by Inmon, Shawn
The Many Short Lives of Charles Waters
Book Twelve of
The Middle Falls Time Travel Series
Copyright
The Many Short Lives of Charles Waters
by Shawn Inmon
©2019 by Shawn Inmon
All Rights Reserved
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten | Universal Life Center
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve | Universal Life Center
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen | Universal Life Center
Part Two
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three | Universal Life Center
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One | Universal Life Center
Part Three
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Author’s Note
The Middle Falls Time Travel Series
Dedication
For Thomas, Michael, Dominick,
Nathaniel, Veronica, Joe, Scott,
Cassandra, Ned, Rebecca,
Jack, and Charles.
And Carrie.
Always Carrie.
Part One
Chapter One
“I’M SORRY, WHAT?” CHARLES Waters leaned forward, focusing intently on what Dr. Masin was saying, but there was a whooshing sound in his ears. He was only picking up a few stray words here and there.
Adenocarcinoma. ...began in pancreas. ...late stage. ...if we’d gotten to it sooner...
Since Charles couldn’t hear properly, he focused on visual clues.
Forehead wrinkled in concern. Eyes constantly flicking away. Rubbing a hand across his forehead.
Finally, the whooshing sound stopped and reality snapped back into place.
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of such awful news, but I promise we will do everything we can to keep you comfortable. We’ve made some real progress in palliative care.”
“Palliative care? What’s that? Help with dying?”
Dr. Masin winced a little. “We want you to be as comfortable as possible.”
Charles glanced around the room trying to understand. Framed diplomas with fancy writing and gold seals. The back of a tri-fold picture frame on the desk. A folder open in front of the doctor that he kept glancing at. Finally, he noticed the window. There were plantation blinds, but they were open, allowing slats of bright sunshine in from outside.
Time slowed and Charles picked out individual dust motes hanging in the air.
Charles stood up. His face was expressionless—a chalk board that had been thoroughly erased.
“I think I want to go home now.” A pause as Charles bobbed his head to a rhythm only he could hear. “Yes. I’m sure I want to go home now.”
Dr. Masin stood, concern written on his face. He reached a hand out but Charles did not notice. “Please stay in contact with us, Mr. Waters. We’ll want to schedule a follow-up visit.”
Charles didn’t acknowledge him, but turned quietly and let himself out of the office.
“Mr. Waters?” Masin spoke only to Charles’ back.
The heavy office door slid shut behind Charles.
Charles walked. To the elevator. To the street.
Charles had ridden the bus to work, as he did every Tuesday and Thursday. That meant he had to walk to the bus stop to catch the #21 that would take him home.
He had ridden that same bus twice a week for more than twenty years, so the most basic part of his functioning mind handled all the details to get him to the bus stop near his home.
Inside the one-bedroom condo, Charles sat on his couch. He hadn’t shown even a twitch of emotion since the doctor had told him his lifespan would be measured in rotations of the Earth instead of trips around the sun.
Charles felt the silence of home was oppressive at that moment, so he used the remote to turn on his television. It was a twenty-seven inch Curtis Mathes. Charles had done extensive research before he had purchased it. It was among the most expensive televisions in its class, but according to Consumer Reports, he would earn the additional money back through its long-term reliability.
That had been assuming he would be alive for the next decade. As it turned out, that was not going to be the case.
Charles sat on his couch, staring in the direction of the TV. A political ad for Dukakis/Bentsen showed a smiling Michael Dukakis flashing a thumbs-up. After an ad for Burger King, an ad for Bush/Quayle ran.
It was October 6, 1988, and the presidential election was a month away.
Charles was registered to vote, but it occurred to him that he may not get the opportunity.
Maybe I can ask for an absentee ballot and mail it back. I want my vote to count.
Charles wasn’t watching the commercials. Instead, he ran numbers through his head. He thought about numbers almost constantly. He knew precisely how many days a new bar of Irish Spring soap would last in the shower before it had to be replaced. Or, how many trash bags, or tubes of toothpaste it would take to last him through the end of the year.
He also knew a lot about death. Charles could have told anyone what it meant to someone’s life expectancy if they smoked, if they carried around an extra twenty-five pounds, or if they had type 2 diabetes, although he would have had to consult with his charts and graphs first.
That made him very good at his job as an actuary at Graystone Insurance. It made him somewhat less ideal as a friend or neighbor. Charles related well to numbers, less so to people.
Now, those numbers were dancing through his brain and the story they were telling him wasn’t one he wanted to accept.
Late stage adenocarcinoma—pancreatic cancer—was the blank landing space on the roulette wheel of life. There were almost no winners.
He didn’t need to consult any of his charts for the life expectancy of
those who suffer late stage pancreatic cancer. The answer was so severe that it had been lodged in his brain forever—three percent survival rate.
Did the fact that I’ve carried this horrible number—three percent—around with me all these years attract this disease to me?
That was the most speculative thought Charles had allowed himself since he turned ten. He discarded it as unworthy.
When he finally focused on the television, he saw that it had grown dark outside. He had sat on the couch, following the same series of thoughts around and around for almost five hours.
The Cosby Show was on the television. Bill Cosby, as Dr. Cliff Huxtable, was dispensing fatherly advice to his daughter Denise. He wore a colorful sweater and a concerned expression, not unlike the one the doctor had worn while counseling Charles that afternoon.
Charles glanced at the digital clock on the wall. He had chosen it because it could be read from anywhere in the room, unlike decorator clocks which were attractive, but were hard to read from certain angles. The deep red numbers read a steady 8:17.
I’m late. Dinner is at 6:30. I need to stay on schedule.
He shuffled into his kitchen, suddenly aware of every twinge and minor ache in his body.
Does my back hurt because I sat in one position so long, or is it the cancer?
He opened the freezer door at the top of his refrigerator and pulled out a frozen spaghetti dinner. He had long ago systematized his meals so that he didn’t need to waste brainpower deciding what he wanted. He went to Safeway every Sunday morning and bought the same seven frozen dinners.
Salisbury steak on Sunday, turkey dinner on Monday, macaroni and cheese on Tuesday, etc., until it was time to start over again. Of course, he didn’t stick to that three hundred and sixty-five days a year. On Thanksgiving, on his birthday, on Christmas, he went out to eat at Verrazano’s, his favorite restaurant in Middle Falls.
Charles slit the plastic over the frozen spaghetti and slipped it into the microwave, turning the timer knob to three minutes. He stood staring into nothingness while the minutes passed, then removed the plastic, stirred the spaghetti and returned it to the microwave for another two minutes.
Some people were great cooks. Charles was a great microwaver.
He took the cardboard box out of the microwave and forked the contents onto a plate. This extra step meant that he had to run his dishwasher once a week, but years earlier, he had determined that it felt a little too sad to eat all his meals out of cardboard and plastic.
He set the plate on the dining room table, then picked up the remote and changed the channel to SportsCenter on ESPN. He wasn’t a sports fan, but he liked to have a few things to talk about around the water cooler at work the next day.
It never occurred to him that he had a built-in topic regarding his own mortality.
He ate slowly, chewing each bite thirty-seven times before swallowing. He had done his research and found that food needed to be chewed thirty-five times for proper digestion, but he chose thirty-seven times because it was a prime number. Charles felt comfortable with prime numbers.
He rinsed his plate and put it in the dishwasher, then decided he needed a treat.
He pulled a Snak Pak chocolate pudding out of the refrigerator and ate it standing over the sink.
He turned off all the lights in the condo and slipped between the cool sheets of his full-sized bed.
He lay there for hours, staring into the dark and running numbers through his head.
Chapter Two
THE NEXT MORNING, CHARLES left the condo at 7:45, fifteen minutes earlier than he normally did. He hoped to use the extra time to talk to Vic in HR about his impending demise and to begin the process of transferring his work load to another actuary.
He also wanted to double check the remaining vacation time he had accrued. He didn’t want to die with unused vacation time. He had been planning on using that time to repaint the interior of his condo, but now he was considering foregoing that and going rockhounding instead.
Charles turned the knob of his front door twice to the left, then twice to the right, then opened it and stepped into the hall. He locked, then unlocked, then relocked the deadbolt, then double-checked that he had remembered to lock the regular lock. He turned to walk to the elevator and saw his neighbor Mark looking at him. Mark preferred to be called Moondog, but Charles refused to call him such a ridiculous name.
Moondog had long, messy black hair streaked through with gray. He wore a tie-dyed tank top, Middle Falls Athletic Dept. red shorts and sandals. He smiled bemusedly at Charles. He had seen him go through his door-locking routine many times, but it always caught his attention.
“Morning, Charles,” Moondog said. “You’re early today.”
“Lots to do today,” Charles said in return, which was four words more than he normally spoke to his neighbor. Charles’ sense of smell was quite acute and he had long-ago identified the strong, skunky odor of cannabis that wafted from under the door. Charles did not approve of such things or the people who indulged in them.
He took the elevator to the basement parking garage and climbed into his 1986 Honda Civic Coupe. He had bought it for two reasons—its reputation for reliability and the fact that it was the highest-rated vehicle for fuel economy.
At Graystone Insurance, Charles found that Vic, the head of HR, had not arrived yet, so he spent the extra fifteen minutes at the small area where the water cooler and coffee pot were. From watching SportsCenter the night before, he knew that the American League playoffs had just started and he had memorized several players’ names and a few statistics to talk about.
He was disappointed to find that though he stood there with a pleasantly blank expression on his face, no one stopped to talk. Person after person walked by, saw Charles there, waved, and returned to their offices.
Right on time, Charles was in his office, door closed, ready to work. After a few hours of referencing and cross-referencing the charts and graphs he was working on, Charles decided to skip eating lunch and instead talk to HR.
He knocked lightly on the door that read “Human Resources” `and pushed the door halfway open.
Vic Stander was standing behind the desk, tapping a few stray pages into a neat pile. He looked at Charles and said, “Oh, sorry, Charles. Just heading out to lunch.”
Charles opened the door the rest of the way and said, “I skipped lunch today so I could talk to you. I came in early, but you weren’t here yet.”
Vic paused, obviously considering his options, then set the papers on his desk with a sigh. He pointed to a chair on the other side of his desk and said, “Come on in, Charles. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been having some odd pains, so I went in for some tests last week. The tests came in yesterday and I have late stage pancreatic cancer.”
Vic blanched. The odd contrast between the devastating words and the deadpan delivery made it hard to get a grasp on the situation.
“Oh. I...I see. Did he talk to you about the ramifications of that?”
Charles nodded. “Yes, but of course he didn’t need to. I’m aware of the statistics. I probably have thirty days left to live.”
Vic leaned forward, brows knitted. “The perils of being an actuary, I suppose. Charles, I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“I just wanted you to know. We’ll need to make some adjustments on the team. I’ll talk to Pete about that, but I wanted to keep you in the loop. I know that Jim Stevens is right below me in seniority. He has a good handle on things. I thought he could take over most of my projects. Maybe Alice could cover the rest.”
“Yes, sure, that’s fine. But, Charles, that’s not what you should be focusing on. We can take care of all that. It’s just work.”
“Just work?”
“Yes. Work will always be here. When would you like your last day to be?”
“I don’t think I get to choose that. It will be whenever it comes.”
Vic shook his head. “No, no, I mean
your last day at work. I’m sure you’ll have things you want to take care of outside of work, spend time with your family and friends.”
“I have five vacation days coming up. I thought I’d use them next week. I know I’m supposed to submit them in advance, but I was hoping you would help me expedite the request.”
“Vacation days?” Vic’s voice raised an octave in disbelief. “Are you planning on continuing to come in, then?”
“Of course. What else would I do?”
Over the decades, conversations with Charles had left many people speechless, unable to conceive of what he was saying. Vic Stander joined that long list.
Finally, Vic said, “No problem, Charles. You can leave for vacation right now, if you’d like. I’ll put next week on the vacation schedule for you.”
“No need for me to leave early today.” Charles glanced at his digital watch. “This didn’t take as long as I thought it would. I can still get to the cafeteria to have a salad, then I’ll go back to work.”
Charles decided to take the elevator to the cafeteria. Both his back and his head had begun to ache.
Chapter Three
ON THE DRIVE HOME, Charles began to do the math. He couldn’t be sure how many days he had left to live. Unlike most humans, he did have a much better idea of what that number might be.
He decided to use thirty days from the time the doctor gave him his diagnosis as his baseline. That meant he had twenty-eight full days left. Thanks to his upcoming vacation days, he didn’t have to go back to the office for nine days—two weekends wrapped around the five vacation days.
If he added in two other weekends, that came to thirteen days off out of the remaining twenty-eight days.
Forty-six percent. Too many.
Almost anyone else would have quit their job as fast as a Lotto millionaire, but that thought never crossed Charles’ mind. It would be an overstatement to say he loved his job—it’s possible Charles had never actually loved anything—but he was most comfortable there. He had been at the company long enough to acquire enough seniority to get a private office.
