The Tesla Gate

by John D. Mimms

  Now, sitting on my son’s bed contemplating what I had lost, and looking at Seth’s sad and trusting face, my career seemed about as important as an amoeba in the grand scale of the universe. It’s funny how kids put such trust in their parents and adults. Even though I had disappointed him a dozen times in the past, he still implicitly believed that I was taking him on his dream vacation. He trusted me so much that he refused to go … where? Was it Heaven on the other side of the door, emanating a blinding light? I don’t know. As I said, I am not a religious man, but that seems as plausible an explanation as any.

  My God, my son gave up Heaven to spend time with me. At that moment, I believed that more than anything, and tears began to sheet down my face. I had never felt more selfish and undeserving in my life, but I had also never loved Seth more than I did at that moment. I needed a diversion to avoid an emotional display in front of him.

  “Hey Seth,” I said mustering the best cheerful tone I could, “why don’t we go check the TV in the bedroom and see what’s going on outside.”

  He raised his head hopefully and looked longingly at me.

  “After that you can check out Cartoon Network,” I finished with a teary wink.

  I looked at his happy face. His excited, childish countenance made me feel better, until I looked down. He was still clutching the Anakin Skywalker figure in his hand, but what must be understood is that the preposition ‘in’ was never more appropriate than it was at that moment.

  I said before that his flesh seemed to have a gelatinous consistency. Well, Anakin looked as if he had been congealed in a hand shaped Jell-O mold. Two plastic feet were sticking through Seth’s thumb, a plastic right arm clutching a light saber protruded through his pinky finger. If that wasn’t disturbing enough, the Jedi hero’s full plastic body was visible, like looking at an object frozen beneath the ice of a lake. Seth seemed completely oblivious to the fact that his favorite toy was slowly passing through his hand like a peanut through thick maple syrup. I shuddered in spite of myself.

  Thankfully, he did not notice my disconcerted expression as he happily slid to the floor. Anakin dropped with a muffled plop to the blue knit rug beside his bed. Whether he willingly opened his small fingers and released it, or the toy finally made its slow, disquieting journey through my son’s hand, I do not know. I don’t believe I want to know.

  He followed me out the door and across the landing to the room that Ann and I shared for almost ten years. I opened the door with baited breath, half-expecting to see my lost love sitting dejectedly on her side of the bed. But, no one was there. The room was exactly as I had left it – unmade bed, dirty clothes scattered haphazardly across the floor and a half dozen dirty coffee mugs on the night stand and dresser. Ironically, one of the mugs was my collectible Ghostbusters mug from 1984, from which I had just drunk my initial cup of joe that morning. I say it was irony, but at that moment I still had no clue to what I was experiencing, not really. Not until I accepted that my bedroom TV didn’t work either and I flipped on the clock radio on the night stand.

  My radio was pre-tuned to a local talk station, which was an affiliate of one of the major national networks. As I switched on the radio and turned up the volume, the main news anchor was interviewing a scientist from NASA by the name of Dr. Smithson Turner.

  “Dr. Turner,” the news anchor said, “can you explain to our audience exactly what is going on?”

  There was a long silence before the doctor could be heard nervously clearing his throat.

  “I will do my best,” he began, “which may not be sufficient considering that I don’t fully understand it either.”

  “Are you saying that NASA, which boasts the finest and most intelligent scientists of mankind, has no idea what is happening?” the anchor said with incredulity.

  There was another very long pause followed by a frustrated sigh from Dr. Turner. “The easiest way I can explain it is that a large plasma storm passed through Earth’s atmosphere this morning, changing the magnetic signature of the planet.”

  “Does that account for the strange color of the sky, the loss of television reception and internet connectivity?” the anchor asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Is this dangerous? Are there any health hazards associated with this … this plasma storm?” the anchor asked bluntly.

  “The honest answer is … we don’t know,” Dr. Turner replied, and then hastily followed with, “We have no reason to believe this to be a hazard at this point in time. Our top scientists are investigating as we speak. My best advice to the public is to exercise caution and stay indoors as much as possible.”

  “I see, I see. When do you expect a definitive answer from the top scientists?” the anchor said with what was probably frustrated anxiety, but it came out sounding like sarcasm.

  “Soon, soon,” said Dr. Turner. “We should have a complete analysis in the next day or two.”

  “I see … Dr. Turner, if I may, I have one more follow-up question before we move onto the president’s press conference in a few minutes.”

  “Of course,” he replied.

  The anchor gave a deep sigh followed by what almost sounded like a muffled chuckle. “Dr. Turner,” he began, stretching his words out with cautious interlude. He sounded like he gave a half-sigh and half-laugh before he continued again. “What of the unconfirmed reports coming in from around the world … the reports that seem to coincide with the plasma storm this morning?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” Dr. Turner replied indignantly.

  “Come on doctor, anyone that has been listening to the radio today knows what I mean.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Okay, Doc, I understand you not wanting to discuss it; it sounds crazy. But, I would be remiss if I did not at least mention it.”

  There were several moments of long silence where neither man spoke; murmuring and gasps could be heard in the background. Finally the anchor spoke, his voice sounded shaky and uneasy.

  “The reports coming in from around the globe,” he said then forcefully cleared his throat. “Well, they are suggesting that the recently deceased and the long dead have returned, or at least become visible, as a result of this plasma storm. Folks, I thought they were crazy rumors started by a prosaic astrological event. That is until Jake Hardee, my old producer, walked into the studio a few moments ago.”

  A long breath and labored exhalation followed. “Jake Hardee passed away with advanced melanoma almost ten years ago.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Chockit Berries

  “We are what we believe we are.”

  —C. S. Lewis

  As I sat listening to the radio reports, it was like being awakened from a dream and discovering what you believed to be a sleeping figment of the mind’s eye was in fact hard and undeniable reality. But, was it like waking from a pleasant dream or a nightmare? God knows I had had enough nightmares lately.

  My head rationally leaned toward the nightmare scenario, but as I looked at Seth’s sweet and innocent eyes, my heart refused to go there. As terrifying as this unknown was at the present moment, Seth was a familiarity—a familiarity that made my soul flame with love, burn with grief, and, I’m sorry to say, cower in fear. This is my son, damn it, I know it … somehow I know it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

  Seth waited patiently for several minutes as I listened to the eyewitness accounts coming in over the radio. The multitude of incredible stories ranged from deceased grandparents suddenly sharing domicile with their grandchildren to multiple dead celebrity sightings. There were even a few sightings of Elvis roaming around Beale St. in Memphis; every report sounded like a lead story in the National Enquirer.

  “No cartoons, Daddy?” Seth asked, hopeful.

  “No son, it looks like TV is not working right now.”

  He frowned with obvious disappointment then a flash of excitement w
ashed over his face, almost like an underwater spotlight.

  “Can I listen to Rabio Didney?”

  Radio Disney was his program of choice when riding in the vehicle. He still had some trouble with the pronunciation, however. I had promised him, in hind sight probably falsely, that if he could pronounce it correctly, I would take the family to Disney World; or as Seth would put it, Didney World. I caught the little guy practicing in his room on numerous occasions, sometimes to the point of frustrated tears. I felt like the biggest and most disgusting pariah in the world; I turned my head toward the radio so he wouldn’t see the tear stream down my cheek.

  “Yes, that would be fine buddy. Do you need help?”

  “No, I’m a big boy, I know how to work my rabio,” he said, proud.

  He left the room, his head held high with importance. Shortly I heard the portable radio click on in his room; this was followed by lively melody by the Jonas Brothers. It was a catchy tune, but it never made much sense to me, something about I come from the year three thousand and everybody’s great, but they live underwater. That was an ironically fitting song, considering I felt like I was living underwater at the moment. Everything is so surreal; the world had been submerged into what the NASA scientist called a plasma storm, but this was something more than that, it seemed.

  If what I was hearing on the radio was true, this event is unparalleled in recorded history. I didn’t have any reason to believe it was not true. After all, I had seen Seth with my own eyes, heard his familiar voice and felt his hand with my own. But that was the rub as well. His physical features had an ethereal quality to them, his voice was the same but had an unusual echoing timbre, and his touch, well … that was the most disquieting of all.

  He was dead, but he was here with me, I had to accept that fact. I had to accept it or go mad. Perhaps this was a mass hallucination triggered in our minds by this unusual energy, or perhaps not. Only time would tell, but for the moment I would have to go with what I knew – Seth and his mother are dead, but Seth’s “ghost” remains here with me. I can now see him, along with possibly thousands of other loitering spirits, spirits that chose to remain here instead of going through their respective doorways – to quote Seth’s terminology.

  I don’t know that for a fact, but it explains why Ann is not here with Seth. It sounds crazy when you say it out loud. I’ll just go with the flow and continue to listen to the radio and … maybe drive around? They said to stay indoors until they had studied this phenomenon, which seems like sound advice, but I knew I just couldn’t sit around much longer. I needed to go back to … to what? Work? Even now I am thinking about work again … God help me.

  I focused on the radio for the next half-hour, hoping to find some reasonable answers to what was going on, but none came. The president spoke and said pretty much the same thing as the NASA scientist had, except for one intriguing point. Apparently he had just finished a one-on-one chat with President Abraham Lincoln in the Oval Office about an hour ago. I could hear the giggles and snickering emanating from the press corps, but the Commander in Chief’s resolute tone quickly silenced the skeptics.

  “I do not make these statements lightly,” the president insisted. “After careful scrutiny, I believe it to be our 16th president. How or why I am not certain, but that is all I can say on the matter at this point.”

  “Can you bring him out and introduce him?” one of the reporters asked.

  “I would gladly do that when the time is right,” replied the president, “but I will respect his privacy for the time being. That is his wish and I shall honor it.”

  “Is he going to live in the Lincoln bedroom?” a female reporter asked with a very large and probably cynical smile in her voice.

  The president didn’t dignify her question with an answer and quickly disbanded the press conference with the promise that more information would be forthcoming when available.

  I had almost completely zoned out everything else as an intense debate raged within my mind, one that was encouraged decades ago by Robert F. Ripley – “Believe it, or not.” I thought my head was about to explode when I felt something cold on my arm. I jumped in surprise and looked down to see Seth’s smiling face.

  “Can I have some Chockit Berries?” he asked.

  This had been such a common request over the past two years since he gained an appreciation of Chocolate Berries cereal, which is why his request didn’t really strike me as unusual at first. It would take a few minutes for the relevance to become clear.

  “Sure,” I answered, still a bit distracted from his frigid touch. That was going to take a lot of getting used to.

  He happily skipped from the room and bounded down the stairs. Did I just see his feet disappearing into the hardwood floor as he pranced? If not for the encounter in Seth’s bedroom earlier, I would have dismissed it as a trick of the light, but after observing the tiny Jedi hero clutched in his hand, I think I might have.

  I slowly got up and followed down the stairs. I had just reached the top of the landing when I heard him rummaging in the dinnerware cabinet for his favorite cereal bowl. His favorite bowl was not one that brandished children’s pop culture idols, icons, or slogans on its porcelain sides. Seth’s favorite bowl was a plain blue one given to him by me on my return from a business trip last year. I don’t even remember where I got the damned thing, probably some airport trinket store, but it was special to him. Ann said it was a distinct favorite to Seth because I had given it to him. He had a broad collection of pop culture bowls and cups, but that didn’t matter: this was the only one he used. It was an unassuming blue bowl with “#1 Son” painted on the side.

  I entered the kitchen to see him staring in puzzlement at the cabinet. I was about to ask him the obvious question of how he could possibly be hungry when a sudden recollection pierced my stomach like a hot blade. I had been very stubborn about anyone touching Seth’s room. In my grief clouded mind, I thought it was wrong. I wanted to keep it just the way it was. Why? Because he would be back? That pitiful hope of the bereaved now seemed ironically laughable under the circumstances.

  When my friends from work came in to help me take care of such matters, I had forbid entrance to Seth’s room. They spent most of their time downstairs packing away all the kid themed dinnerware, utensils and cups. I wanted to keep everything but after a lot of convincing from Don Lewis, my boss and best friend, I decided that the bedroom would suffice as an altar to my sorrow, for now, and agreed to let everything else go to Goodwill, Salvation Army or some other worthy charity. Seth’s favorite cereal bowl had unfortunately been a part of that donation.

  Seth turned to look at me as I entered the room. A frown and puckered bottom lip underscored sad little eyes.

  “Daddy, where’s my bowl?” he asked, sounding pitiful.

  The red-hot blade in my gut seemed to twist and lodge in my throat as I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. I started to lie and tell him it had been sent out for special cleaning but I knew that I must be honest with him, no matter how painful it may be.

  “Seth,” I began, my voice hoarse, “I thought you weren’t coming home, buddy. I gave it to charity so some other kid could enjoy it.”

  I wondered if I had made the right call when I saw the silvery tears streaming down his cheeks again. They disappeared through the beige tile floor just like his bedspread, leaving no evidence of their sorrowful existence.

  He didn’t say a word for several moments; he just looked at me with disappointed eyes. My heart burned with unnatural fervor, the combined emotions swirling inside felt like a tempest ready to explode. How could I reconcile my natural parental instinct with the horror of the circumstances? I decided the only thing I could do is go with what I know, go with what I have had a little over six years of experience. I would put my apprehension behind me and be what Seth required. He needed his dad.

  “You can use one of my bowls buddy,�
�� I said as I opened the “adult” cabinet above the microwave. I produced my favorite bowl, a cardinal red one with a handle, giving it the appearance of an oversized coffee mug. A line of Razorback hogs formed a single ring around the outside of the bowl, completing the red and white color scheme of the University of Arkansas.

  Seth smiled and said, “Woooo pig, sooieeee.”

  I smiled and gently placed the bowl in his small hands, bracing myself for the shattering impact on the floor when the bowl sunk through his fingers, but no crash came. He happily took the bowl and carefully placed it on the kitchen table, then moved to the cereal cabinet to retrieve the box of Chocolate Berries. Luckily I had purchased a new box shortly before Seth … well, before he left, so it was more or less a full box.

  He poured his favorite cereal until about three-quarters of the bowl was full, then set the box down and went to the refrigerator to retrieve the milk. He splashed a generous portion of milk into the bowl, causing a few Chocolate Berries to lap out over the side, making dull taps like tiny marbles on the wooden table. He quickly found a spoon in the drawer beside the refrigerator and sat down, clutching the utensil hungrily in his fist. Demonstrating great enthusiasm, he plunged the spoon into the bowl with one rapid motion and then stuffed a shovelful of cereal and milk into his mouth.

  I sat mesmerized by what I was witnessing. It was a sight that should have been as common to me as my own reflection; we had breakfast together several times over his short life. I guess I can take some credit that I at least made time for that. But the thing that made this situation so damned odd, the important question that had vexed me since I followed him downstairs finally came to the surface: How could he be hungry?

  I watched him devour one spoonful after another, consuming half the bowl in just a few moments.