“Seth … did you go to the restroom because you saw me go?”
He hesitated then crinkled his nose like he had just sniffed an unpleasant aroma, which was both appropriate and ironic considering the state of the lavatory. It brought a smile to my face.
“Maybe …” he said and pursed his lips as if in deep concentration.
“You don’t have to go now?”
“No.”
“Did you feel the urge to p–, uh, tinky?” I asked, being careful to stay within his vocabulary.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I just knew I needed to go whenever we stop, cause you don’t like to have to stop too much.”
I smiled and winked. “That’s right, buddy. We want to get to the Museum as quick as we can, right?”
He smiled so broadly his unearthly shimmer seemed to glow more brightly.
“Let’s go!” he exclaimed and sprinted back to the vehicle.
I didn’t feel as sick anymore. Oh, the ghost of my nausea was still there, hiding deep inside. I knew it wouldn’t take much to bring it to the surface again. I decided that I needed to refocus my attention and energy on Seth and our trip. I would focus my attention on my son, the “who” that came home, not the “what” that would forever remain under the green zoysia grass of Oak Grove. I made myself this promise with the strong hope that no more reminders presented themselves.
We started out on the road again, determined to make Memphis by noon. The remaining miles passed uneventfully. I was starting to get hungry; it had been almost five hours since breakfast, and what I did have for breakfast was left about 80 miles back. Seth claimed he was hungry, too. Maybe he was and maybe he wasn’t; I was more inclined to believe the idea that he was hungry or that he had to tinky. Perhaps these urges were just all in his head, a latent instinct from when the “who” and the “what” were one and the same.
Of course, one of Seth’s favorite restaurants was one that every kid loves and one that I absolutely despise – Martian Burger. Oh sure, when I was a kid I enjoyed it, with a high metabolism and squeaky clean arteries, but now every time I eat a French fry I feel as if I’m shoveling a little more dirt out of my grave. If I keep thinking of that analogy, I’ll lose my appetite all together.
“Okay, Seth … what would you like for lunch?” I asked on his third complaint of an empty tummy.
“A Martian hambooger and grape soda!” he proclaimed.
Seth loved hamburgers, or “hamboogers,” as he liked to call them. And, as suspected, it had to be the Martian joint. Whatever faint hope I had of scoring a trip to anywhere less greasy was dashed. I turned the SUV off the exit ramp and headed for the giant flying saucer burger in the sky with two animated tentacles suspended on top.
The logistics of our lunch started to weigh heavily on my mind. We couldn’t eat in the vehicle, not after the cereal incident, but, that was the way I liked to travel – grab it and go and get there. I didn’t like to waste the 30 minutes to an hour it would take to go in and sit down at a table like regular people.
I spotted a city park a block behind the restaurant so I told Seth that we would go through the drive-thru and then have a picnic in the park. When he saw the towering rocket slide, jungle gym and the massive A-frame of a swing set, he happily agreed. We pulled in the drive-thru, got our lunch, and then drove to the park. The streets and the Martian Burger were eerily empty. That was the first time that I can remember going to a fast food restaurant of any kind within an hour of lunchtime and not having a single car ahead of me in line.
We reached the park and pulled into the newly asphalted parking lot without seeing another vehicle or person, aside from the pimply-faced teen at the drive-thru window. It was a nice park with lush green grass, peppered with an assortment of oak and maple shade trees. A small cinder block building rested on the far side. It was obviously the restroom judging by the stick figure man and woman painted on the right and left doors, respectively. The park was centered by the play area, which had Seth enamored since he first laid eyes on it.
The perimeter of the play area was ringed with green painted picnic tables, strategically placed beneath the shading canopy of some of the larger trees. The parking lot was empty except for a single utility truck – probably a phone company vehicle – parked about a dozen yards away; a middle-aged, balding man sat behind the wheel. He was staring with a bewildered expression at something behind a large oak tree between our vehicles. My view was obstructed and I couldn’t see what held his gaze until we got out and started to walk toward a picnic table directly in front of us.
A family of four was sitting around a table with their heads bowed. It looked as if they were offering a prayer over a meal of burgers and fries. A middle-aged man wearing unusual clothing administered the blessing while a red-haired, middle-aged woman with a long braid of hair hanging all the way to her posterior looked surreptitiously between us and the man in the utility truck. The children, a boy and a girl, reverently kept their eyes closed and heads bowed until the prayer was done. The man and boy had similar strange clothing, while the woman and the girl shared their own unusual fashion. They all looked as if they had just stepped out of an episode of Little House on the Prairie.
At first I couldn’t understand why the man in the truck was staring at this unusual brood, aside from their unique clothing, but as I passed under the shade of the trees it hit me with a strong mix of shock and surprise. The entire family shared the same ethereal quality with Seth. They were all Impalpables, or what did the scientists call them again … Impals? That seemed a good enough nickname to me, but judging by the way Dr. Einstein reacted to it, I thought I would keep it to myself for a while.
The man jumped to his feet and gazed in our direction. My heart skipped a beat when I stupidly wondered if I had uttered the nickname out loud, but I quickly realized he was looking at Seth. My heart was just getting back into cadence when it was sent racing out of control again. The whole family turned and looked as the man marched purposefully in our direction.
CHAPTER 12
The Birds of Fiddler Park
“Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings
where we had shoulders smooth as ravens claws.”
—Jim Morrison
The man approached with such tenacity and urgency that I took a defensive stance between him and Seth. He slowed a little when he saw the resolve on my face, and then smiled warmly at me. He knelt down on one knee and smiled at Seth.
“May I?” he asked, looking up at me. His voice was much smoother than Seth’s but still had a faint tinge of the echoing timbre. It was a pleasant enough tone but my defenses were still on high alert.
“May you what?” I asked sharply.
I wasn’t sure exactly what frightened me. Was I afraid they would take Seth away from me … take him back to where he belonged? Perhaps. While my love for Seth had never been stronger and I knew he loved me, I also knew that our relationship now was fragile at best. I had been given a gift, regardless of how the rest of the world saw it. This storm could wear out in five minutes or five years. Seth and I were on borrowed time, there were no two ways about it.
“I…I’m sorry,” said the man, “I didn’t mean to frighten you. My name is Charles.” He held up his hand to me. I couldn’t help but think of Charles Ingalls based on the way he was dressed. It made me feel a little more at ease. After all, who doesn’t like Pa?
I reached out and took his hand, bracing for the frigid cold touch of his skin. It was cold, but he grasped my hand in such a way that I felt more of the strange warmth than I did the cold.
“Nice to meet you, Charles. My name is Thomas … Thomas Pendleton.”
He released my hand and smiled at Seth.
“And who might you be, young man?”
I jumped a little as I felt the cold and hot sensation inundate my right leg. I looked down and Seth was clinging
to my thigh and looking distrustfully at Charles.
“This is Seth,” I said, trying to step to the side, but he stuck with me like a frightened mouse clinging to a branch.
“Well howdy, Seth,” he said. “I’m Mr. Fiddler.”
Seth still wouldn’t shake his hand, but his grip on me loosened somewhat. I could tell because it was almost all cold now on my thigh.
“Would you folks care to join us for lunch?” Charles Fiddler said, gesturing to their table. “You’re welcome to some of our chicken, but it looks like you brought your own,” he said, pointing to our Martian Burgers bags.
The two children waved excitedly at Seth and motioned for him to join them. Seth reluctantly let go of my leg and came forward, though he was still clutching my hand. Shortly, he released his grip, smiled sheepishly at the children and gave Mr. Fiddler a half-grin. A few moments later, we were sitting down to eat our Martian’s lunch with the ghostly Fiddler family. Charles and his wife Ester, Jack, and Rebecca all gave us a warm greeting as they scooted down the bench to make room.
The man in the utility truck was still staring like he had seen a ghost. Well, I guess he had, but that is no reason to be impolite. I turned and gazed sternly in his direction until he got the hint. He quickly fired the truck to life and steered jerkily out of the parking lot and onto the street like a man who has had too much to drink. I guess there’s a reason they call alcohol “spirits.” They seem to have the same effect.
“Oh, such a nice man,” Charles said as he waved with earnest vigor in the man’s direction.
I wondered what could be so nice about an indiscreet voyeur.
As we dined on our fast food lunch, I made an observation that I found very confusing. I had expected the same result from the Fiddler family as they ate their chicken dinner that I had observed with Seth when he ate. In short, I expected chewed food to be all over the ground under our table, but it wasn’t. It was as if living people were dining with us. I looked at Seth and there were already four chewed fries on the ground along with a puddle of grape soda. I didn’t want to be rude, but I also needed to know, not only for my sake but Seth’s as well.
“Can you tell me why that happens to Seth when he eats?” I asked Charles.
He looked down the bench at Seth and smiled broadly.
“He just doesn’t know how to squench yet.”
“Squench?” I repeated.
Charles chuckled and looked at his wife.
“You figured it out honey, why don’t you explain it to these good folks.”
She swallowed hard, having just taken a bite of a biscuit. A grimace washed over her face as she held her hand to her abdomen like she had indigestion.
“Forgot to squench, didn’t ya?” Charles chuckled.
Her shimmering features seemed to glow a faint pink as she looked at her husband irritably. She smiled with ladylike modesty and looked at me.
“You must understand that we have been in this … this state a lot longer than Seth there,” she said, nodding toward my son. “It was easy for us to adjust to this new status of, well, I guess you would call it existence. How long has Seth been ….” her voice trailed off, unsure of how to approach this delicate question.
“Two weeks,” I replied.
She nodded her head and gave me an empathetic smile.
“I’m sorry,” she said in almost a whisper.
She shook her head and continued.
“Before this happened, we lived here peacefully for over 100 years,” she said gesturing to the empty park encircling them. “But we never experienced hunger, not until today.”
“You lived here … in the park?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” Charles interjected. “To make a long and painful story short, our house rested right there,” he said pointing to the play area. “It burned one night when we were all asleep.”
A lump settled in my stomach like hot coals. The family had all burned to death in their sleep. I eyed the cinder block restroom across the way, thinking I might be sick again.
Charles noticed my greenish pallor and continued with strong reassurance in his voice.
“Oh, it wasn’t that bad, we never even knew it was happening until we were standing in front of the bright doorways, trying to decide whether to go through or stay.”
“Why did you all stay?” I asked with unintentional emphasis on all.
Charles didn’t answer; instead he looked at me with deep scrutiny for several moments.
“There was someone else, wasn’t there?” he asked softly.
I felt a lump start to form in my throat accompanied by welling eyes. I looked at Seth who was talking quietly to Jack and Rebecca, thankfully he was not paying attention to our conversation.
“My wife,” I said, my voice hoarse, “they were killed in an accident together. Seth said she went through her doorway.”
“I’m sorry,” Ester said with silver tears like Seth’s in her eyes. Two drops fell from her cheeks, penetrating the picnic table and disappearing without a mark into the grass beneath.
I was determined not to let my emotions get the best of me so I quickly redirected the conversation to its original path.
“So why did you stay?” I asked.
“Nathan,” Ester said. “He was our oldest.”
“Did he go through the door?” I asked delicately.
“I’m sure he did eventually, but not the night of the fire. He was staying in Memphis at the time working with the farmer’s market.” She said.
“I think we all stayed because our family wasn’t together, we didn’t feel ready, we felt incomplete,” Charles said. He then shrugged and shook his head, “Well, that’s the best way I can explain it anyway.”
“So you have lived here in the park for over 100 years?” I asked, finally getting back to my original question.
“We lived in our house,” Charles said with a sad smile.
“I thought you said it burned?” I asked skeptically.
“It did, here,” he said, gently patting the surface of the table to make his point, but the house passed into where we were. Where we were before a couple of days ago, that is.”
“You mean the house is a … is a…” I stammered.
“Is a spirit, a ghost, a shade, a specter?” Charles provided for me. “I don’t think so. It was just a house. Besides, I think the fact that it is not with us now says that its essence is much different than our own.”
“Could you see this park and the city around you?”
“Yes, we have seen a lot over the years, but yet …” he paused a moment, “from our perspective, it seems like the fire only happened a couple of months ago, or at least that is what it feels like. Time is strange in that place,” he said waving his hand as if indicating something far in the distance. “I guess it helps people deal with staying behind. I never could have imagined just sitting in my house and never leaving for 100 years. But, that is what we did and did not venture out, we all knew what happened but we didn’t know how to deal with the situation.”
“How do you know it has been over 100 years then?” I asked.
“A couple of days ago we found ourselves sitting in the middle of this park, our house was gone. As odd as it may seem, we were all incredibly hungry. There was a family having a picnic right here at this table and when they saw us they were frightened so badly they left their food here, so … we sort of helped ourselves,” he said sheepishly.
“That man that you scared off,” he said pointing to where the man in the utility truck had been parked. “He came here a couple of hours ago and terrified the children with that metal contraption he was riding in. I talked to him, but he was so dumbstruck I only got him to understand a few words here and there, just enough to know that the metal contraption was called a truck and what year it is. I told him that the children were hungry. H
e asked if we liked chicken and he left for a few minutes and brought us these,” he said, tapping his index finger on the rim of one of the chicken buckets.
Every time I thought it couldn’t get any more fantastic, the bizarre factor turned itself up another notch. I felt like I was in an episode of the old Twilight Zone. As happened so frequently in supernatural tales of suspense, the victim would wake up only to discover that their whole experience, good or bad, had all been a dream. I won’t say that the thought hadn’t crossed my mind several times in the last 48 hours but the longer this continued and the longer I continued with the side effects of my physical frailties derived from my age and slightly overweight midsection … I knew it wasn’t just my slumbering imaginations. Dreams don’t hurt, not really; but my leg and back were throbbing like a sadistic bass drum from sitting in the vehicle so long. This was no dream, and eating greasy fast food was not going to help, either.
The Fiddlers took me a little by surprise. It was not the sad and fascinating retelling of the last 100 years of their existence, or even the fact that they were a family of Impals. No, I think what really took me by surprise was their eloquent, well-enunciated speech. It just did not jive with their stereotypical Walnut Grove appearance. The curiosity was getting the best of me and I had to ask.
“Charles, what did you do for a living?”
He smiled faintly and pointed to an open field directly across the street from the park.
“Can you see the train tracks over there?” he said.
I screwed up my eyes, trying to spy the tracks through the thick sprays of switch grass that seemed to extend for miles into the distance. As if on cue, I heard the distant wail of a train horn. A few moments later, a red and yellow Rock Island engine emerged from the tree line a half-mile to our right and slowly made its way across the field, pulling a dozen coal cars behind it.
The Tesla Gate Page 10
