Middle Falls Time Travel Series, Books 4-6 (Middle Falls Time Travel Boxed Sets Book 2)

by Shawn Inmon

  Abigail stood up and walked to a three-tiered shelf in the corner. She plucked a green sheet off the middle shelf and handed it to Joe. “This is the schedule for the local Al-Anon group. They meet twice a week in the Lutheran church on Travis Street. I think it might benefit you to attend a meeting or two there.”

  “Really? I thought I had this handled by not drinking. There’s more to it than that?”

  “There’s more to it than that. You don’t need to attend, of course, but I think it would be beneficial for you. Now, let’s move on a bit. Tell me about what your average day looks like.”

  She means now. The sad thing is, there wasn’t much difference in my life in 1984, or 1994, or 2004. It’s getting easier to see the problem.

  “Honestly, most of my days are just spent passing the time. I watch television, play video games—“

  “Oh, yes! My sister just got a video game for my nephews. I was watching them play it few evenings ago. They were hitting an electric ball back and forth like a tennis match. I can’t imagine that’s too involving for you though, is it?”

  “I think we’re running on two different tracks here. In the time I lived through, video games evolved and were highly involving. You’ve never seen anything like that, though, so you can’t accept it. I guess I’m glad you were one of the first people I told about this. I see now that it’s going to be impossible for anyone to believe, and I understand. If you told me you were from the future, or an alien from planet Zork, I wouldn’t believe you, either.”

  “All right. I see what you’re saying. For the moment, let’s put the idea of whether you lived into the future or not on hold. Whether you did or not isn’t really relevant to what we can accomplish together. So, let’s just focus on that. Agreed?”

  Joe considered, saw the truth in what she said. “Agreed.”

  “What you’re describing—simply passing the time—strikes me as an empty, unfulfilled life. However, what I think is irrelevant. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “Alright then, let’s see what we can do about changing that path. There are infinite possibilities open to a young man such as yourself. You have the freedom of time, and some assets behind you. That’s almost too much to take in, though, so let’s narrow our focus a bit.”

  Abigail’s eyes flitted to a small clock sitting on a bookshelf. “We’re almost to the end of our time for today. I’d like to give you some homework, though, if I can.”

  Joe nodded his assent.

  “Consider if you’d like to attend one of the Al-Anon meetings between now and our next session. You’re certainly not obligated to go, but I believe it would benefit you. Second, I’d like you to think about finding a local organization where you could accomplish some good things by volunteering.”

  Joe sat back in the plush couch. “Never really thought about that. Like what?”

  “There are many organizations in town that can use a hand. Nursing homes, the animal shelter, the food bank—all have a constant need for good help.” She stood and retrieved another piece of paper from the shelf. “Here. There’s information on here, if you’d like to pursue something. In the interim, shall we plan on the same time next week?”

  “Yes. I’ll be here.”

  Abigail stood and led Joe through a different door than he had come in. “You can go out this way,” she said, pointing to an exterior door. “That way you won’t run into my next patient. Confidentiality is important to me.”

  Joe’s head was swimming as he walked outside and blinked in the sunlight. “See you next week.”

  Chapter Ten

  Joe rolled the windows down in the Olds and cruised around town, enjoying the summer sunshine all the more since he felt like he had left winter behind so recently.

  Not sure that was what I expected, but I’m not sure what I did expect. The secrets of the universe? If she had those, would she be hanging her shingle out in front of her own house in tiny little Middle Falls?

  He pulled into the Safeway parking lot.

  First things first. Gotta start eating better. I can’t expect to eat pizza, Top Ramen, and Hamburger Helper every night and feel good.

  Joe grabbed a cart and wheeled it through the aisles, finding a lot of differences between this store and the one he remembered from 2004. The drink aisle had been narrowed down to one section of one side of an aisle. There weren’t dozens of different kinds of yogurt any more, and if you wanted water, there were a few gallons of distilled water you could buy to put in your iron, but none of the crystal-clear, mountain stream variety sold in twenty-four packs.

  Still, the fruit and vegetable section was in the same place, as was the butcher at the back of the store. He loaded up on veggies and protein, skipped the snack aisle, and headed for the checkout.

  In front of him, an older lady was putting her items up for the cashier, who was chatting away about a bake sale at church coming up that week. There were no beeps of a scanner, there was no belt moving the groceries along. When her total was rung up, the woman painstakingly wrote out a check, then scribbled a note into her register.

  Joe smiled. No one’s upset at how long it’s taking to check out. Did everything move a little slower? I think so. Life sped up, but it happened a little at a time, so we didn’t really notice it. All these conveniences made life quicker, but everyone was more and more stressed out.

  Joe chatted with the cashier, too. The young boy who bagged the groceries looked only a year or two younger than Joe. His eyes flitted from the groceries to Joe’s birthmark, over and over, as though he couldn’t help himself.

  Finally Joe caught his eye, smiled at him and said, “How you doin’?”

  The boy said, “Good,” and looked away.

  Like everyone in front of him, Joe wrote a check, made a notation in the register and wheeled the groceries out to the Olds. He opened the massive trunk and saw dirt scattered across the bottom—another reminder of how recently his mother had died in this life.

  He glanced over at the spot where Blockbuster Video should be, but Blockbuster wasn’t there. In its place was a store called “Newman’s” that featured the kind of clothes a successful businessman might wear.

  When the heck did Blockbuster come to town? Must have been the mid-eighties, I guess. I’ll have to survive on whatever’s on the tube.

  He climbed back in the car and headed for home while contemplating his future.

  Maybe I should just sell the house and hit the road. There’s equity in the house. Between that and the royalties, I could probably travel forever. Be a professional bum. See the world. Even better, if I stop and think about it, I could time it so that I see some pretty cool things. In another ten or eleven years, the Berlin Wall’s going to fall. I’d love to see that. Or I could head to Florida to watch the Space Shuttles take off. Just not the Challenger. Don’t wanna see that.

  A random thought occurred to him—the image of the shuttle exploding in mid-flight flashed across his mind.

  Could I stop something like that?

  He tapped his hand in rhythm to the song playing on the radio—Magnet and Steel—and contemplated that.

  No. Not a damn thing. It’s too big. I could make a fuss, and get marked as a nutjob, but that’s about it. Nothing good would come of it. Just gotta let things happen the way they’re gonna happen.

  He turned into his driveway, retrieved the grocery bags and went inside.

  “Honey, I’m home!” he said to the empty house.

  Yeah. I don’t want this life. I don’t know what I want to do, but I know what I don’t want to do. I don’t want to sit here and watch life pass me by like I did last time.

  He put the groceries on the counter and turned to the fridge.

  First things first.

  He reached under the sink for a garbage bag, then opened the refrigerator door and started pulling out his mom’s food, dropping it in the bag. When he was done, he admired his handiwork.

  Been a
pretty good day. Got the house mostly cleaned up. Saw a shrink, and she shrunk my head a little. Getting things in order.

  He walked the food out to the garage and dropped it in the garbage can, then remembered what day it was, opened the garage door and carried the can to the curb.

  Some things never change. Trash day, for instance.

  Back inside, he put the groceries away then made himself a steak and corn on the cob. He ate it sitting on the couch, watching Walter Cronkite read the news of the day on the CBS Evening News.

  When he was done with the dishes, he remembered that he had stripped his bed before he left that morning, but hadn’t thrown the sheets in the dryer. After doing that, he turned the TV off and flipped through his old record albums. He pulled his copy of The Beatles’ Abbey Road out of its sleeve and dropped the needle. The opening notes of Come Together came through the speakers. Joe played air drums as he walked back to the couch.

  Pretty damn good way to open an album.

  He sat on the couch, letting the music flow over him. The songs faded, one into another, until the Beatles’ idea of heavy metal—She’s so Heavy—came on.

  Joe sat up from his reverie with a start.

  John. John Lennon is still alive. That’s something I can change. He wasn’t killed until December 1980. That gives me plenty of time to stop it.

  The abrupt end of She’s So Heavy left a heavy silence in the room. After a few seconds, the needle began playing the label, a rhythmic shhhk, shhhk, shhhk.

  Absent-mindedly, Joe stood up, flipped the record over, and dropped the needle again. The more soothing sounds of Here Comes the Sun came on.

  He reached under the coffee table and grabbed one of his school notebooks he had stuck under there. He pulled the pen out of the spiral and flipped to a blank page in the middle.

  What else is there?

  He tapped the pen against his cheek, then began to make a list.

  Chapter Eleven

  Everything that Joe could think of that he might be able to impact, was in the future at least a year or more. He didn’t want to slip back into the doldrums of his previous life—doing nothing, and plenty of it—so he resolved to take positive action steps.

  He sat at his small kitchen table, designed for two, now destined for one, and smoothed out the paper that Abigail Green had given him the day before. He looked down the list of places that might be looking for volunteers.

  Shady Grove Rest Home. Never been around old people. Don’t know if I would know what to do, or how to act.

  Middle Falls Chamber of Commerce. I might scare away all the visitors.

  Middle Falls Animal Shelter. Never had a dog or a cat, but I like them. They won’t get all freaked out when they see me. I guess that’s our winner.

  He picked up the phone and dialed the number on the sheet. After two rings, a woman’s voice answered.

  “Shelter.” There was a cacophony of barks, yips, and yowls behind her.

  “Umm, hi, this is Joe Hart. I was wondering if you need any volunteers.”

  “Honey, I’ve got thirty-two cages filled with pooping puppies, and another twelve filled with likewise pooping kittens. They all need to be fed, watered, played with, and cleaned up after. Yes, I can always use volunteers.”

  “I think I’d like to help out.”

  “Great. Can you be here this afternoon? Say, 3:00?”

  “Sure can. I’ll be there.”

  “Good. Come in, asked for Debbie. I’ll need you to fill out some paperwork, then I’ll put you to work, so don’t wear a three piece suit.”

  Damn good thing, since I’ve never owned anything nicer than the powder blue leisure suit Mom bought me for my last birthday.

  Joe killed a few hours cleaning up the landscaping in the front yard, then jumped in the Olds for another trip across town.

  One thing’s for sure. I’ve gotten out and around more in these last few days than I did in an average year in my previous life. That’s gotta be good.

  The Middle Falls Animal Shelter was a non-descript, low-slung building in an area of mostly industrial buildings. It was built with concrete blocks that were painted white, or at least had been white once upon a time. Now, the color had faded to a dingy color that would be in the “post-urban blahs” section of the color wheel.

  There was a large gravel parking lot, but there were only four cars scattered around it. Joe pushed through the double glass doors that led into a small entryway. The first thing he noticed was the smell. It wasn’t purely awful, but it was a powerful smell that carried a reminder that it had been awful at one point, and could easily take a turn in that direction again. There was an under scent of dog dander and long-gone feces, masked by an industrial cleaning smell.

  I guess if you work here, you get used to that smell, right? I sure do hope so.

  A fortyish woman with brittle blonde hair sat behind a counter. “I see you’ve met our most prominent feature—eau de pound. We have bottles of it for sale, if you’d like some.”

  “Has anyone ever bought any?”

  That made the woman cackle, a laugh that started low, then turned into a phlegmy cough. When she had recovered herself, she said, “I’ll admit, we’ve never sold any. So, what can I help you with?”

  “I’m Joe. Joe Hart. I called you this morning about doing some volunteer work.”

  “Oh, yes. You sounded older on the phone. I wasn’t expecting another kid today.” She slapped a piece of paper on the counter. “Fill this out for me, then I’ll have all my I’s dotted, and I’ll get you started.”

  Two minutes later, Joe pushed the paper back to her. She stared into his eyes, a slightly uncomfortable intimacy in a completely new acquaintance. “Tough break,” she said, pointing to the left side of her own face. “You’re a good lookin’ kid.” She shrugged, stubbed a cigarette out in an ashtray and said, “The animals won’t even notice. They only care if you like them, or feed them. Come on, then.” She stood and pushed open a heavy door.

  Joe followed her down a short corridor to a large, open room lined with kennels on both sides. The noise was deafening. Every kennel had at least one dog in it, several had entire litters. They all were voicing their pleasure/annoyance/jubilance/love of barking all at the same time.

  Debbie glanced over her shoulder at Joe. “I’d like to say you get used to this noise, but you never do. After you’ve been in here a few minutes, they’ll settle down, though. Come on, through here.” She led him into a small room, not much more than a closet, off to the side. She pointed to a cart with mops, disinfectant, and a trash can filled with dog food.

  “Here’s what you do. Start all the way down at the far end of the kennels. There’s a laminated card on each kennel that will tell you how many scoops of food to put in each dog’s dish. I know it’s tempting to give them more food than each card calls for, but remember two things.” She held up two fingers. “One, we’re on a tight budget and can barely afford the food. And two,” she said, pointing at the trash can, “that just looks like dog food. It’s actually dog poop, because everything that goes in, comes out the other end. And one of us has to clean it up.”

  “Got it,” Joe shouted over the barking, which was quieting somewhat. “What happens when all the kennels are full, but you get more dogs in?”

  “First in, first out. Whichever dog’s been with us the longest gets the needle. I hate it, but unless or until the county gives us a bigger place or a bigger budget, that’s where we are. I’ll feed ‘em forever if I can, but when we get overrun, the vet comes and helps us out. I’d love to take ‘em home with me, but my man says if I bring one more stray home, he’ll keep the animal but toss me out.”

  “Damn.” Joe looked at the dozens of dogs standing at attention, wagging their tails, lolling their tongues.

  “This job was supposed the be done by a couple of volunteers earlier today, but I think they didn’t want to risk breaking a nail, so now it falls to you.” Debbie cast a glare at two teenage girls who w
ere quietly sneaking down the corridor. She shook her head. “Not everyone comes here for altruistic reasons. Some people come because they got caught cutting donuts and tearing up the grass on the high school football field and get sentenced to community service. Whatever.” She focused back on Joe. “You ready? Go get ‘em.”

  Joe pushed the cart to the far end of the corridor, where a gray and black, scruffy little mongrel looked up at him with happy eyes. Joe glanced at the card on the kennel—one scoop—then opened the door. The little dog didn’t jump up on him, but just stood wagging its tail happily. Joe put a scoop of food in the bowl, then filled the water bowl with a hose that ran alongside the kennels.

  The dog didn’t immediately jump for the bowl, but stood smiling at Joe.

  Oh. I can see how volunteers here end up like crazy cat ladies, with a hundred pets running around their house. I can’t do that though. Too much I want to get done, and a houseful of pets will only slow me down. Maybe later. For now, though, I can make their days a little better.

  Joe kneeled in front of the dog he had already dubbed Scruffy in his head and scratched behind her ears. “For a homely little dog, you sure are adorable.” He gave her one last pat, then moved on to the next cage, and the next.

  Halfway through the task he had to use the restroom, and so walked back out to ask Debbie where it was. As he did, he walked by what appeared to be a break room. An old table with a scarred surface sat in the middle of the room with chairs scattered around it. A pop machine stood in one corner.

  Joe stuck his head into the room to see if the bathroom was there. The two girls sat with their backs to the door. He stepped inside just in time to hear the one with dark hair say, “At least he never has to worry about a mask for Halloween. That’s all taken care of for him.”

  The other girl, a blonde, said, “Stop it, Jill. You’re just mean. I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you. When we’re done with our community service, I don’t want to see you anymore. Did you know Dad took my car away from me because of this?”