After bed time that night, when they were the only ones still awake in the house, Tommy asked Susie, "What do you think of our visitor, Sue?"
She thought a moment, then replied, "I'm not sure why, but I really feel like my heart goes out to him. For some reason, I feel really sorry for him. Not just because he's traveling alone. He seems like an awfully nice man but, well—I somehow get the feeling that he's even more alone than we know."
"It's like he's running from something," Tommy concluded. She nodded in agreement. "He's mentioned a couple times how he's heading west. I don't know what's out there, but he seems to have a great need to get there. It's like that's the only plan in his life."
"Maybe his children are there," she offered. "Did you notice how sad his eyes were when he talked about them?"
"You know, I think a couple of them might be dead," Tommy offered. At her look of concern, Tommy shrugged and explained, "He said something about them being long gone. At first I thought he meant maybe their mother had just run off with them or something, but I don't think so. Something about the way he said it makes me think they must have died. His first wife, too. He mentioned something about a 'first wife' and how she was gone, too. I got the impression it was a long time ago."
"Maybe he lost them all in a fire—or a car wreck," Susie mused. "How terrible. And then, to be separated from his present family somehow."
Changing the track a bit, Tommy told her, "You know, the man's just about a genius with machines. I'd swear he'd never seen a combine like ours before, but he had it working twice as good as ever before after just over an hour. He showed me things I could do all over the farm to improve production. Just simple tune up type stuff. He even knows something about plants, I gather."
"Sounds like you ought to coax him into staying a few days." She chided her husband, "He might have this farm running better in three or four days than the Gregg family has been able to do in three or four generations."
"I probably ought to be offended," Tommy quipped, "But you're probably right."
"Of course I am," she laughed.
It wasn't all that hard for Garison to make a few tips that helped the Gregg farm. Much of it came not from his long ago experience in botany, but from knowing the next twenty years' worth of farming advancements. He recommended seeds and fertilizers that would be common in another decade, but could give the Greggs a "leg up" on the competition now. He even recommended a couple things they might not be able to find for a few years, but he would be long gone by then. He didn't see that it could hurt any.
As they walked in from the fields, Garison took off his sling and exercised his arm a bit. He realized it wasn't as sore as it had been and was finally starting to feel close to normal. He knew better than to strain it too early, but he was looking forward to being back to normal. What he really wanted to do was take a few cuts at a batting cage somewhere, but he knew his shoulder wasn't ready for that.
Tommy, watching Garison move his arm about, asked, "You're name's not really Burt Cottage, is it?"
Garison looked up in surprise and asked, "Why do you say that?"
"For one thing, that first day you were here you always seemed surprised if I called you Burt. And for another, that little case—or whatever it is—that you carry around has the initials G.F. on it. So either you stole it, or your initials are really G.F."
Garison shrugged, but didn't reply. How to explain the truth?
"Well, I guess that's all right," Tommy finally said. "You've proved to me that you're all right. My grampa always said it didn't matter what name a fellow used, as long as he lived up to it. My great great grandfather's name wasn't Gregg, but he used it until it stuck. I reckon you've done enough to go with any name you like."
"Thanks," was all Garison could manage.
"You know, Susie and I were talking, and we'd like to do something for you."
"That's not—"
"No, no. Wait a moment. You've shown me stuff on this farm and on my equipment that could change everything around here. I owe you something. Now, Susie and I don't have much money around here—not this time of the month, anyway. But we've got a little cash and we'd like to buy you a bus ticket west."
"You really don't have to," Garison objected.
"I know that, but we want to. Tomorrow morning we need to go into town for some things anyway. You let us take you by the bus station and buy you a ticket. I can't guarantee that we can get you as far as you want to go, but however far we can get you on a nice, comfortable bus has got to be better than riding your thumb. I know how anxious you are to get to Colorado, and this would get you closer faster."
"I would appreciate it," Garison smiled.
The next morning at the bus station, Susie handed Garison a large grocery bag. "What's this?" he asked.
"Oh, just some food for your trip. And an extra set of clothes." He started to object, but she shook her head and said, "Take them. I know you've been washing your clothes out in the bathroom every night. It's not much. With you being bigger than Tommy and all, there wasn't much around to give you. But there are some cut offs in there and a couple shirts you should be able to fit into." She smiled and added, "Nothing you'll want to wear to church, though."
He took the bag and told her truthfully, "I can't tell you how much this means to me, Susie. I, uh, I hope my little sister turns out as nice as you—and half as pretty."
Susie blushed and kissed him on the cheek, making him blush. Garison shook hands with Tommy, told Melissa good bye, and patted Susie's tummy good bye. The bus driver made his call, and Garison climbed aboard. He waved to the Greggs as the bus pulled away.
He almost felt like he was losing his family again.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Garison's Journal
June 13, 1987
Ronald Reagan is in the White House. The Berlin Wall hasn’t fallen, yet. Joe Montana is the starting quarterback of the San Francisco 49ers and Nolan Ryan pitches for the Houston Astros.
And me, I'm somewhere in Oklahoma, riding in the back of a pick up truck headed for Colorado. The bus ticket the Gregg's bought for me got me as far as Oklahoma City. From there, I hitched a ride to Watonga and stayed a couple days with a nice family of Mennonites. They tell me there are quite a few Mennonites to the east, near Perkins, but that's opposite of the direction I want to go. From Watonga I caught a ride into Woodward with a trucker and he knew a guy who was going to Colorado. The guy's company has a policy against carrying hitchhikers in the cab, so I'm riding in the "crew quarters", or whatever you might call them. At least I'm not back there with the cattle, but I guess even that would be better than walking. This ride should get me as far as La Junta, then I'll have to start hitching again, I guess. With any luck, I should be able to make Durango within a week. I have almost eighteen years, so I guess I don't have to hurry. Still, I'd like to get it over with.
It's been a strange strip. There's an odd sort of freedom in being out on your own with no money, few extra clothes, and no time schedule. Unfortunately, I also have no family, no friends, and no real way to make any. I certainly can't make another family—even if I wanted to. And I worry that even making friends might cause trouble. Although, I guess anything that would keep me from making the first trip through time would be a positive thing. Time's been so messed up already, who knows what is "normal" anymore?
All I have is three shirts, a pair of pants, a pair of cut off shorts, one pair of tennis shoes, two pairs of socks, and a lap top computer that won't be manufactured for seventeen more years. Everyone always eyes the computer suspiciously, but I think they just guess it to be a very thin plastic briefcase. I know better than to open it up and reveal what it really is. Thanks to the modifications Heather's friend Darla did to it, the computer should last me several years. (At least until I can buy an older model to replace it. I'll have to wait for Darla to get old enough to make a better one, though, as she is currently a grade school child somewhere in Dallas. Her current concept of comput
ers is probably derived from TV shows.)
I miss Heather. And I miss my little girl. I think about them almost constantly. Just like when a loved one dies, the worst part is knowing there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. And just like when I accidentally left Sarah in the eighteenth century, Heather and little Sarah may as well be dead to me now.
Of course, Heather is alive. The problem is, she is not even ten years old and living in a house in Highland Park, Texas. While there's a part of me that would like to see her even as an adolescent, I know better. If I were lucky, I would only get arrested as a pervert. Worst case scenario: I do something that prevents her from ever meeting and marrying me. I'd hate to do that to the me that's out there somewhere.
Will that still happen? Even if my convincing myself not to travel through time doesn't cause me to cease to exist, could I have already changed things? Could my bus ride or hitchhiking have some sort of domino effect that prevents the younger me from meeting Heather? Worst case scenario there: Heather marries Bat.
If I can get to Durango within a week—maybe less, depending on what breaks I can catch—what do I do when I get there?
What do I tell the eleven year old version of me when I find him (me)? How do I explain it? And how does a complete stranger get a chance to talk to a twelve year old boy without being hauled in? As a child, I didn't talk to strangers; but I'm hoping I can make myself do it this once.
One thing bothers me about all this: I don't remember meeting myself. Shouldn't I? Then, of course, there is the question: did Day always remember finding that money clip or did history somehow change? Did I always remember leaving the package in the rain? Of course, there's no way to answer that question.
Over and over in my mind, I keep hearing Heather's horrified cry, pleading with me not to do what I've done. I still don't believe in the doctrine of penance, but I certainly seem to be paying mine. If from nothing other than the many times I have heard that cry in my dreams.
One of the worries people have is that, when they die, they will leave nothing behind. If our conjecture is right, and I cease to have ever existed, then I will leave less behind than the least note worthy person in history; for I will leave nothing.
The truck driver dropped Garison off in La Junta, a town in eastern Colorado. The truck driver knew of some cheap places to stay, but they all some required money. Garison found a Baptist church with a light on and went in.
There was a man working late and he seemed surprised to see Garison. He was probably in his late forties and he was dressed in slacks, shirt and tie. He had thinning hair, a developing paunch, and a slightly reddish complexion. He smiled and asked, "Can I help you?"
Garison hated to ask for such a thing, but finally replied, "I was wondering if I could spend the night on one of your pews? I won't be any trouble and I'll be gone in the morning."
The man looked Garison over, then shook his head and said, "I can't do that, unfortunately."
Garison started to turn and go, but the pastor said, "But I can do this. There's an old couch in my garage. You're welcome to sleep there if you'd like. Might not be too comfortable, but it'll beat sleeping outside."
Garison smiled appreciatively and said, "I would really enjoy that."
The man stood up and offered his hand, "I'm Ronald Cole. I'm the pastor here."
"Burt Cottage," Garison said, shaking the man's hand. He had ceased to get as big a kick out of using the name as he once had. It was starting to be second nature; which was good. Garison didn't want to slip up and use his real name—especially as he got closer to Durango. Even here in La Junta, on the far side of the state, there was a chance someone might have read a story in the paper about the Durango boy who was about to graduate from high school at the age of twelve.
"Have you been in town long?"
"Just passing through. I—uh—I have business in Durango I need to take care of. Whenever I can get there."
The pastor nodded and said, "If you'll take a seat, I'll just finish up what I'm doing here."
Garison nodded and sat down. He was in front of a large book case and began looking at the titles. Most of them were books he was unfamiliar with, but he saw a few he recognized. He took one down and began to read.
Ronald Cole looked up and asked with a smile, "You read him?"
"C.S. Lewis? He's my favorite." He held up the book, Mere Christianity, and said, "Outside of the Bible itself, this has to be my all time favorite book. I read it probably once a year. For the last two years, anyway. Before that, my memory's a little fuzzy." For a moment, Garison wondered why he couldn't remember it more clearly, but he guessed it was because he had read the book so many times the repetitions were beginning to blend together.
The pastor nodded and said, "It's a good one, all right. I've only read it once myself, though. Need to read it again."
After a while, Ronald Cole put down his pen and said, "I'm done. Let me take you over and show you that couch." Garison started to put the book back, but Pastor Cole said, "Why don't you keep that?"
"I couldn't—" Garison objected.
"No. Go ahead. It's just a paperback. I'll probably be more likely to run across another copy before you do."
Garison nodded and put the book in the paper bag he was still carrying. "Thanks. This really means a lot." He hesitated, then began, "I was wondering, though . . . "
"Yes?"
"I know some churches keep some New Testaments around to give to visitors. I was wondering . . . "
Pastor Cole nodded and pulled out a pocket sized New Testament from one of his desk drawers. He handed it to Garison and said, "I probably would have given you one whether you had asked or not."
"Thanks. I, uh, I got away without mine somehow."
When morning came, Garison showered at the parsonage and changed into clean clothes. He was about to leave when the preacher's wife said, "Why don't you stay a while?"
"I couldn't—"
"Stay long enough for me to wash your clothes, at least. You strike me as a person who's been washing them in a sink." She was a middle aged woman with pre maturely gray hair but a still nice figure. Her name was Alice and Garison had liked her instantly. If not for the gray hair, she wouldn't have looked old enough to be the mother of the people whose pictures were on the living room wall. There were four young adults pictured there (three with spouses) and two of the girls bore an obvious resemblance to Alice.
Ronald came in just then and said, "Could you use some money, Burt?"
"Oh, I couldn't take—"
"Who said anything about us giving?" Ronald laughed. "What I'm proposing is twenty dollars if you'll mow the church yard and the yard here at the parsonage. It's not much, but it could help. And we need to have it done, anyway."
"It sure would help," Garison smiled, somewhat relieved. "If you'll just point me to the mower."
Ronald told him, "First, let me loan you some work clothes. That way Alice can be washing those you have on while you're working."
As Garison mowed the yard, Ronald stood on the porch of the parsonage with Alice and watched for a moment. Ronald remarked, "He's favoring that right shoulder, but he sure does work hard. You know, he tuned up that mower before he even started. It's not running like new, either. It's running better than new!"
"What do you think his story is?" Alice asked.
"Don't know. All I've gotten from him is that he's trying to get to Durango and that he used to attend a Baptist church in Virginia a long time ago. I don't know how religious he is or anything, but, from what I can gather, he knows his Bible."
"Those clothes I'm washing, they're in good shape. Not like someone who's been on the road for a long time. They've seen wear, though."
Pastor Cole shrugged and said, "I wish we knew what's going on so we can help him. If we could help, of course. He doesn't strike me as someone who is running away from a problem so much as someone who is trying to solve one. Can't really risk damaging his pride by asking, though."
>
"If he wants to tell us, I imagine he will."
Garison came over about then and asked, "Do you have a weed whacker?"
"No. We don't have one, yet. The one's that are worth anything are way too expensive."
Garison nodded and said, "Well then, I guess I've done about all I can. Is there anything else you need looked at? I'm pretty good with air conditioning units. Know my way around them, anyway."
"No, everything seems to be running fine."
Alice offered, "Why don't you come inside and get cleaned up while I put some lunch on the table? Then we can run you over to the bus station."
"I really can't afford—"
"We'll buy the ticket," Alice said. She looked at her husband for confirmation and he nodded. "If you're willing to take the late night run that stops a hundred times between here and there, we can get you a ticket all the way to Durango."
"I'd sure appreciate it. And I'll pay you back some day."
"You don't have to," Pastor Cole told him. "But if you really feel like it, some day just drop the price of the ticket in a Baptist collection plate somewhere."
"I'll do it." Garison started for the restroom, then turned and told the Coles, "You know, there's going to be more people like me in the coming years. 'Riding the grub line', you might say. They're going to need people like you." Without waiting for a response, he turned and went into the restroom.
The bus ride to Durango was a long one. The bus stopped in Walsenburg, Fort Garland, Alamosa, Monte Vista, Baxterville, Pagosa Springs, Chimney Rock, Bayfield, and finally Durango. Garison had an idea it might have stopped another time or two while he was asleep, but all the towns looked the same from a bus. He knew the trip—especially the part over Wolf Creek Pass—was a beautiful one, but seeing it from a bus in the middle of the night was no big thrill. He thought that, if he took care of his business and still existed, he'd have to make the trip again and see the sights. There was something comforting in knowing the mountains wouldn't change.
The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 2): Saving Time Page 20
