyl siding. A bay window adorned the front of the house, where his had none. Patrick assumed Miss Betsy’s personal touch had made the difference. His wife had always wanted him to install a bay window, but he never found the time.

  Patrick rang the doorbell and waited. The memory of greeting a young Betty at her doorstep the night of the high school prom flashed through his mind. He held her corsage in his hand and shivered when she opened the door in her pink and white dress. Her smile made him feel welcome then, but now he wore used clothes from a Terran mission instead of a blue tuxedo. His breath caught when the door opened suddenly.

  Betsy smiled. “Hello, Patrick. Oh, such beautiful flowers. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Miss Betsy.” His hand shook as he gave her the bouquet.

  She stepped outside with the flowers, and closed the door. “I’d let you in, but I think it may be better for us to speak in the gazebo around back.”

  Patrick followed her around the side of the house in the moonlight. She’d kept her figure trim, and her bottom moved rhythmically in her dark dress.

  “I believe there are CSD listening devices inside,” Betsy said, as she walked through moonlight and shadows. “We have to be careful. Albert’s on the run and the investigators have been relentless.”

  They moved into the gazebo, closed the door, and sat down on padded chairs opposite each other.

  “Is this your first trip to our world?” Betsy asked.

  “Yes. Initially, we were concerned about what could happen to livin’ tissue. We did several tests with a live animal.”

  Her brows knitted. “What king of animal?”

  “A house cat.”

  Her head shot up. “Bootsie?”

  “You know her?”

  “Of course. She’s my precious cat. I thought she’d run off, but you used her as a guinea pig.” Betsy shook her head. “Is she okay?”

  Patrick winced. “She’s fine. Last Friday I saw her mousin’ in the field behind me house.”

  “First Bootsie and now Albert.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She handed him a piece of paper. “I found this note from Albert when I came home this evening.”

  Patrick read the note to himself. Betsy, Hoped you might be here. Sorry, I missed you. I’m going to visit Patrick and hoped to take you with me. It’s not safe here. If I don’t return, visit Patsy in Carlston. She has a key to my deposit box there. Cash my bonds and you’ll have enough money to live comfortably. I’ll try to come back for you. Warm regards. Albert.

  P.S. Keep watch for Patrick should he visit. He can help.

  “So, Albert went to Earth,” Patrick said. “I kept me beacon open, but I wasn’t expecting guests.”

  Betsy folded her arms. “CSD had confiscated all of Albert’s equipment weeks ago. He must have used his portal watch.”

  “I must find him.” Patrick stood and began to pace. “Does he have another portal watch?”

  “I don’t know. CSD searched our home, the house safe, and the lab for one, but found nothing.” She studied him in the moonlight. “Patrick, you look like my husband, but do you think like him too? Where would you hide something valuable?”

  Patrick stopped pacing. “Ahhh, that’s it!”

  Betsy frowned. “What?”

  “Albert’s note. He wrote, It’s not safe here.”

  “CSD has made that painfully obvious,” she said.

  “No. He’s not talkin’ about your safety, he’s talkin’ ‘bout the portal watch.”

  “Yes, but if he went to Earth, then he took it with him.”

  “Look.” Patrick showed her the note. “Albert asked you to visit his safety deposit box in Carlston to cash the bonds, but then he wrote- Keep watch for Patrick. I think he means ‘the portal watch’ and it might be in that box.”

  Betsy’s mouth opened then closed into a frown. “Are you sure?”

  “No, but you asked me where I would hide the watch if I were him. I’ve got me own safe deposit box at the Carlston First National Bank where I keep a copy of a will and other important documents. Patty, me daughter, has a key.”

  Betsy nodded slowly. “So it may be in Carlston.”

  “Let’s find out,” Patrick said. “Do you have a spare key?”

  “No.” Her eyes blinked rapidly. “He mentioned a box in Carlston years ago, but never gave me a key. Patsy may have one.”

  Patrick nodded. Patsy rather than Patty. “Call her.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. CSD has my line tapped and I can’t visit her because they ordered me to stay in Carmichael. They track my location through my implant chip.”

  Patrick’s eyebrows rose. “I’ll go, but I need a little coachin’.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I may have to pretend to be Albert. Tell me about him. How he thinks. What are his relationships with Patsy, John, and Ben?”

  “Ben? Oh my. We need to talk this through. But
it would be better left for tomorrow. We both need a good night’s sleep. You can stay in the guest room, but remember, you’ll have to keep quiet.”

  That evening, Patrick took a shower and fell asleep in the guest bedroom. The smell of fried bacon and coffee woke him in the morning. I must be on Terra. How long had it been since anyone had cooked for him in his house?

  He rose and found a note slipped under his door.

  Outside your door is a suitcase with some of Albert’s clean clothes. They should fit. You’ll find soap, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a shaving kit, as well as $500 Commonwealth, which will help you on your trip. When you’re ready, please come down for breakfast. Betsy.

  When Patrick walked downstairs, he found another note on the table next to the vase of wildflowers. Breakfast in the gazebo. Help yourself to a cup of coffee.

  He poured a cup of the dark steaming coffee and stepped outside onto the deck. The morning air felt cool and damp as slender yellow birds chirped from their perch on the roof. Taking a moment to sip his coffee, he enjoyed the strong bitter taste as the hot liquid slid across his tongue. Beyond the gazebo, the pine forest lay shrouded in morning fog.

  Patrick entered the gazebo and smiled. Betsy sat in a cushioned chair wearing a white robe, slippers, and her hair down to her shoulders. She’d set the table with white linen tablecloth, two settings of covered white china plates, silverware, and two glasses of orange juice.

  Betsy closed her Tea Time magazine. “Good morning.” She wore makeup.

  “Mornin’ Miss Betsy.” Patrick sat. “A very nice table you’ve set.”

  “Thank you.” She uncovered the dishes and served Patrick a plate with a cheese omelet, sausage, biscuit, and sausage gravy— with mushrooms.

  Patrick’s mouth watered. He sipped his coffee wondering what the years would have brought had his wife not died early.

  “Yesterday, you asked about Patsy and her family,” she began. “You need to know what’s happened on Terra in order to convince her you’re her father.”