The Unusual Second Life of Thomas Weaver

by Shawn Inmon

  “Oh, ho, so you’re the one that’s been sneaking my Tab, huh?”

  Thomas jumped, a guilty expression replacing the revulsion. “Doesn’t anyone in this house make noise when they walk? Jesus!”

  “Just teasing, Honey, and don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. You can have one once in a while. Just don’t make a habit out of it. I don’t want you addicted to them, or,” she said, taking a Viceroy out of the pack and lighting it, blowing smoke toward the ceiling, “these. I don't want to pass on my bad habits, understand?”

  Right. Aside from almost forty years of alcoholism, no bad habits here.

  “Right, Mom. You got it. Can I talk to you about something?”

  “Of course, Honey. Come on, come sit down on the couch. Talk to me.”

  Shit. Now I’ve done it. Why don’t I ever think before I speak?

  “Here,” he said, handing her the almost-full Tab. “You better take this. I don’t want to get hooked.”

  “It’s kind of awful, I know, but you get used to it.”

  “I’m gonna let you be the one that’s used to it.”

  She flicked off some ashes, sat down on the couch, and patted the cushion beside her. “Okay, what’s on your mind?”

  Thomas looked around. “Where’s Zack?”

  “He said he was going over to Jimmy’s. Where he actually went, I have no idea.”

  He tried to look shocked at the implication, but couldn’t pull it off. “Okay, I’ve got this English assignment, and I need a little help.”

  “Hmm. Okay; that was more up your father’s alley than mine, but he's not around, so I’ll do what I can.”

  I’m already regretting this, but it’s too late now.

  “Well, I got an assignment from Mr. Graves today,” he lied. “We have to write a short story to turn in on Friday. I got the idea to write about a guy that travels back in time from the future. But, instead of traveling way back to when dinosaurs were around, he just goes back to when he was a kid.”

  His mother nodded. “Interesting idea. Okay…”

  “But, I’m a little stuck on it. So far, I’ve got him going back and missing all the things that he had in the future, like computers that you carry around in your pocket and flying cars and stuff. But, then, I was wondering…what if, when he went back, he saw things that were wrong?”

  “Wrong, how?”

  “You know, just wrong. Like, people being mean to people, and he knew it was going to turn out bad, like maybe someone teases some girl, then she kills herself because of it.”

  “That’s a little over-dramatic, but go ahead.”

  If you only knew. “Then, in the story, he runs into a guy that he knows will eventually become a serial killer.”

  “A what?”

  “A serial killer? You know, like…” Thomas paused. Who would she know in 1976? Ted Bundy? Later. Son of Sam? Almost, but not yet. Wait… “Like the Zodiac Killer in California. Do you remember that?”

  She shook her head. “No, not really. Maybe I read something about it in Redbook? It’s not all housekeeping tips and recipes in my magazines, you know.”

  “Anyway, he sees someone who is still a kid, but is going to grow up and kill a bunch of people. So, what would he do? I know it would be easy to say that this kid would just kill him, but I don’t think this kid’s got the guts for that. But, he wouldn’t want this guy to grow up and kill a bunch of people either. So, what would he do?”

  Anne took a long drag on her cigarette, then blew it out the side of her mouth.

  Damn. That cigarette looks good, but I don't feel the physical pull, just an emotional one. This younger me isn’t an addict. Wonder what she’d say if I asked to bum one?

  “I don’t know, Honey. I think that maybe he would try and make things better for people. Isn’t that what you would do? If you can’t figure out how to do that, maybe you should write a different story?”

  That's my chance. “You’re probably right, Mom. It’s kind of a stupid idea, I know.”

  “No, it’s not stupid,” Anne said. “You just might need to work on it a little more.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Mom. I’m gonna go write my History essay.”

  Chapter Eleven

  THE NEXT MORNING, Thomas’s eyes flew open before Zack’s alarm went off. Still here. He rolled on his side, watched Zack’s even breathing and sleeping face. Alive. He’s alive. He rubbed a hand across his eyes.

  I have no idea how I got here, or why I’ve got this chance, but I’m not going to blow it. I will not let him die again. I am going to change things. Problem is, I don’t remember much about what’s supposed to happen. What the hell happened in 1976? Did Elvis die? No. I think that was ’77. Jimmy Carter’s going to be elected President in November, unless I’ve changed everything already, and Gerald Ford wins instead. The Bicentennial happens this summer, with the fireworks and tall ships sailing into New York harbor, but what else? I need to figure out a way to test how much I can change things. Other than keeping Zack alive, how much do I want to change things?

  An hour later, after a shower and a cup of his mom’s leftover coffee, Zack and Thomas pulled into the Middle Falls High parking lot. Billy’s getting his braces on, so I’m on my own today. I think I can survive the day without him.

  Thomas shouldered his backpack and walked into the teeming mass of teenagery that was Middle Falls High before first period. He skipped going to his locker and went straight to homeroom, so he could watch as everyone filed in. Carrie Copeland was next to arrive. She walked with her head down, looking at the floor.

  Thomas turned and looked at her. In his memory, she had been ugly, but now she just looked carelessly groomed. Dishwater blonde hair hung limply down to the middle of her back. Her bangs curtained her eyes. Her red sweater covered a shapeless blouse tucked into a long brown skirt.

  If Carrie noticed he was looking at her, she didn’t let on. Her eyes didn’t move from the book in front of her.

  Why did we make fun of her? If you got her hair done, and dressed her like everyone else, she’d look like any other girl in school. Did we pick on her just because she’s quiet, or because every ecosystem needs someone to pick on? Whatever it is, it’s bullshit. I’m gonna do something about it.

  Thomas glanced at the clock, then stood and walked over. He sat in one of the empty desks surrounding her. “Hi, Carrie.”

  Her eyes widened, but she didn’t look or answer.“I’m Thomas. Sorry, I mean, Tommy Weaver.” He paused. Still nothing. Some other students had arrived, and he felt their eyes on him. Because no one ever talks to Carrie. I'm being a weirdo.

  Yeah, fuck all of you. I didn't make this rule, that Carrie was an outcast, and I don't have to obey it. Whether he did or not, Carrie did, so Thomas forged on. “Hey, I know we don’t know each other very well, but we have a couple of classes together, and I was wondering if...maybe it would be all right if I called you at home some time, so we could talk?”

  Her eyes widened again, unable to contain her surprise that someone was talking to her. She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

  “No? It’s not all right if I call you at home?”

  She cleared her throat, blushed a bit. In a voice so quiet Thomas had to lean forward to hear, she said, “My Dad.” She cleared her throat again. “My Dad won’t let me talk on the phone.” For just a moment, she raised her eyes and met his before looking down again.

  “Oh, okay. That’s cool.” Thomas glanced over his shoulder. His conversation with Carrie looked to be the most interesting thing likely to happen in class that day. “Uhh…” Hadn’t really planned on her not wanting to talk to me. But, why would she? Aside from the fact that I am breathing, what exactly do I bring to the table? Thomas swallowed hard. “Well, how about I talk to you at lunch, then. Would that be okay?”

  Carrie’s eyes flitted off the floor. She glanced quickly over her left shoulder, then back down. Her cheeks had blushed up to a blotchy red.

  C’mon, Thomas. Yo
u want to help this girl, not make her die of embarrassment. Just give up and move on. Thomas pressed his lips together in a failed attempt at a smile. Anthony Massey mock-whispered “Shot down in flames!” as Thomas slunk by. The room, suddenly full, burst out in laughter.

  Anthony was always a horse's ass. Still is. Still was, anyway. Or still will be? God.

  Mr. Burns strode into class and laid his black briefcase down on the desk at the front of the room. “Nice to see everyone so full of good humor on a Tuesday morning. Let’s keep that excitement going with a pop quiz.” The laughter immediately changed to groans of protest.

  Thomas slunk back to his own desk. When he glanced back at Carrie, she was looking directly at him. The unexpected eye contact gave him a small frisson, bringing goosebumps to his arms. The tiniest of smiles passed her lips, then vanished.

  Chapter Twelve

  TWO HOURS LATER, Thomas stood outside the lunchroom, looking at the day's menu. Chili and cinnamon rolls? The memory of thick, meaty chili and gooey cinnamon rolls caused his stomach to grumble. Those were so damn good. Why does everything taste better here, now?

  He opened the heavy door, and the smell of warm cinnamon rolls enveloped him. Thomas found a card with his name on it on the wall, filed under “Class of ‘78,” and handed it to the lunch lady. Two minutes later, he had a bowl of steaming chili topped with grated cheddar and a huge sweet roll. Must not have been so concerned with Type II diabetes and childhood obesity in 1976.

  No, because we got outside and burned all that off. We explored, scuffled, competed, and acted like kids.

  Middle Falls High was large enough to require two lunch periods. In the far corner of the room, next to the window that looked out on the student parking lot, sat Carrie Copeland. A fair percentage of the limited number of open seats in the lunchroom surrounded her.

  What the hell would that feel like? To be constantly quarantined by social pressure? To be cut off from all human contact? No wonder she killed herself.

  Thomas took a deep breath, picked his way through the crowd of teenagers, and set his tray down directly across from her. Instead of a tray, she had a bologna sandwich and an apple sitting on top of a worn and creased brown bag. She had taken two small bites of the sandwich.

  Jesus. She even eats timidly. What is going on with this girl? He slid in along the bench across from her. “Hey. Mind if I sit down?”

  She didn’t answer, but glanced out the window at the parking lot. No one seemed to notice that Thomas was talking to Carrie.

  “Listen. Carrie. I don’t want to bother you. If you don’t want to talk to me, that’s cool, I’ll leave. I’d just like to get to know you a little bit.”

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get cooties?” The lunchroom din nearly drowned out her voice.

  Ah. She knows. Of course she knows. If your nickname is Cootie Carrie, you probably know it. A shy smile crossed Thomas’s face. He shook his head. “Here’s the truth. A lot of the kids in this school are just assholes. Most of the other kids figure that the assholes are going to pick on somebody, and as long as it’s you, it probably won’t be them.”

  Without lifting her eyes off her lunch, Carrie said, “And, which are you?”

  “Me? Oh, I’m in that tiny third group that doesn’t give a crap what anyone thinks. It’s very freeing. They can make fun of me if they want to.”

  Carrie took another delicate bite of her bologna sandwich. “Mmm-hm.”

  “What? You’re not buying it?”

  Carrie looked down at her sandwich. “Easy enough to say when you’re not an outcast, I suppose. Anyway, you’ve done your good deed for the day.” Her eyes met his for a brief moment and he saw fire there, but she didn’t say anything else. She pulled a piece of waxed paper out of the bag, wrapped the sandwich, and dropped both it and the apple into the bag. She folded the top over twice, stood up, and walked out of the lunchroom, eyes on the floor.

  Thomas watched her walk away. A skinny, stringy-haired kid in a Pablo Cruise t-shirt stopped on his way by. “Man, that’s a bitch, You try to score with the grossest girl in school and she won’t have anything to do with you? That’s the worst, man.”

  Without a thought, Thomas threw an elbow straight out behind him. He intended to hit the guy in the leg, maybe give him a Charlie horse. Instead, he caught him square in the balls. The wisecracker fell to the ground like a string-cut marionette, writhing with both fists tucked into his crotch. He groaned. “Why’d you do that, man?”

  Thomas stood, looked down, said, “Don’t be an asshole. Oh, and Pablo Cruise sucks. Ten years from now, no one will know who they are.”

  Thomas left his tray behind and hustled out of the cafeteria, hoping to catch up with Carrie. He flung the door to the hallway open and dashed through it—and smack into Seth Berman. Seth wasn’t a man-mountain like Tiny Patterson, but he was an athlete—not just big, but solidly built. His sloped brow and slightly agape jaw indicated membership at the far left end of the evolutionary chart. His expression might have been worn by the first dinosaur who wandered into a tar pit. Surprise gave way to anger. He looked down, saw Thomas, and pushed him back into the cafeteria.

  “Hey, homo, watch where you’re goin’.”

  Homo? Seriously? I guess that was the go-to insult in 1976. The worst thing one man could call another. Thomas glanced over Seth’s shoulder and saw Ben Jenkins, avoiding eye contact.

  “Sorry. It was an accident.”

  Thomas moved to step around Seth, but a single Neanderthal finger against his chest pushed him a step and a half backwards. Looking past Seth, he saw Carrie turn the corner toward the ladies’ restroom.

  “I said, ‘Watch where you’re going, homo.” Seth emphasized the last word. For the second time that day, a crowd gathered to enjoy Thomas’s embarrassment.

  Come on, Weaver. Get the hell out of here. Leave Cro-Magnon Man to his ancient prejudices and live to fight another day. Seeing the crowd, Seth smiled. He pushed his finger against Thomas’s chest again.

  Goddamn it, that hurts. Screw this.

  “I don’t know what your problem is, man. I bumped into you by accident. I guess you need to accuse other people of things you think are embarrassing to make yourself feel better. Whatever. That says a lot more about you than it does anyone else.”

  “Wha?” Seth cocked his head, like a dog hearing a sharp whistle. He said it again. “Wha?”

  Seth’s friend Jamie Myers, who had been watching the proceedings from the sidelines, leaned over and said, helpfully, “He’s saying he thinks you’re the homo, Seth.”

  Seth’s expression changed from confusion to anger. He pulled his finger away from Thomas’s chest, bunched his fist and swung. Any trained fighter could have ducked the blow. Thomas was not a trained fighter. The ham hock fist connected with his forehead.

  Stars exploded in Thomas’s head as he pitched over backwards and landed near the trash cans.

  ***

  When Thomas finally came around, he raised his head to look around and saw the back of Zack, with Seth and Jamie on the other side. Seth was half a head taller than Zack, but he looked uncomfortable, like a recalcitrant child scuffing at the ground.

  “I’m gonna give you a pass this time, Seth,” Zack said. “I’m going to assume that you didn’t know that this was my little brother. If you had known that, I'm positive you never would have done something so stupid. Right, Seth?”

  Jamie Myers said, “Right. Right, Zack. Sorry.” He reached up, grabbed Seth by the shoulder and led him away.

  Zack turned, reached down, and helped Thomas sit up straight.

  “Oh, man. Thanks, Zack. That guy kicked—"

  “Yeah. He kicked your ass. What did you do to make him so mad?”

  “I bumped into him. Then he called me a homo.”

  "So you took a swing at him?"

  "Oh hell no. I told him he was accusing me to make himself feel better."

  Zack laughed. "In other words, you called him a homo. Yep,
that’s probably enough with Seth. He’s an idiot. You’re not a homo, are you? I know you keep stealing my Playboys.”

  Thomas flushed, but said, “No, I’m not, but what if someone around here is? How does that make him feel? It’s just not right.”

  “I suppose so, but getting your ass kicked by Seth Berman probably isn’t going to fix that, is it? If you're on a mission to stick up for homos, fine, but your technique isn't working.” He gently touched the bump around Thomas’s forehead. “Hey. I can see his class ring imprinted in your forehead. Cool.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  THOMAS SHIFTED ON the cold metal bench. The sky overhead was a dozen different shades of gray and black. Or, as we like to call it, another beautiful spring day in western Oregon. The organized chaos of a high school track meet spread out before him.

  I get why track meets don’t draw the big crowds that football and basketball do. It’s too scattered, too much going on at one time.

  At the southern end of the track, a dozen athletes from four different schools stood in a ring around a sand pit, watching a knobby-kneed boy awkwardly attempt the triple jump. Another group of boys, in shorts so small they would have been laughed at in 2016, stood balancing long poles on their shoulders, waiting for the pole vault to start. On the northern end, Tiny Patterson whirled around and around, and with a bestial howl audible in the bleachers, put the shot almost forty-five feet.

  Zack stood near the start/finish line, bent at the waist, stretching in preparation for the 880 yard race. He had already won the 440 by three strides, coasting the last quarter lap. He was his own toughest competition today, and he had saved his best for the 880.

  A high school track meet is one of the few things that didn’t change much. Aside from the races being run in meters instead of yards, a meet like this would look almost the same in 2016. Well, except for all the parents in the stands videoing their kids on their iPhones, of course.

  Zack stood at the starting line, hands on hips, and surveyed the crowd in the bleachers.