by Jean Pamplin
Misty Dawn turned to another customer and Elliott joined Bud at his table. Did the man have worse news?
In his usual gruff, straight-to-the-point manner, Bud didn’t waste time. “Have you analyzed the swatch of shirt you picked up from that guy who crashed the Senior Center the other day?”
“No, I didn’t know there was a hurry. What’s up?”
“Sally—I mean, Dr. Strange—talked to him today. He woke up shouting about the demise of the earth due to an asteroid. Later, he said he must’ve been caught in a nightmare. Said his name was A.G. Jones. Sally—I mean, Dr. Strange—doesn’t believe he’s telling the truth. I was hoping you had something on the material, maybe a clue as to where and when the shirt might have been made.”
“Where is he from?”
“He said he’s from Quitman, and that he’s been gone for a while. What did the fingerprint say?”
“It wasn’t on file. Been kind of busy, so haven’t had a chance to check further.”
“Hmph. I guess your new secretary is taking up all your time.”
Elliott ignored the rub and snapped one of his suspenders, a habit he was trying to break. Maybe he’d dump them altogether. He was just so used to them, a fashion statement he’d taken up along with the bowtie. The style seemed to suit the look of an investigator.
“Tell you what, Bud, I’ll check it out soon as I get back to the office.” After I speak to Mazie about the ridiculous idea of leaving town.
“Call me.”
The order grated. Elliott reacted with a quick dismissal. “In the morning.”
CHAPTER 4
“GOOD MORNING, MR. JONES. HOW are you feeling?” Sally’s monotone greeting carried a deliberate, painstakingly perfected note of impersonal caring. Show no emotion, let the patient express his deepest, darkest secrets. Somehow, she had a feeling Mr. Jones was not ordinary and would require a different approach, one she’d struggled over all night with little success.
“Here’s the deal, Strange. You don’t ask me stupid questions and I won’t give you stupid answers.”
So, the game begins. “All right. Why don’t you just fill me in on why I should give your brain a clean bill of health?”
“I can count to ten. My eyes aren’t dilated, I checked this morning. I need to be up and about my business. Bowdon already signed off. I’m physically perfect, so sign me out.”
“What is your business, Mr. Jones, or should I just call you A.G.?”
“Keep it Mr., and I’m in business equipment.”
“A computer geek, huh? By the way—love the Einstein hair.”
Jones pushed the frizzy stuff off his ears, which didn’t help at all. “A product of family genes.”
Sally got up close to Jones’ face and moved a pen like a fan in front of his eyes. For scant seconds, the clear blue eyes darted nervously back and forth before the patient achieved a concentrated effort of control.
“How old are you, Jones?” Sally deliberately left off the mister.
“How old do I look?”
“Well, your eyes are clear, muscles seem intact, heart beats at a decent rate, but I’m going to guess you’re over the century mark.”
“Smart. Think you’ll get something out of me. You can see on your paperwork that I was born in 1948 in Quitman, Texas.”
“Or is that when you left? Odd thing is, no one with your name was born in 1948 here in Quitman.”
“Home birth.”
“Maybe. Checked just for Jones, and then switched over to the initials A.G. Interesting. The only initials matching pulled up an Alfred George, birth pre-1900. What do your initials stand for?”
“Look, if I had a name like Alfred George, I’d want to forget it. A.G. A—Jones... I can’t help I’m not on record.”
“It’s not a brain problem to lie, but it is a sin problem. Do you attend a church, believe in Christ?”
“What’s that got to do with anything? Just sign the papers, lady.”
“Your parents were born, where?”
“Pennsylvania, not that it matters.”
Perhaps. Surprising what can be found online these days. “This won’t take much longer. I see you live at 404 South Main Street. Do you realize that is the address for the Senior Center?”
“I haven’t lived in Quitman for some time, things change. Guess I got the number wrong.”
“Where are you staying now?”
“Didn’t I tell you I just got into town?”
“Would you like the name of a good motel?”
“I think I can take care of myself.”
Further questions were met with obstinate answers and, in Sally’s estimation, a few blatant lies. She tapered off. “Jones. It’s hard to help someone who doesn’t want help, but I suggest you make an appointment with me, or some other ‘head doctor.’”
The patient kicked his legs over the bed in a hurried attempt to have the whole affair over with.
She decided to go for the gold. “Should we be worried about an asteroid? NASA indicates there is a large one aimed for earth, projected for the year 2029. Is that the correct date?”
Jones’ mouth pinched in a defiant smirk. “If it were, could you change that?”
“Could you?”
Jones’ jaw jutted stubbornly toward the doctor. He was silent.
“That’s scant years from now. Surely a collision can be avoided, by prayer if nothing else?”
Jones shrugged. “God helps those who help themselves. But if I were a time bender, I sure wouldn’t be living in 2029, especially since a potential asteroid is common knowledge even now.”
“Not so common. NASA seems determined to keep it quiet and delay mass panic.”
Jones seemed to want to say more. Instead, he asked for his clothes.
Sally reluctantly handed them over. She couldn’t legitimately keep him from leaving the hospital. Still, she persisted. “Love the material in your shirt. Where do you shop?”
“Street vendor.”
“Not here, I take it.”
“Not here, is right.”
One tough cookie. She lifted her hair, exposing an earring. “Got this in New York.”
“Poor quality. Should have tried the West Coast.”
“I’ll be traveling to L.A. soon. I should see it before it’s blasted into a million pieces. Wonder where I’ll be in 2029?”
“Like everybody else.” Jones sarcastic laugh followed him into the bathroom, his bare behind an exclamation point.
Sally’s unsettled nerves screamed all day. She wanted to call Bud but didn’t really have anything to report. As weird as it seemed, A.G. Jones could actually be a time traveler. No. Can’t be. The man had just sparred well, left a few clues to sort out, like California connections and innovative clothing manufacturers. And a man wearing sandals instead of boots in East Texas was an oxymoron. Parents from Pennsylvania. My state of origin. Sally also reminded herself to check out past uses for 404 Main.
The Jones family name, even with the unusual A. G. initials, showed nothing. Sally quickly moved to clothing. Kombucha fabric was stuck in its beginning stages. No clothing manufacturer named Nature Made. A.G. appeared to be holding all the aces. She was about to check on the past lives of the 404 address when she was paged to calm a patient on the third floor.
***
Jones hit the street running, fully planning a disappearing act. He reached for his wallet before remembering he’d left it on his dresser in Burbank when explosions started pelting earth. He’d have to dig up the stash he’d buried in the ’40s.
***
Elliott could hardly contain his aggravation. What he’d thought would be an easy task turned into the proverbial brick wall. No fingerprint to match the one on the Jones guy Bud was so intent on finding. The fabric had tested to be manmade, some kind of cellulose that actually fit the kombucha leather theory Sally had suggested. But he couldn’t even find a factory that produced it, never mind making clothing from it.
Mazie peek
ed in on him. “Having trouble, boss?”
Just like Mitzey, the girl insisted on calling him boss. He hoped the real boss wasn’t listening. There was also the matter of working on a project outside office business… “No, I’m fine, just having a little trouble finding a clue.”
“I could help.”
Amazing Mazie’s sweet smile jerked Elliott from his papers. “You can help if you marry me.” Where in the heck did that come from? Just because Misty Dawn had told him she and Mazie were leaving town, didn’t mean he had to go off the deep end.
In what seemed like extreme slow motion, Mazie cocked her head, looked him straight in the eyes and said, “Okay. Yes. I will.”
Elliott jumped up from his desk, papers scattered. “Yes? You said yes?”
“I did.” The girl gushed.
“I don’t even have a ring.”
“I can wait...a day or two maybe.” She giggled. “Wait until Misty hears this.”
“I thought you guys were leaving.”
“We thought about it. I can’t explain it, but from the moment I met you at the Speakeasy, I knew I was supposed to marry you. Crazy, huh?”
“No. Not crazy at all.” Elliott slid to his knee at her feet. “Have I told you I love you?”
“No, but I’m willing to hear it.”
“I love you.” The two of them giggled like schoolgirls until the real boss came in to see what was up. Even the two parolees in the lawyer’s waiting room peered through the hall.
“She said yes! We’re getting married.”
“Well, congratulations. Now get back to work.” Lawyer Hank Beck’s lips twitched, but he managed to maintain his usual stoic manner.
The two burly men clapped.
Elliott snapped his suspenders and yelped. I’ve got to stop doing that. He picked Mazie up and whirled around before setting her back at her desk with promised words of a later celebration.
He picked up the scattered papers. Why did 404 Main sound so familiar? Oh, yeah. That was the Senior Center. But something else clicked faintly in his mind, he just couldn’t pull it up.
Out of nowhere, Joseph knocked at his door.
Elliott jumped up, closed the door and pulled the pastor into an embrace. “She said yes, Joseph.”
“Okay. Who and what are you talking about?”
“My ‘amazing Grace’ is going to marry me.”
“You asked Mazie to marry you?” Joseph’s eyes widened. His jaw dropped, but he caught himself and snapped it shut.
“Yeah. I can’t explain what happened. I’m just glad it did. Misty said they were thinking of leaving. I was having trouble finding anything on this A.G. guy. It just happened.”
“Wait a minute. Misty said they were leaving?”
“Well, they might not be now. At least Mazie isn’t.”
“Your lopsided grin looks a little like a toothy mule beggin’ sugar.” Joseph sat heavily in the only chair without paperwork on it. “I can’t believe it.”
As if Elliott knew all the proper methods, he patted Joseph on the shoulder. “Just ask her, bro. Get down on your knee, but get a ring first.” He laughed.
Joseph struggled to his feet. “I’ve got to pray about this.”
CHAPTER 5
AN UNCONSCIOUS HAND MOVEMENT PROVED her stomach suffered roundness like the Pillsbury Doughboy. She was going to have to cut the morning chocolate muffin at the Speakeasy, even if her companion was paying.
This morning, light flickered through the decorated coffeehouse windows. Mary Manners from Sugar High sat on the red sofa. She caught Sally’s curious look and returned a smile with a definite sense of peace. Sally was grateful for that comfort since she and Bud were rehashing the possibility of a real asteroid.
After a brief nod in response to what she could only deem a gift from Miss Angie, Sally tempered the accusatory words forming in her mind. “Bud, I know you are as concerned as I am about a possible asteroid. But are you thinking this crazy A.G. thing is an opportunity to headline a story that major media would pick up?”
Bud sighed. “I honestly don’t know. I’ve waited my whole life for an opportunity like this. Time travel. Asteroid. Local connections. It’s all there. There’s only so much you can do writing exposes about broken fence posts and runaway turtles on country roads. Doesn’t everyone want to tag themselves, in some manner, as a savior of the world?”
“Jesus is our Savior, Bud. Our only Savior.” Her words were soft and sympathetic. “I want to find A.G. to ask more questions. But even without information, I can pray, knowing scripture assures me that God hears.”
“You’re so naïve, Sally. Do you actually think the world can be saved by prayer alone?”
A hum of indignant righteousness zipped up Sally’s spine. “I definitely do, Bud Hubble. And I feel very sorry for you because you don’t.” She stood up, tossing a rebellious wave off her forehead. “Fame and a headline won’t get you to Heaven.”
An uncomfortable parting. She left Bud to pay the tab.
***
At the hospital to check on a friend, Bud hit the waiting room. Everywhere he went, he found somebody to question about A.G. Jones. Word had gotten out about a hospital-related missing person, possibly the victim of dementia or trauma. The locals used it as an opportunity to provoke the editor when he planted himself in the waiting area to check out the gossip.
“Seems like the old fellow’s disappearance might save the state some money. What are you hunting him for anyway? Might wanna let him die in peace.”
“Or better yet, check the graveyard.”
The two old men snickered, and Bud turned his attention elsewhere.
He zeroed in on Brother Joseph, the pastor at Victory Temple. Perfect timing. “Hey, preacher...”
Joseph apparently knew the routine and asked about the A.G. search before Bud could continue.
In answer, Bud stomped to the middle of the waiting area and loudly asked if anyone knew the whereabouts of an older gentleman named A.G. Jones. Silence.
The editor dropped onto an empty seat next to Joseph. “That’s how it’s going. Nobody knows anything.”
Joseph laughed. “A.G. may be like Enoch and just walked off with God.”
“That brings up something I’ve been thinking about. Obviously, angels do appear on earth. So, what’s the difference between them and us?”
“You mean, why can they travel through space?”
“Yeah, I assume they come and go from some heavenly abode.”
“God made them spiritual heavenly beings. Our soul is spiritual, but the body is physical. The spiritual, I believe, is developed and passed down the line through God’s breath into Adam. After death that soul-you transcends time and space, but the physical body is stuck here, an old abandoned house, so to speak.”
Joseph noted Bud’s confused look. “And before you even ask, I don’t know the science between spiritual and physical bodies.”
“Do you believe heaven might be located in another dimension? Are we looking at space travel, or parallel worlds?”
“Since Satan is called the Prince of the Power of the Air, if I had a say, I’d say we are dealing with dimensional separations and not UFOs.”
***
Joseph rubbed his chin. “We are stuck here until we die and then believers go straight to God’s Heaven. People having near-death experiences sometimes talk of a tunnel of peaceful light, others a deep darkness, heat and fire. I know that it’s important for everyone to choose a relationship with Christ before they die, lest Heaven be closed to those who stay a stranger to the faith.”
“Sally’s been on me to declare my intent in that regard. I suppose just believing won’t get me there?”
“Even the devil believes. It’s a matter of repentance and a complete turn from the world to God-thinking.”
Joseph was surprised when Bud bent his head in acceptance.
“Lead me through it... just in case I’ve been remiss in something.”
Was that
a tear in the hard-core news editor’s eyes? Bud bowed his head. When the newsman looked up again, his gaze contained a new, holy light. Joseph felt sure the man was well and truly hooked. There’s rejoicing in Heaven. Thank you, Jesus.
Bud kind of floated off. A smile still played on Joseph’s face when, several minutes later, a man moved close as if to disclose some great secret.
The preacher watched him with interest.
“I heard that newspaper guy ask about somebody named A.G. Jones. Didn’t much want my name in the paper for giving out information, but you might want to check with Red, the ol’ fellow at Sweeney’s Garage. Somebody named Jones is staying at his shanty shack. I’m not sure, but I think Red called him by the initials A.G., the other day.”
“I’ll take that into consideration. And your name is…?”
“Not important. Good luck.”
Joseph knew the place, liked its tongue-in-cheek advertising—”Honest, Dependable Repair...Try our Strawberry Coolant Flush.” Ol’ Red sounds like a character Elliott might know.
First things first. The woman he was here to visit had just been moved to her room. He’d catch Elliott later about Red. Maybe check on Misty before that.
***
Bud peeked in Sally’s office door, unsure of his welcome. No one was there, so he sank into a chair to wait and thought back to their morning’s conversation. How did a simple discussion sour into puke? The editor’s ink-stained fingers raked his thinning hair. What’s a major headline compared to Sally?
The quiet prayer that cemented his visit with Brother Joseph made the sun rise, the birds chirp, and in his mind he was beginning to make sense of what a beautiful creator God really was. He’d never been so miserable—yet so at peace.
“Bud? What are you doing here?”
Bud jumped and gave a repentant smile. Time to be a man. “Sally, I’m sorry. A headline isn’t more important than being a God-caring individual. Somehow, you are well and truly changing me for the better. I just don’t know what to make of it all.”
