Live it Again

by Geoff North

  “Nah, you guys go ahead,” he called back. Bob would love to see him get shown up by a girl.

  Billy came and sat beside him, wiping a nose full of snot off on his freckled arm. He always had a runny nose and his eyes always seemed to be watery, as if his entire head were ready to burst with leaking fluids. “What do those numbers mean?”

  Hugh ran the end of the stick through them. “Just trying to figure out a math problem.”

  Billy laughed and his nose bubbled, but he didn’t bother wiping it away this time. “You skipped half a day of school last week, now you’re doing homework in the sand. What’s gotten into you, man?”

  Not what, Hugh thought... who.

  He looked out past his friends to the line of tents and campers set up in the park further down the river. Braedon Park would be lucky to have that many visitors for an entire summer in the twenty first century. Billy was still grinning at him. There were flakes of dead skin peeling away on the bridge of his recently burnt nose. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Hugh asked. He couldn’t help but wonder what the boy might have been had he the chance.

  “Are you for real?”

  Hugh nodded.

  “I dunno for sure,” Billy said all seriously. He watched the other kids play for a few moments before continuing. “Dad will probably expect me to take over the farm, I guess.”

  You can’t be indecisive about this, Hugh wanted to scream out. You’re going to die on the farm. “Don’t do it buddy, you can be whatever you want if you put your mind to it.”

  Billy chuckled. “Is that why you’re doing school work out here? You wanna better yourself for the future? Shit, were only ten, there are years and years before we have to start worrying about all that junk.”

  With that, the boy destined to be crushed by a grain truck stood up and went back to throw a few more stones. If Billy didn’t give a damn about his own future, Hugh would have to take care of it for him. He had the urge to run up and hug him, tell him how much he’d missed him over the years. He wouldn’t let it happen.

  The small group slowly made their way back to town and Hugh found his mother and sister waiting impatiently in front of Braedon’s sole clothing store. Heather was especially annoyed since she ended up with mustard colored high heels that were a few shades darker than her grad dress.

  “You should be grateful they even had anything that fit,” his mother told her on the way home. Heather remained sullen and quiet. Hugh didn’t blame her. He knew how important graduation was to kids, especially girls. Cathy had already begun to plan what Dana would wear to hers, and she’d just turned sixteen. Was sixteen, he thought, now sullen himself.

  After supper was done, and after Donald left immediately before the dishes were cleared from the table, the telephone rang. Gordo picked it up and beamed with excitement as he recognized his father’s voice on the other end. Heather grabbed the phone away from him thirty seconds later, and their mother got in line for her turn.

  Hugh stood back, unwilling to take part. His father was dead, or had been dead to him at least for the last nineteen years. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to speak to him; it was just that Hugh was still riddled with guilt from the last time they’d spoken.

  Barely spoken, he recalled.

  It had been a cold, winter night the week before Christmas in 1992 when his mother had called to say his father needed help moving his oxygen tank. Steve Nance had worked his entire life in various dusts and toxic chemicals. Grain dust, saw dust, asbestos, lead, and a dozen other deadly agents associated with farming and carpentry had taken its toll on his lungs. He’d also smoked two packs of cigarettes a day since the forties, so it came as no surprise when he developed a serious case of emphysema. He’d done well to even make it to his mid-seventies. Hugh had driven out in the freezing dark, complaining all the way. He lived in a small, two-bedroom house in Braedon with Cathy, and sometimes wondered why he had moved out of the farmhouse in the first place. It seemed he spent more time running errands for the old man than he did living his own life. His dad was always grateful for the help, and Hugh loved him, but that night he felt more frustrated than usual. It had been too goddamned cold to be out.

  He’d barely spoken to his parents as he moved the monstrously large tank closer to the bed. Steve Nance had tried thanking him once again. Hugh hated the sound of that voice. He spoke in short sentences and swallowed repeatedly. The machine clicked and released more air between words. Hugh wanted to be anywhere but near his father that night. The last words he had spoken were an unintelligible string of gasping sounds. He’d probably offered more thanks, but Hugh would never know for certain.

  He did, however, remember the last thing he’d said to his father.

  “Whatever.”

  Then he’d gone back home, back to Cathy and a half-finished episode of the X-Files.

  His mother called early the following morning and told him his father had passed away during the night. Hugh was out there before the doctor and undertakers. Steve Nance had looked peaceful enough in his bed. No signs of agony or writhing. His hands were still clutched to the blankets under his chin for warmth. His head was arched back against the pillow, his mouth slightly open. It looked to Hugh as if he’d finally gotten that last full breath of air in the end. He almost appeared regal, like some ancient mummy set to rest for all eternity.

  To this day it still reminded Hugh guiltily of the great pharaoh, Ramses. He should’ve treated his father better that last night of his life. He sometimes suffered terrible dreams, shame-driven nightmares where the corpse-like remains of his father shambled after him, hell-bent on revenge. The dry hands would wrap around his throat, he would feel the cold, labored gasps puffing against his ear and cheek. It would begin to speak, breathless rasps from the grave, unintelligible sounds. Clicks and hisses. Hugh would always wake up then.

  Cathy had always told him it was natural to feel guilty, that his father’s death had never been his fault. Eventually the guilt would fade, she’d said, the nightmares would be replaced with cherished dreams of the man he used to be.

  She was wrong. The guilt remained. He began to slink away from the phone.

  His mother held the receiver out to him. “It’s your dad, sweetheart. He wants to say hello.”

  “No!” Hugh shouted. The voice on the other end didn’t want to say hello. It just wanted to know where the self-centered little asshole was that had abandoned him to a breathless, lonely death.

  Click, hiss, click, hiss.

  She gave him a puzzled look and tried again. “He’ll be home in the morning and wants to know if he can bring you anything.”

  Hugh stumbled back into the kitchen table and fell over. The palm of his hand landed on Fred’s bushy, grey tail and the cat let out a screech, swatting at his face. He didn’t feel a thing. He was too busy running for his bedroom; certain old Ramses was fast on his heels.

  Chapter 9

  When he finally saw his father the next day, Hugh felt more than a little foolish. The man that pulled up in the dusty half-ton truck wasn’t Ramses, and he certainly didn’t resemble the breathless old man he’d last seen in the winter of 1992.

  Steve Nance was big, not a physical giant, but in his early fifties he was still powerfully built, lean and straight at six feet tall. He weighed two hundred pounds, all of it hard-worked and weathered muscle. He hugged Hugh’s mom and gave her a quick peck on the cheek before almost being bowled over by Heather. He spun her around twice in his arms. “How’s my little girl? Is it true you’ve finished elementary? Are you going to Junior High in the fall?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Heather answered in her for-daddy-only voice. “You know I’m graduating this week.”

  Hugh was tempted to ask if she’d travelled back in time as well. She sounded more eight than eighteen.

  Gordo stood behind his sister, his hands planted coolly in his jeans. “How are you doing, bud?” His father asked ruffling the young teen’s hair. “Did you win all
the trophies at the track meet?”

  “All but one,” Gordo answered. “I twisted my ankle during warm-up, so I couldn’t run the four hundred.”

  Hugh wanted to punch him in the back of the neck. Secretly he always felt that Gordo was their father’s favorite son. Donald, who only cared about Donald, didn’t give a shit about fatherly love, so he wasn’t even in the running.

  After the jock-talk was done, Steve Nance’s eyes settled on Hugh. The resentment for his brother and the fear of seeing a living ghost melted away in that single moment. This was the father he’d known, and these were the cherished memories Cathy had spoken of. This was the dad that introduced Hugh to reading and art. This was the man he should’ve remembered. The guilt would probably remain, but for now he let the love and admiration consume him.

  “And what about you, little man? Why didn’t you want to talk last night?” He stepped toward him, and Hugh stepped back. He paused a second longer, then ran into his father’s arms. It was like diving into a cold pool on a hot summer day. You want to do it, but the anticipated shock always makes you hesitate. You test it first with a single toe, and then the entire foot. This wasn’t like that, Hugh thought. It was more like one of those exceptionally hot days when you just wanted to dive in, cannonball style.

  Hugh buried his face into his dad’s stomach and hugged him with all his might. It always felt great when you plunged right in. He could smell tobacco smoke on his faded work shirt, the scent of Irish Spring soap underneath. He felt the protective, strong arms hug him back. “Whoa pal, you’re gonna squeeze the life out of me if you’re not careful. I’ve only been gone a couple of weeks.”

  “I-I’ve missed you so much,” Hugh sobbed. “I’ve missed you so goddamn much.”

  “Well that’s all fine and dandy,” his father said quietly. He pulled Hugh away and looked down into the boy’s wet, red face. “But there’s no need for cussing like that, is there?”

  “No sir,” Hugh answered. He hugged him again, never wanting to let go.

  “Let go of him, nimrod,” Gordo cut in. “He can’t even breathe!”

  Hugh gave him a dirty look and pulled away. Their father reached into the backseat of the truck and rummaged through tool boxes and luggage. After a few seconds he found what he was looking for. “Since you didn’t tell me what you wanted for a gift, I had to use my imagination a little bit.” He handed Hugh a shopping bag with a square package inside. Their dad always bought them a little something after finishing a big job away from home. He handed gifts out to Gordo and Heather and winked at his wife.

  Hugh knew what his gift was before he even opened the bag. He took it out and tore into the box with more excitement than he actually felt. He wanted to make it look good.

  “What is it, dear?” His mother asked.

  “A replica John Deere tractor,” Steve Nance said.

  Hugh remembered opening it the first time in the living room. A brief surge of panic rushed through him. What had changed in history to make his dad give it to him out here? The toy was made of high quality die cast metal, painted in glossy green and yellow, complete with real rubber tires. He didn’t like it then, and he didn’t care much for it now.

  I should’ve spoken to him on the phone last night.

  Hugh loved living on a farm, but he didn’t like farming. Combines, grain trucks, and tractors bored the hell out of him.

  He looked at his dad and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You could say thank you for starters.” He rubbed the back of Hugh’s neck with one rough, calloused carpenter’s hand and laughed. “Next time I’ll bring a space ship, okay?”

  “Thanks dad…It’s really cool.” It was a bad lie, but Steve Nance didn’t seem to mind. He returned to the truck and unloaded the rest of his belongings.

  Marion Nance headed back to the house. “I’ll put some coffee on.” Heather followed, showing off her new necklace. Hugh stared at the tractor guiltily. He should’ve acted happier; his dad had spent a lot of money on it.

  Gordo stopped briefly beside him, his arms straining with the weight of his father’s big red, metal tool box. “Is the little fag going to play with his new toy in the dirt?”

  “It’s a display model…not a toy.”

  Hugh recalled his brother teasing him the first time he got it. He was a little old for it then, and Gordo’s comment made him feel like a little baby. Not this time. He could care less what anyone else thought. He would bring the tractor out every now and then to prove it had been a great gift for his father’s benefit.

  Hugh watched his mom and dad interact for the rest of the day. He didn’t even have to hide. There was a natural cloak of invisibility surrounding him that most kids under the age of twelve seemed to have. As long as children didn’t make too much noise, or get directly in their parents faces, they were almost unseen. He studied them into the evening, sometimes closing his eyes and just listening to their voices.

  Why not tell them what happened?

  It wasn’t such a bad idea. They were his parents after all. Who else in this whole world would believe he’d travelled back in time to live his life over? He remembered another time in his life, shortly after entering puberty when he’d almost approached them about the strange changes his body was going through. The dreams he was having at nights that were making such a mess of his bed sheets. He’d almost told them about that. Almost. For weeks Hugh had thought he was dying, suffering from some demented sickness that made him feel so guilty, but felt so good.

  Hugh took a few steps towards them.

  He’d never told them about the wet dreams. Gordo finally explained to him the function of a boner before he had the chance. Had Hugh sought out his help? He couldn’t recall, but he remembered the afternoon his brother told him all about sex. It was crude and ill-informed, but he’d covered the basics well enough. Hugh wasn’t dying, and that was all he needed to know, the rest he would discover on his own.

  He took another step toward the kitchen table.

  Thank heavens he’d never talked to his parents about that.

  How embarrassing would that have been?

  Cathy made sure their own girls knew all about sex before they entered Junior High, and Hugh had a nice long talk with Colton when he turned eleven.

  No kid should ever have to think they’re dying just because their parents are too uncomfortable to talk about it.

  He stopped in front of the table and ran his fingers along its surface.

  His father looked up at him from the scrabble board. He was losing badly. “What is it?”

  Hugh opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

  His mother was looking up a word in the dictionary. Anything beginning with ‘Z’ or ‘K’ would do, and if she could get rid of her three ‘I’s and two ‘U’s, that would be just perfect. “He’s been acting strangely for almost a week now. He keeps telling me everything is fine, but he’s always got that troubled look on his face.”

  Steve Nance nodded and tossed his letters back in the little bag. “What is it son? Has some pretty girl caught your eye in school?” He shook the bag up and picked out seven new tiles. “Having trouble with your classes?”

  “No, it’s n-nothing like that.”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake!” His dad snapped. “What the hell am I supposed to do with all these goddamned vowels?”

  “Well you still miss your turn whether you have good letters or not,” his mom pointed out.

  This wasn’t a good idea, Hugh realized.

  “So what’s wrong with you?” Steve Nance asked leaning back into his chair.

  “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “Good to hear it, now go play with your tractor.”

  ***

  The next evening Hugh decided to change a little history. It was nothing major, only a small footnote in the grand scheme of things, but it was a big deal to him. During the graduation ceremonies, Hugh convinced Scott Harder to take his place with Billy Pa
rton up on the fire escape of the Community Hall.

  Scott shouted down when the two boys reached the top. “You’re a chicken-shit, Nance!” His head tilted back and he made a noise that sounded like tearing cloth in the back of his throat. A thick, three-inch string of spit and snot flew out into the air. Hugh watched it spin end over end. Its thirty foot journey ended against a car windshield. There was another horking sound, this one from Billy, and moments later a second wad of green phlegm splattered against the passenger-side rearview mirror of the same car. Hugh watched as the slimy stuff slowly ran down the curved metal surface and dripped to the pavement.

  From the corner of his eye Hugh saw a group of small children pointing up to the top of the fire escape. Three girls and a boy, kids he recognized but couldn’t place names to. One of the girls ran for the entrance of the Hall, the other three followed a second later. From their point directly above, Billy and Scott couldn’t see the children.

  So that’s how we got caught.

  Half a minute later, Billy’s dad came around the corner and began pounding up the stairs. He was a big bastard; the entire metal structure shuddered with each step. Hugh started to laugh. Billy and Scott’s loogie supply dried up at the sight of him. Those four kids had obviously told Hugh’s father originally what was happening on top of the fire escape, but since Hugh wasn’t up there this time they had went to Billy’s dad instead.

  Scott Harder recoiled in terror and almost flipped backwards over the rail as Tom Parton reached the top. He cuffed his son viciously across the side of his head, the bottom half of his meaty palm caught the boy’s eye. Hugh stopped laughing. He’d forgotten what a mean son of a bitch Billy’s dad had been. He’d only had one sleep-over at his friend’s place when he was eight, and vowed never to return again. Scott slipped by the two and rushed down the stairs, almost falling more than once in his haste. Tom Parton dragged Billy down after him; his thick, sausage fingers wrapped around his son’s scrawny neck.