Some of the pain went out of Arthur’s lungs as they stood still.
“I’m gonna sleep well tonight,” Samuel said. “Glad tomorrow’s Sunday and no work. Come over for lunch at noon. Mother’s making mincemeat pie.”
They parted ways as they came down the hill.
Arthur let himself into the house and went to his mother’s warm embrace, hot cider, potato soup, and bread by the fire. He answered questions as shortly as possible. He kept thinking about what Samuel had said—about wanting to look over his shoulder. He was very tired and wanted to sleep, so he ate quickly then went to his room. The room seemed smaller.
Later, lying in bed and looking up at the slanted beams of the roof that met over his head, Arthur heard the back door close and his father’s voice and footsteps. His parents spoke in hushed tones for a long while. For a time he heard his mother crying, but eventually those noises ceased. Finally, like always, the whole house fell silent.
I’m so tired, he thought all the rest of the long night.
Lorna Gould’s Roses
Glenda Hall offered me another cup of tea, but I politely declined. Its aftertaste, mingled with the aftertaste of her muffins, was faintly appalling.
“It’s good of you to visit, Henry,” she said, setting down the pot. “Your grandmother always spoke so highly of you. You eat up and I’ll give you the photographs you’re after.”
“That would be great, Mrs. Hall,” I said, leaving the muffins alone and checking my watch. “I am a bit pressed for time.”
The old lady clucked her tongue. “The young are always in a hurry, but there’s something to be said for taking the time to smell the roses.”
My eyes traveled to a glass vase standing next to the plate of muffins on the coffee table. It was full of red tea roses, freshly cut.
“You like them?” she asked.
“Very nice. From your own garden?”
“Oh, heavens no. I could never grow roses like that. Those are from next door. You saw the burnt house?”
“Yes. I meant to ask you about that.”
“A shame, that is. Terrible. But the garden is still as good as when Lorna Gould planted it fifty-seven years ago. She had quite the green thumb.” A far-away look came into her eyes. Macular degeneration had left them half-blind, but from the outside looking in, they seemed quite clear.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Hmm? To Lorna Gould? She died four years ago, age of ninety-two. I got her beat.” Mrs. Hall winked.
“No, I meant what happened to the house?”
“Oh, that! There’s a story for you. Got five minutes?”
I hesitated, then nodded.
“Well,” she said, leaning in and setting a bony, confidential hand on my leg, “Lorna always kept her house nice. Took pride in it. You used to visit me with your grandmother when you were little, so you might remember.”
I nodded, trying not to betray my distaste. Glenda Hall had never liked children, and I hadn’t exactly changed her mind about them all those years ago, if memory served. But she and Grandma had belonged to the same bridge club, and Grandma had enjoyed showing me off to her friends.
“Nicest house on the block,” Mrs. Hall continued. “Always a pleasure to have Lorna as a neighbor. Her husband was the last mine foreman in Still Creek, you know. It takes a special kind of woman to marry a man like that. Had to have an iron will to match his, and she did. But even strong wills bend with age, and when she died, she hardly knew her own name. According to some, her death, under such circumstances, was passingly sad but long overdue. I visited her just before she went, and for what it’s worth, I tend to agree.”
I nodded, forcing myself to bite into one of the muffins. Echoes of bad childhood memories came flooding back with the stale taste.
“Well, once that house went up on the market, I knew there’d be trouble. And of course there was. It wasn’t two weeks before the Danforths moved in, and right away things started going downhill.”
“How’s that?”
Mrs. Hall whistled. “First off, they had five cats. Five cats! You ever hear of such a thing? And a tall, mangy mutt to boot. Big and lanky, like a German Shepherd but not pure. Kept it chained up in the back yard beside an old wooden house made of particle board. I thought it would wear a hole into the ground from all that pacing. And the barking! Night and day. Day and night. It was enough to send an old lady’s nerves over the edge, let me tell you!”
“I can imagine.”
“Well, the wife was fat and wore dirty shirts that said dirty things. And the husband swore enough to turn the grass black. And their children? Little urchins! Always screaming and crying and rolling in the dirt. The lawn was the first to go. Lorna’s lovely lawn. And those children rolled in the remains!”
“Imagine that.”
“Yes! Imagine that! And then Mr. Danforth, he started parking his old rusted pickup on the front lawn, and he dragged a davenport out on the front porch. Five months. Five months, and that was all it took to undo Lorna’s lifetime of work on that nice old house.”
“Hard to believe.”
“Yes! Hard to believe! Here, eat that muffin, now.”
My stomach churned. “Oh no—two filled me up fine.”
“Nonsense!”
“No, really, I’m fine, Mrs. Hall.”
For a moment I thought Mrs. Hall would say something more, but she didn’t press any further.
“Well, anyway, pretty soon Mr. Danforth got to hitting Mrs. Danforth, and she always had dark glasses on to hide her black eyes, and then she starting hitting the children, and after that some of the cats even began to limp a bit. During Parade Day Mr. Danforth got in a great big fight right in the middle of the street with some other fellow, and that was ugly for everyone. Oh, and one time Mrs. Danforth threw a vase through the bedroom window. Things like that give Still Creek a bad name, you know.”
I nodded.
“And the ladies up at the Bridge Lodge started talking about it, because really it was all getting to be a bit much. And then, one day, I heard Mrs. Danforth yelling at Mr. Danforth to—” she gulped, “to dig up those goddamn roses, pardon my language. Can you imagine the nerve? And I knew that just wouldn’t do. Really, it wouldn’t.”
I shook my head in mock regret, glancing down at my watch.
“But things have a way of taking care of themselves,” she continued, placing that confidential hand on my leg again. “At least, that’s what my Samuel always used to say before he passed away, God rest him. And sure enough, late that very same night, when the Danforths were out at some drag racing contest by the fairgrounds, the house caught fire and burned right down to the basement foundation. Let me tell you, it lit up the night like the Fourth of July! A bunch of cats and that dog of theirs died, and all their junk burned up, too. Even that old davenport on the front porch!”
Her hand had closed on my leg like a talon. I winced but pretended not to notice. “Did … did they ever find out what caused it?” I asked.
“Oh, arson they think.”
“Any arrests?”
“Nope! The police talked to lots of people, of course. But they didn’t arrest anyone. Anyone at all.”
I glanced up. Mrs. Hall was smiling, and that far-away look was back in her half-blind eyes. Again, to me they looked surprisingly clear, and when she caught my gaze she gave me a wink.
“I… I suppose Mrs. Gould would have been pleased,” I said lamely.
“Oh, Lorna hated her roses being bothered. She never gave a single one away through all her years. Not ever. Not a single one to anyone…and finally I knew that just wouldn’t do. Really, it wouldn’t.”
Suddenly she snapped to. “You sure you won’t have another bite of that muffin? I have to say, in my experience most people only eat like a bird when they don’t like the food! I baked them myself, you know. And I hate to see a grown man go hungry.”
No, I thought quickly. That just wouldn’t do.
Without
a word, I picked up a muffin and took a big bite. Then another. I smiled, chewed, and swallowed. Again and again.
“More tea?”
I nodded.
“There, now, that’s better!” Mrs. Hall said, pouring out another cup and giving me a sunny smile. “I’ll go find those photographs.”
She bustled out of the room. I looked down at the plate of muffins next to the vase of red tea roses from Mrs. Gould’s garden, freshly cut. There were six muffins left on the plate. Lifting my teacup to my lips, I vowed to eat them all.
Birthday
He could trace his motivation back to a single memory. All the years of work and toil; of diligent research and public ridicule; of failure, despair, more failure, and, finally, after half a century—
Success.
Seventy-six years old to the day, hair white, skin pale, eyes rheumy, David Halburn sat back in his swivel chair and looked at what stood before him.
A time machine.
“Thomas Wolfe, eat your heart out,” he murmured through dry lips. “I’m going home again.”
* * * * *
“Mommy, what’s that man looking at?”
David’s sixth birthday party breathed magic. Outside, the world grew green and smelled of warm earth, flowers, and bees. Sunshine fell through white curtains, heating the yellow carpet, illuminating chubby faces of kindergarten friends. His house, huge in mystery and secure in safety, blazed with banners, streamers, balloons and confetti. In the center of the living room, a great birthday cake with “E.T.” carefully drawn on the top in icing awaited inevitable destruction. Chocolate ice cream sat cooling in the freezer. Wrapped presents, bulky in ways that promised Transformers and GI Joes, Star Wars figures and He-Men, rose up on the coffee table like an offering, a celebration, a reward for being born.
In the hallway, children played “Pin The Tail on the Donkey.” In the den, an ATARI 2600 blipped to the tunes of “Pitfall” and “Tron.” In the living room, his father, quick to laugh and easy with life, detached his thumb with causal aplomb, then wiggled it to applause. And sitting on a chair while his mother tied his shoe, David stared through the open bay window and wondered aloud about the strange man in the street.
His mother, still girlish in early womanhood, looked where he was pointing and smiled. “It’s just an old man,” she said. “He’s probably thinking about all the fun we’re having in here.”
The old man stood in the street, staring at the house, an odd expression on his face. David looked again. Their eyes met.
“He looks sad,” he said.
“Maybe he’s remembering what it was like to be young like you,” his mother said, turning back to the offending shoelace. “Maybe he doesn’t have anybody, and seeing your party makes him think back on happier times.”
“Will I ever be old like that?” David asked.
His mother leaned forward and kissed his cheek.
“Not for a very, very long time,” she said. But that wasn’t the same as “never,” and David knew it.
Then the call came to light the candles on the cake, and for a long, long time—many years—his sorrow was forgotten.
* * * * *
But time, whatever else one may say about it, is dependably punctual. Years passed as surely as clockwork, taking with them seasons, family, friends, and any feelings of security he had once possessed. True, it gave as well as took; wisdom, perspective, knowledge, maturity, and love all found their way into his life when he wasn’t looking, and all were welcomed. Yet loss, that feeling of watching sand run through your fingers all the faster as you try to stop it, became first a dim background distraction, then an annoyance… and then, finally, an obsession.
Favorite places changed. Favorite people grew old and passed away. Summer faded against a background of work in windowless rooms. Winter, no longer a wonderland, became a battleground for deep-freeze wars with cracked carburetors and icy roads.
And then…
Then…
David’s father called his apartment, voice quavering, heavy with the news that his mother was riddled with cancer.
“This isn’t supposed to happen,” David told her as she lay in her hospital bed and tried to smile. “You’re not supposed to die.”
“Funny, I thought the same thing!” she said softly. Her laughter became a long series of wracking coughs before trailing off.
“Grandma Rose and Grandpa Ted, Aunt Emily and Uncle James. My rabbit, Flopsy. My dog. Two dozen pets and half a dozen relatives. Five friends. All of them gone, each loss a chip with a chisel, a tap with a hammer. I’m being worn down by death, Mom. And you—”
“Me,” she repeated.
“A great sledgehammer blow that will shatter me to pieces.” Tears rolled freely down his cheeks.
“David.”
He shook his head.
“David, look at me.”
He raises his red eyes, and only then did he remember that long-ago birthday party so deeply buried beneath other memories.
“This is the way of the world,” said his mother, her voice drifting up into the room from a far-away place. “It’s natural. A mother isn’t supposed to outlive her son. Time rolls around and the great game continues, but with other players, each possessing a part of those who came before. You live in me, I live in you.”
“It’s damned unfair, Mom,” he said. “Everyone says it’s the way of things. I don’t care. It doesn’t make the loss any easier.”
“You don’t have a choice,” she murmured, strength fading away. “That makes it easier.”
We’ll see, he thought, even as he nodded and tried to smile. We’ll see.
* * * * *
The time machine wasn’t, of course, a constant project. He tinkered with it now and then, here and there, but always it was in the back of his mind, a comfort, tantalizing, a bright spot to stave off despair. He married, had children of his own, watched them grow. He didn’t worry as his hair turned gray, didn’t pine away as his little girl married, didn’t flinch in the face of clocks.
Once it’s done, I can see it all again whenever I want. The thought sustained him through long years and short, bad years and good.
Unlike Jay Gatsby, he had no illusions about repeating the past. Childhood was gone. The years behind were more numerous than the years ahead. But to be able to chat with his grandfather, pet his old dog, see his children young again, watch his mother laugh—that was the great desire, the burning hope. He was fervently convinced that loss was responsible for old age, more than anything else. To skip back and forth, skimming the surface of time like a rock across a still, clear pool—it would be a retirement gift fit for the gods, a chance at peace such as he had not known in a long, long time.
Now, a palsied hand caressed the cool metal skin of the device, finally finished. Gently, two brittle legs stepped into the machine’s small chamber.
David closed his eyes, smelling the oiled gears, taking stock of a million choices.
After long moments, silent save for the tick of his watch, he brushed his hands across a series of buttons, pulled a lever, twisted a dial, and, eyes still closed, held on tight.
* * * * *
1994, he thought, looking out. A good year.
More than anything, he wanted to see his mother. She wouldn’t recognize him, of course, and he wouldn’t say anything to even remotely suggest who he was.
On his sixteenth birthday the teenaged David had been in Florida visiting friends over Spring Break. His father would be at work. His mother?
Home.
He stepped out of the machine, which had materialized in an empty lot at the top of his old street.
A man with car trouble, that’s who he was. Could he use the phone? And she would say yes, and he would be inside his childhood home again—once more part of the world he had left behind, if only for a moment. During that moment he would breathe in the ambiance of living memories, feel the near-silent hum of youth reborn.
He whistled as he walke
d down the street, past the old, familiar houses that would eventually be demolished to make way for a new bypass, past the trees that smelled, for one glorious week a year, of apple blossoms that carpeted the street and paved the sidewalk with delicate white petals.
I remember when they were cut up by the construction men and uprooted by the bulldozers, he thought.
He breathed in, smiled, exhaled, and continued on.
His house, when it came into view, shocked him. It was far, far smaller than he remembered. Yet it felt familiar, like an old pair of shoes not worn in years that still retained the contours of his feet. It felt familiar, and that meant comfort. It was right.
But what wasn’t right were the cars in the driveway. And the E.T. balloons tied to the mailbox. And the children who laughed and played beyond the open front door.
No one is supposed to be here but Mom, he thought. Not in 1994.
He stopped, lost in thought.
Which means… which means…
This isn’t 1994.
One inadvertent jerk of a finger, one wrong number. He should have paid closer attention.
Twenty feet away, his sixth birthday party was in full swing.
Just a quick glimpse, he thought, still planning on making that phone call. Yes, a broken-down car, that’ll do.
His eyes, slightly glazed, focused again.
His mother sat framed in the great bay window, tying the shoe of a small boy he almost recognized.
“Mom!” he screamed, heart pounding. All thoughts of concealing his identity were instantly forgotten. There she was, young and healthy and smiling and full of life. “Mom, it’s me!” he called out.
But all that issued up from his throat was a whisper.
I want my mother, he thought, and took a heavy step forward.
Scaring the Crows Page 5
