As his memories had started disappearing ten years before, what he had missed most were the memories of having met Heather, courted her, then married her. In the strange, torn right out of time, relationship they had had, he had never know her when she wasn't married to him. He hadn't know her as a college student. He hadn't known her as a young single just out to make her name in the world.
He thought she almost saw him, once. As she put her hair in a pony tail she was absently looking into the stands. Her eyes seemed to scan across where he was sitting, but she didn't even stop. Why should she? he thought. She doesn't have any idea who I am.
Having her look right past him like that was the worst thing that had happened to him in over ten years—since that last agonizing scream she had let out when he hopped into the pick-up truck, in fact. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he thought there should have been some sort of "cosmic" connection. Like she would have at least felt a little tingle of something in the back of her mind as she saw the man who—in a time that hadn't happened yet—had been her best friend, the father of her child (sortof) and her lover. To be just another face in the crowd was agony.
The match started and Heather was superb. She played volleyball not just with athleticism, but with a marked intelligence. Somehow, it seemed that she even knew what was going on behind her at any given time. And, while easily the best spiker on the team, she was unselfish. She set her teammates up without a second thought because—at all times—she knew exactly what was going on on the court and what needed to be done to give her team the victory.
He wasn't that far from the court so he could even hear her voice. She wasn't saying much, just barking out encouragement and instructions to her teammates, but it was Heather's voice and the sound left Garison's ears tingling. As the team had huddled up before the game for one last spark of excitement, each of the players had been saying words of encouragement but he could pick her voice out of the din with no problem. When they had broken huddle with a shout of "Go Mustangs!" he had heard only one voice. And with six women moving rapidly around the Mustang side of the court, his eyes had only seen one young woman out there.
The match itself was a slaughter. The Lady Mustangs beat the Lady Wildcats 15-0, 15-1, 15-0. And as the majority of the SMU team beat a hasty retreat to the locker room—as if this whole evening had been a sort of blemish on their NCAA complexions—Heather stood around talking to the other team and signing autographs for the fans.
Garison had wanted the evening to end from almost the moment it began, but when the matches were over he realized the time had been too short. He wanted to stick around for every last minute, but he knew he had better leave when the crowd did for, if he sat out there until he was the last person left, she was sure to see him. Maybe seeing him wouldn't mean anything to her—which would be awful—but maybe seeing him would somehow mess things up, which could be even worse.
So he stood up with the crowd that was now making its way to the exits and cast one more look toward where Heather was standing—and signing an autograph for that girl he'd seen at the burger joint.
She looked so beautiful. She wasn't wearing make-up, her shirt was sweat-stained, her hair was out of the tie now but had that awful "been tied" look. Her appeal to the teen-age boys had probably dropped somewhat. None of them were hanging around her, anyway.
But to Garison she was the most beautiful sight he had seen in years. In fact, he couldn't remember ever seeing anyone—or anything—who looked better. He thought of those teen-age boys and the part of her anatomy they had said they'd like to grab and he thought of how much he'd love to run down the stairs, leap the railing, grab her into his arms, and just hold her. To kiss her or fondle her were actions not even on his mind. All he wanted to do was hold her. To talk to her. To hear her voice talking to him.
But what he did was walk morosely out of the coliseum, over to his truck and climb in. He started up the engine but decided it wouldn't be wise to drive at night with so many tears in his eyes. So he sat there in the dark and cried until the tears wouldn't come anymore. Then he drove over to a nearby motel, booked a room, and sat in the darkened room that smelled vaguely like cigarette smoke and let it all come out again.
Chapter Thirty
Garison's Journal
March 14, 2005
A friend of mine in college used to have a "Conception Day" party nine months before his birthday. If I were to do the same, today would be the day for me.
Sort of.
Depending on how one looks at it, today I am either nine months away from my thirtieth birthday, nine months away from my fifty seventh birthday, or neither. I say neither because there haven't always been 365 days between consecutive December 14ths for me. Still, that is the day I celebrate as my birthday, so this is the day I should celebrate my conception, I guess.
While it has nothing to do with my birthday I do feel a little celebratory today. Today I am going back to La Plata Canyon.
I went back to the canyon eight years ago. It was sort of strange. Everything was as I remember it physically, but it was depressing because it wasn't really "my canyon" anymore. The trails were the same, even my old pond where I used to go to think and write was still there, but it was wrong.
Or maybe, it was me that was wrong. Knowing that I could never live there again, that I could never share it with Heather or my daughter, made being there worse than not being there. When some old man I didn't recognize chased me off his land, I decided it was time to leave the canyon behind.
Maybe it was for the best, because it enabled me to finally let go of one more piece of my past. Kind of like when one sees an old flame, always having wondered if the flame could be rekindled. Sometimes it's a little cathartic to find out that it can't.
Now I'm heading back up there. I'm going to make sure my younger self watches the tape I gave him.
What if he does, though, but doesn't pay any attention? What if he tries to go ahead with the experiment?
I guess I'll have to try and stop him. I hope it doesn't come to that, because I would hate to get into a fist fight with myself. While I might could inflict some damage, I don't think I could take me. I try to tell myself that I'm in good shape for a fifty seven year old man, but I know in my heart that I'm no George Foreman. Like I say, I hope it doesn't come to that.
So, as soon as I shut off this computer, I'll put it in my travel bag and head out. I wonder what will happen? Will I ever be back in San Angelo again? Will I just cease to exist?
You know, I really don't care. I just want this all to be over with. If I go to meet God the day after tomorrow, that's fine. I've made my peace with that idea.
If I don't—if I'm somehow still alive—that'll be fine, too. If that's the case, then I've decided to finally go about the business of living my life.
For eighteen years I've been holding back, afraid of somehow messing up things for my younger self, for Heather—or even for Bat. But if Friday morning dawns and I'm still in this world, I'm just going to go about my life like everyone else.
I can't imagine ever wanting to marry again, but I would like to make friends with a woman or two. Who knows what I'll do? Like everyone else, I'll just lead life as if the future were an unknown quantity.
Garison took the diskette out of the lap top and turned the computer off. He folded it up and fastened the clasp, then stored it and the disks that chronicled more than twenty years of journal entries in his travel bag and zipped it up.
He cast a quick glance to where his old lap top computer resided on one of the bookshelves. He smiled briefly. The old lap top was a Darston SL 12, manufactured by a company in Denver. And while the Darston SL 12 had only been released in late 2004, Garison's model was twenty two years old that spring. Not only that, but his brand new lap top was also a Darston SL 12, the first one bought in the United States, in fact. In an odd twist of fate that only Garison could have understood, both lap tops were not only the same model, they had the same serial number
.
Thinking of the two lap tops always brought to mind one of the few aspects of his time travel that amused him. What would Darla Gaston, the twenty something president of Darston Computers think if she knew that Garison had one of her computers that was almost as old as she was? The thing was, the Darston SL 12 really was the best computer on the market. When his old one had begun to wear out, Garison had tried in vain to find a suitable replacement. He hadn't succeeded until Darla had grown up, started her own company, and developed the SL 12—so he could replace his SL 12. He laughed that it was a little like the Texas Rangers, who tried futilely for years to replace Jim Sundberg, finally resolving the dilemma by bringing Jim Sundberg back.
He picked up his travel bag and slung it over his shoulder. His right shoulder hadn't hurt him in almost twenty years, though it had become a pretty fair barometer. He thought back to that day when the Indians had attacked him and it all seemed far longer that just twenty years before.
The travel bag was light, a habit he had picked up during his life on the road in the late 1980s. The habit had never had a chance to die out, as he stayed somewhat on the move. After running into Bat Garrett in 1996, he had moved on to the University of Arizona at Tempe. After that he had taught at for a year at Milligan College, in Tennessee, but had moved back west to teach at Angelo State. He liked San Angelo and figured that, if Friday found him still living in 2005, he would just stay at the west Texas college.
He locked up his house and put the travel bag in the cab of his late model Chevy truck. Making sure he had enough tapes and CDs to last him to Colorado (and maybe back) he climbed in and started the motor. Not taking another look at his house, he backed into the street, then set out for the highway.
His route took him by the River Walk, San Angelo's "homage" to San Antonio's river walk. Garison cast a glimpse down at the green banks and wondered if he would ever see them again. He had never thought of any of his residences as "home" but he did get a feeling of melancholy as he left another one behind.
He realized he had felt disaffected from the world for twenty years. No place to call home, no deep friendships, no family. As he passed the city limits sign, he waved to the city of San Angelo, hoping his wanderings were finally coming to an end—and he didn't really care how the road ended.
He drove all day and got to Colorado late in the evening, long after the sun had gone down. The day had been a warm spring one back in San Angelo, but his shorts and T shirt were a little underdressed for the wintery San Juan Mountains. Stepping out of the truck in the parking lot of a motel in Mancos, he donned his jacket and headed for the office.
"You must've come far," the elderly woman behind the desk remarked.
"How can you tell?" Garison asked as he reached for his wallet.
"Well, you obviously came far enough to have started the day somewhere warmer." She smiled and asked, "Now, what can I do for you?"
"Need a room for a couple nights, maybe three."
The lady told him, "Well, if there's a chance you'll be needing that third night, you better go ahead and book it now. We start getting some of the weekend crowd on Thursday and I can't guarantee you that we'd still have your room."
Garison nodded and instructed, "Put me down for three, then. Non smoking, if you have it." In his mind, he was thinking that—if he didn't need that third night—it would be because he had been zapped into non existence. In which case, he mused sardonically, he probably wouldn't care about losing the deposit.
After filling out the necessary paperwork and putting the whole thing on his plastic, the woman handed Garison a key and said, "Twenty six. Go up the stairs and down almost to the end. The rooms on both sides of you are non smoking as well, so you shouldn't have any problems—I mean, if you're allergic."
"No," Garison laughed, "Just makes me sick."
He took the key and parked his truck beneath his room. Carrying his one piece of luggage up the stairs, he gladly moved into the warmth of the room. It was a good sized room, though all he was really interested in was a bed—and maybe a television. He had had supper in Farmington, but he did stop and get a six pack of Dr Peppers to keep in his room and a bucket of ice.
When morning dawned, Garison showered, shaved, and had a leisurely breakfast at a nearby diner. He remembered having eaten there once before with Heather, but the food had been unremarkable both times. He watched everyone that came in and, with a mixture of relief and disappointment, didn't recognize any of the other patrons.
After breakfast, he went back to the motel and changed into some extreme cold weather gear. It wasn't all that cold in Mancos, but he knew he could get pretty chilled where he was going. So he wore a white ski bib and matching white jacket (specially purchased for the occasion), and brown ski gloves. He had a white stocking cap for his head, though he generally didn't like touks. Still, it was better than having his ears frozen.
Once in his mukluks, he set out for La Plata Canyon. It was a pretty drive, owing to the snow still clinging to the higher elevations and drifted in the shadows. Yet, he approached the canyon with something like trepidation.
What would he find? What if his younger self had never moved to the canyon? Would that mean that everything was all right—that the experiment would never be attempted? Or might it just mean that the young Garison Fitch would just enact the experiment somewhere else? In that case, Garison would have virtually no chance to stop himself.
Garison hated to think of any possibility that might mean spending the last twenty years in the past was futile. There had been more than one time in the previous two decades that he had asked himself if he shouldn't have just stayed with Heather and Sarah. The only thing that kept him going was the knowledge that what he had done had been absolutely necessary for the salvation of time itself.
But if it didn't work? He shook the idea from his head and concentrated on watching for the turn off for the canyon.
As he headed up the canyon road, he was glad to see that the sign over the first gate still proclaimed that the place belonged to Charlie Begay. That, at least, was a comfort.
Garison was also glad that the roads were clear of snow. Not only did it make driving easier, clear roads made his presence less curious to the residents. Had it been snowing or snow covered, someone might wonder why a stranger were going to the trouble to drive up the canyon. On a day like this one, though, he could pass for a tourist if questioned. He hoped no one would realize he looked like their young neighbor; then shook that uncomfortable thought from his head as well.
Garison drove past the gate to his property and around the bend. There was a little cul de sac he knew of from before where he believed he could park. It had once been intended as the driveway to a house that was never built; he was glad to see that the story seemed to have held true. He felt confident he could park the truck there without arousing suspicion.
Once parked, Garison got out and took the SL 12 with him. He had carried the lap top (or its predecessor) with him everywhere for eighteen years, not wanting anyone to know what was on it. He kept it with him now in the event he needed the information stored in it to share with the younger version of himself. It briefly occurred to him that the old SL 12 would have made a good object lesson for such a performance, but he wasn't about to go back to Texas just to get it.
With more than twenty years worth of journal entries, Heather written narratives, and some snacks in the pockets of his bib and coat, Garison set out. In one hand he carried the lap top, in the other a thermos of hot chocolate.
When he got to the dirt road he had once ridden in a hearse with Stuart Jameson, Garison turned and headed up the hill. The road was still snow covered in many places, making him thankful for the warm, water proof boots. He took the road to, roughly, the same spot where he and Heather and gone through the fence years ago (or two years in the future, he mused), and stepped through onto what he hoped was his property. He followed a little trail he knew of through the deeply drifted forest snow to his
house—the Fitch Complex, as it had once been known.
Creeping stealthily through the forest, he saw that his house indeed was there. Making his way slowing and carefully through the woods, he came to a spot on the back side of the house where he knew he wouldn't be seen. Snow had always stayed there longer than anywhere else near the house and this winter was no different—hence the white clothing. Sitting down behind some bushes, he set about to watch the house.
He wasn't sure what he would see, as it was a cold day and no one was likely to be outside. Still, he hoped to see some movement or a face through a window that would assure him his younger self and Heather were living there.
As soon as he saw the house, though, he had no doubt. It was the same house he had built with Heather, the same house he had built himself back in Marx. Even his barn—or laboratory—looked the same.
He looked up suddenly, remembering that his current resting place—while in a "blind spot" from the house—would be visible from the cupola on the lab. He had built the cupola as a sort of observation room/meditation chamber and it provided an excellent view of all the yard except that blocked by the house. Garison was relieved to remember that this Garison had never built the cupola. So that little bit of history had remained correct.
He pulled back his sleeve enough to check the time: quarter 'til twelve. If his younger self was the creature of habit Garison was, the young man should be leaving the lab to come to lunch pretty soon. And if the young Garison weren't a creature of habit, there was still the good chance that Heather was still herself and didn't like food she had cooked to get cold. Garison chuckled that he'd sooner expect the mountains themselves to change that Heather.
Sure enough, at five minutes until twelve the lab door opened. Garison watched in awe as a younger version of himself walked out. He was huddled against the cold, but Garison could still get a good look at his features.
The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 2): Saving Time Page 26
