They also realized, though, that they were talking like two people who would soon be parted. Heather had convinced Jon and Garison to try sending back packages for two more days before trying more drastic measures, but she had long since given up hope of their working. She talked to Garison and looked at Garison thinking it would be one of her last chances. Had she known it really would be the last time, she might have reacted differently. Which is why he hadn't told her.
For his part, Garison talked to Heather convinced it would be his last chance. He took the time to memorize every feature of her face. The soft, smoothness of her cheeks, the shape of her nose. He committed to memory the way her mouth looked when she asked questions, and how her lips curled when she smiled. He memorized the sound of her voice and the way her hair looked. He even committed to memory a couple of the phrases she frequently used, and just how her voice inflected when she spoke them.
Though she was wearing clothes almost as bulky as Sarah's, he remembered the way her body looked. He thought of her as she wore her cottony summer outfits, her Sunday dresses, her evening gowns, and nothing at all. He thought of every contour of her body, willing himself to never forget—though he was sure he wouldn't. He thought of the way she had looked on their wedding day(s), and how she had looked while giving birth to Sarah. He chuckled to himself that she would probably rather he forgot her face from that day, but he was sure he never would. And like the memory she had conjured forth of him the night before, he especially thought of the proud look on her face when she had first held Sarah after the long ordeal of birth.
As she talked, Heather studied Garison for the same reason: memorizing his every line. She memorized the way his mustache moved when he smiled, the laugh wrinkles around his eyes, the cut of his hair. She thought of the scar on his shoulder she might never see heal, the way he had looked in his baseball uniform. She thought of him sitting at his computer, or working in his woodshop. She thought of his touch in the night, the way he kissed, and even the way he looked at her that made her know just how much he loved her.
Five years were not enough, she told herself, but they were better than none at all. "And if I'm not going to remember any of this," she thought, "I'll make full use of the memories now."
Jon came out on the porch around eleven and said, "It's my turn to keep watch. Why don't you three go in and get warm?"
"I'm too anxious to go in," Garison replied, trying not to give away his true intent.
"I'll stay, too," Heather nodded, suddenly unwilling to leave Garison's side at any time.
"I stay, too!" Sarah chimed in with a smile. She was sitting on the porch, playing with her doll, and seemingly impervious to the cold. With all the hot chocolate she had drunk, Heather mused, her diaper was probably keeping her warm. Taking off all her "swaddling" to get to the diaper was not an easy task with the outfit, but would probably need to be done soon, anyway.
They looked up just then to see a truck pull into the driveway. The man driving it smiled and waved through an open window. He was obviously in shirt sleaves.
Garison stated the obvious, "Either this is a hole in time, or that man's just gotten through drinking some sort of heat source."
"Kevin Watson," Day remarked. At the Fitch's puzzled glances, he explained, "Old buddy of mine. I wouldn't necessarily throw out the liquid heat source idea out of hand. Haven't seen him in twenty years, though."
"Twenty years," Garison mused. "Heather, what year is that truck?"
"I don't know," she shrugged.
"You don't know? I thought you knew that stuff."
"Henry never worked on any cars that were built after 1965. I only know cars from before then."
Day told them, "No matter. That's Kevin just as he looked twenty years ago. He was my age, and he certainly looks younger now. And that truck of his looks new to me."
Day stepped off the porch to greet his friend, who was just getting out of the truck. Jon asked happily, "New truck, Kevin?"
"Brand spankin' new," Kevin replied proudly. "Custom ordered and everything. Duelies, glass packs, even got me one of those fancy new cassette tape players with quadrophonic sound." He patted the truck as if it were his baby, which—in a sense—it was.
"Cassette quad," Day mused in awe, "Think that'll go? Or is it just a fad?"
"Man, where have you been?" Kevin asked in amazement. "Cassette's're the future! It'll get rid of those vinyl record albums in another year or two. You can just play 'em over and over and they never come to an end."
"Wait 'til you hear about CDs," Day mumbled.
"What was that?"
"I can't wait to hear how it sounds," Day recovered.
"Let me take you for a spin. Boy, she purrs like a kitten! The truck, I mean. That stereo'll blow the doors off if you let it!"
"I better not." Jerking a thumb over his shoulder, Day told his friend, "I've got company here and I better stay with them."
Kevin looked over Day's shoulder and waved to the strangers. He thought he knew everyone Day knew, so he figured they must be relatives from out of town. It was then that he noticed their clothing. They were dressed for winter on a hot summer's day.
Kevin looked Jon over and asked, "What's with the cold weather get up? You must be sweating to death in all that." Before Jon could reply, Kevin remarked with surprise, "And your face! What happened to your face?"
Jon was about to reply indignantly that nothing had happened to his face, but then he realized he was twenty years older than the last time Kevin had seen him—which was probably within the last couple days. Jon shrugged and smiled sheepishly, "I'm going to be in a play. We all are."
"A play?" Kevin asked incredulously. He had never known Jon Day to be the least bit theatrical. Never even went to the movies, as far as Kevin knew.
"'Lost Horizon'," Jon told him. "I'm playing the part of the nervous old man on the airplane. You know, the guy that's always whining. The young man over there, he's playing Ronald Colman and the woman's playing Jane Wyatt. They came over to practice with me."
"And the kid?"
"Uh," Day hesitated, "Thought the play needed a little kid. New twist, you know. Well, you know there were those kids at the valley school that were always singing."
Just then Garison came over and introduced himself, "Burt Cottage."
"Pleased to meet you, Burt," Kevin returned. "Or should I call you Ronald Colman?"
Garison shot a briefly confused look at Jon, who laughed and signaled that Garison should do the same. Garison joined in the mirth and explained, "Sorry I can't shake your hand properly, but I broke my collar bone."
"Show must go on, though, huh?" Kevin nodded. He apparently didn't notice that Garison had no idea what he was talking about. Actor types, Kevin thought, were never fully grounded in the real world, anyway.
Kevin looked at his watch and said, "I'm about to go pick up my boy from baseball practice. I was going to see if you wanted to come for the ride, but maybe another time."
"Yeah. Catch me tomorrow, maybe," Jon replied happily. Thinking back, he remembered Kevin's new truck. He remembered helping load it up when Kevin and his family moved to South Carolina. Jon wondered how far away that move was.
Kevin got into his truck, started it up, and began to back it down the driveway. He stopped as he pulled into the street, obviously having trouble switching from reverse to first, and was surprised when the passenger side door opened up. He looked up to see Day's friend Burt climbing in with a paper-wrapped package in one hand and some sort of small briefcase in the other, and asking, "Can you give me a ride out to the highway?"
"Sure," Kevin asked, obviously a little confused. "What about your play practice?"
Burt, appearing to have no idea what Kevin was talking about, just shrugged, "I guess it can wait. I—uh, I'll phone 'em and tell them where I am."
As Kevin pulled away, he heard a horrifying scream come from Day's yard that sounded like a woman pleading, "Garison! Noooo!"
He slam
med on the breaks and asked, "Did you hear that? That scream?"
The young man with the black mustache was white to the gills and obviously shaken. He was remembering Jon's similar call as Mary had driven off for the last time. Still, his reply was, "No. No I didn't."
Chapter Twenty-Three
"Could you give me a ride out to the Interstate?" Garison asked.
"The what?"
"Highway going west. Whatever will get me to Colorado first—or at least heading in that direction."
"Uh, sure. My boy's school is out that way. But what about the play?"
"Huh?" Garison asked. He suddenly realized the question must pertain to whatever story Jon had told the man. He replied, "I'll be back in time." Softer, to himself, he added, "I've got plenty of time."
"You know, Mister Cottage," Kevin Watson offered, "I could take you to the bus station—or the airport if you'd like."
Garison shook his head and told him, "No, but thank you. I really can't afford it. Not until—" he couldn't think up a good lie on the spur of the moment and repeated, "I couldn't afford it."
Kevin nodded and sat silently until they were out at the highway. Garison extended a hand and said, "Thanks a lot for the ride."
"Not a problem. Uh, what should I tell Jon?"
"Nothing. He—um—he probably wouldn't understand. I'll explain it to him some time. I'd say just drop it for now. If you don't mention it, I'll bet he won't, either."
"You don't have any gear—other than what you have on and that little box you're carrying. You need some clothes?"
"I'll be fine as soon as I get where I'm going," Garison assured him. He wondered if that were the truth, but really didn't want to be tied to anyone or anything in the east if he didn't have to be. If need be, he'd work his way west and buy some clothes when he could.
Kevin shrugged and drove off. As he did, Garison watched and checked the man's license plates. Garison remembered, though, that it was a new truck and just had temporary tags. He'd have to wait for another opportunity to find out the year for certain.
Garison Fitch caught a ride with a truck driver heading west. The man took him as far as Knoxville, but had no plans to go further. Garison got out of the truck at a Stuckey's by the road and had no idea what his next plan should be. The trucker had bought him lunch earlier in the day, but Garison had no idea where his next meal would come from. The money he had with him wouldn't be good for another twenty years—and he didn't really want to eat a pecan roll for supper, anyway.
He had gone ahead and adopted the name "Burt Cottage" with everyone he met. Even though the "other Garison Fitch" was just a boy in western Colorado, he figured it was best to just have one person by that name running around. So he had chosen the name of a cartoon character that he knew wouldn't start appearing in the newspapers until the mid 1990s. Inwardly, he chuckled every time he introduced himself, but the name meant nothing to anyone else. He figured he needed something, however small, to chuckle about. He just hoped he didn't run into the cartoonist by accident. He had an idea the guy was from Texas, but he wasn't sure.
Garison slept that night under a bridge northwest of Knoxville. He had gotten a ride from a person in a sedan, but they had only taken him a few miles before they turned off to the north. Luckily, it was a warm night and he could use his heavy coat as a pillow. In fact, the night was a little too warm for his long sleeve shirt, but it did protect (some) against mosquitoes.
Morning broke to find Garison with a stiff neck and an empty stomach. "As Heather's goofy friend Bat would say," Garison mumbled to no one in particular, "'My stomach feels like my throat's been cut'." It momentarily irritated him how much he had been quoting from Bat lately.
He crawled out from under the bridge and surveyed his surroundings. It had been dark when the driver had let him out the night before so he had had no idea what sort of country he was in.
He looked around to find he was in a country of rolling hills and trees. He thought he could see some fields through the trees, so he headed in that direction. He would get back on his way west as soon as he could, but the emptiness in his stomach was his first priority. Plowed fields indicated human inhabitants and those inhabitants might be serving up some breakfast.
A couple miles down the road, he found a farm house that looked occupied. Nervously, he went up to the door and knocked. He knew he must be a sight—what with a couple day's growth of beard, unkempt hair, and carrying a heavy jacket in early summer. He tried to finger his hair into the best shape possible, but it didn't do much good. Feeling his greasy, unkempt hair, he had a very strong urge for a bottle of shampoo and a comb.
The door opened and a young man, probably in his late twenties, looked out curiously. He asked politely, though with caution, "Could I help you?"
"Um, my name is Burt Cottage and, well, I was wondering if you might have some odd jobs around I could do for food?"
The young man looked Garison over, hesitated, then smiled and said, "Sure. Tell you what, you come in and eat first, then we'll see what we can find for you to do."
"I'd rather work first—"
"Nonsense. You look like you'd pass out if you didn't eat first." As the young man opened the door, he added, "Besides, I'm trying to imagine just what sort of work you're going to do with your arm in a sling like that." He laughed, "I don't have much bookkeeping work that needs to be done."
Garison nodded and came in. The truth was, he had been making himself exercise his arm and shoulder a little bit each day. It was still stiff and sore, but it was coming around. He expected it to be healed within a couple weeks, but that wouldn't necessarily help him now. He figured he could probably ditch the sling by now, but it had become a bit of a crutch.
As Garison stepped inside, the young man offered his hand and said, "My name's Tommy. Tommy Gregg."
"Nice to meet you," Garison smiled. Slipping his hand a little out of the sling, "I can shake hands correctly now."
"What happened to you?"
"I broke my collar bone in an accident about a month ago. You know, I have a little brother named Tommy. Haven't seen him in a long time."
Tommy Gregg nodded and led Garison into the kitchen. There, a young red haired woman was fixing pancakes. She had a round, attractive face, with a generous sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks. There were also freckles on her arms and throat, but not in abundance. She looked up in surprise to see Tommy come in with a stranger. A not too clean stranger at that.
Tommy introduced, "Susie, this is Burt Cottage. He's going to work for us a little bit. Burt, this is my wife, Susie."
"Pleased to meet you," Garison nodded. She returned the gesture, though hadn't as yet said anything. By way of conversation, he laughed, "That's really very interesting, my littlest sister is named Susie." Garison turned to a little red haired girl sitting in a high chair and asked, "Your name wouldn't be Jainie, would it?"
Tommy smiled and said, "'Fraid not. That's Melissa."
Susie turned around completely for the first time and it became obvious that she was not too far away from having another child. Garison smiled and said, "Looks like Jainie's going to have another sibling pretty soon."
"Next month," Tommy replied proudly. "Now, sit yourself down to some food."
Susie scowled at her husband a little bit, but laid a plate out in front of Garison anyway. She had to admit, he was a very polite man. He didn't seem like he would suddenly become an axe murderer or anything.
Susie sat down with them and, trying not to appear too stand offish, asked, "Do you have any children, Mister Cottage?"
"Call me Burt. Yeah, yeah I do. Four, actually." How could he explain the truth? How could he explain that one of his children died in the Revolutionary War, two died in the nineteenth century, and the other one wouldn't be born for several years? He guessed he could have honestly told her he didn't have any children, but memories of his kids were all he had and he refused to let them go.
"I bet you miss them,
" she offered consolingly. There was just something about this stranger that made her heart go out to him. Some pain in his life she could just barely sense, but not come near to identifying. Maybe that was why Tommy had so readily let him in. Tommy was not normally the most trusting of souls, but he often had a good sense for such things.
"More than I can say," Garison replied.
When he had come back through time to the future, the ache of losing his wife and three kids had been excruciating. It had been somewhat tempered, though, by the presence of Heather, his parents, and then his daughter Sarah. Now, he realized, he had none of those comforts. Heather was a ten year old girl somewhere and his parents had another Garison Fitch. He was all alone. He sighed, then hoped it hadn't been too audible. He smiled, hoping he could pass the sigh off as a burp.
After breakfast, Garison asked to see Tommy's farm equipment, claiming to be somewhat of a mechanic. By the end of the day—after a generous lunch and supper—Garison had all of the Greggs' farm equipment running better than new. Tommy had been amazed at how much Garison had been able to do with each machine. Garison had also let slip his knowledge of farming. (He had, he told himself, once won a Nobel prize in botany. But that was long ago and far away—on a different world, one might say.)
That evening, Garison asked if he could bed down in the barn, but Tommy wouldn't hear of it. The couch in the living room folded out into a bed, he explained, and that was where Garison would sleep. It occurred to Garison that he'd never met a fold out couch that was half as comfortable as a hard dirt floor that smelled like manure, but he couldn't see any polite way to decline. The bed turned out to be very nice, though. Garison was able to lay length wise between the bars, rather than having that one bar in the middle of his back he associated with most hide a beds.
The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 2): Saving Time Page 19
