John settled back into the lounge chair and adjusted the pillow behind his head. The late April wind was still sharp but the intermittent sun was warm on his face. He was determined to enjoy the veranda after a long, snowy winter. Reaching forward, he snagged the handle of his coffee cup and opened up the paper with his free hand.
He skimmed the headlines, noting national and regional calamities with an involuntary shudder. All of the stories paled beneath the larger issues rattling around his tired brain. Greg Stillson and the confusing miasma surrounding him were just the latest in a long line of stress inducers. If the reticent residents of Cleaves Mills knew what lay in store he suspected the paper would be a lot thinner. He shoved the dire thought aside with determination and pulled out the local section of the paper.
A smudgy black and white image with the caption ‘Clams Baked’ jumped off the page. John rolled his eyes and sighed. JJ’s team had lost last weekend’s soccer game to rival Heatherwood. He had been out of town, attending to something that in light of the game result seemed extremely trivial. “Damn.”
John took a swallow of coffee and set the cup up on the table. His pale eyes skimmed the rest of the sports and current events. Absently noting anything of personal interest and filing it away. Spring concert at the elementary school, JJ was scheduled to be a great white Shark in the Atlantic Parade. Land Owners appreciation banquet sponsored by the local snowmobiling club, His mother’s holdings had once included a piece of land north of town. Not anymore. Plant swap at the Rotary… Gardener he was not, as evidenced by the weeds beginning to choke out the back yard.
The wind rifled John’s short hair and fanned his cheeks. He shivered and zipped his sweatshirt before turning the page. The chance to read the local paper cover to cover was more of a rarity for John than most people would think. In fact it had been three weeks since he had last indulged. There was always something to distract him. A person, an event, a vision he would rather do without. As disturbing as the headlines often were, he relished the opportunity to read them.
Nestled between the Employment and Absolutely Free columns was the Lost and Found. Skimming that column was always a must, though he could not readily explain the obsession. Or more likely, did not want to explain it to anyone, least of all himself.
Missing: Black Lab puppy, goes by the name of Harry. Last seen on Pine Avenue behind the Mobil station.
John shook his head sadly.
Lost: Pair of ladies tennis shoes. Cleaves Mills community center. White with blue soles. The initials B.C. written inside.
He took another sip from his cooling coffee. Sarah might know, he could call her later and ask.
Lost: Antique engagement ring. White gold, .5-carat diamond surrounded by five .3-carat sapphires. Last seen in the 6th street Park near the fountain on 4-2-03.
John put down the paper and cast his eyes to the sky. Ragged clouds chased across the sun, plunging him in and out of shade. The air felt raw and smelled faintly of snow. He shivered again and crinkled the paper with chilled fingers. There was nothing stopping him from going to the park. Bruce would no doubt encourage the distraction were he here and not in Indiana visiting family. He could look for the ring in case it did actually snow. Maybe, just this once, the ability that was more curse than gift could bring someone pleasure.
He finished his coffee and stood up. Leaving the tray for later, he snagged his cane and walked across the damp grass to the garage.
The jeep coughed heavily and finally started with a loud bang on the second turn of the key. “Last legs?” he muttered to the cantankerous heap as he backed out, drove through the arch and out onto the street.
9:30 am on a Friday was quiet time for Cleaves Mills. What passed for rush hour ended with the advent of first shift at the lumber mill and the textile factory south of town. John drove through the mostly empty residential streets and down through the center of the business district. He returned the occasional wave and looked away self-consciously at the dark stares from those less than enthusiastic about his continued presence.
Initial fears had mostly given way to marginal acceptance by the residents. Having John Smith in town did bring a healthy share of Maine’s tourist dollars to the region. Unfortunately, his existence also shook loose every fanatic and nay-sayer within a five hundred mile radius. John did his best to avoid the fray but the locals were not always able to. Many still resented his abilities out of fear and frustration, no matter the lives saved.
He pasted a smile on his face and gunned the engine as he drove out of down town and towards the park. Such doubts wore on a person after a while. He rarely felt comfortable enough to take a deep breath when he was out alone. Bruce, Walt, Sarah, were as much shield as confidants. He would never admit to any of them how hard it was some days. How much he wanted to curl up and hide away; now more than ever.
Today was different. He would make it different!
John turned on to 6th Street and pulled into the small lot that abutted the park. He pocketed the keys and climbed from the jeep, wincing slightly as his weaker leg took weight. Determination could only take the mind so far. His damaged body was always ready with a quick reminder of the truth. Swallowing a sigh, he reached for his cane
The park was dedicated to local WWI and WWII veterans. At one end stood a bronze, kitted soldier circa 1917. Dark green with age, he stood proudly with his gun at rest and one hand raised in perpetual shade against the sun. A concrete slab lay at the opposite end of the oblong, two-acre park. The freshly painted hulk of a decommissioned tank squatted on top amidst raised beds of early crocus and tulips. The gun turret faced to the distant sea and was blocked with a large, brass plug. In between the two a simple granite fountain had been set up, a gift from Cleaves Mills’ sister city Tilton New Hampshire. The basin was drained each fall and refilled on Mother’s day, the second weekend in May. Not even the polished granite would be able to withstand the repeated expansions of ice were it to remain full year around.
John wandered slowly across the withered, winter grass, idly fingering his chin. Why would anyone be walking through here in early April? Late March had brought a pair of coastal storms, which deposited nearly 14 inches of fresh powder in the span of a week. The park had been nearly impassable at that time.
He stopped at the edge of the raised flowerbeds that skirted the fountain. Storm damage and last years’ stalks still littered the black dirt. The town paid for the plants and maintenance costs for the park but the physical care was left to a volunteer staff coordinated at the local library. He shrugged stiffly and began to walk the periphery of the slate terrace. Such activity would be relaxing and therapeutic yet he had never taken the step to contact the woman in charge. Instead, he barricaded himself in the basement and surfed the Internet for harbingers of Stillson’s eventual apocalypse.
Pathetic….
Shaking himself, John turned towards the fountain. He walked up the low steps and paced the edge of the empty basin. Leaves and bits of debris fluttered in the sharp breeze. He raised a hand as a sudden gust swirled a spray of grit up and into his face.
Maybe the fountain, the park itself, resented his presence? The ground, the air, would hold its secrets in blatant defiance of the simple desire to find something quiet and positive on this chilly spring day.
Maybe he was just being paranoid? “Get a grip,” John muttered as he stepped off the other side of the fountain.
More winter debris clotted the crevices between the flowerbeds and flitted across the inlaid slate of the steps. He stepped down carefully, eyes constantly searching for a glint of metal or gemstone. It was possible that the ring had been recovered in the time since the ad first appeared. In which case this little jaunt could be chalked up to therapy, at least on a minor scale, but little else. John suspected otherwise, though he could not justify a reason why.
A half hour of fruitless meandering among the thorny bushes and muddy beds sorely tested the notion. Sighing tiredly, John approached a cement bench and sank onto the seat. He leaned back and rested his hand on the molded arm.
*The bright spring afternoon faded to night. Moonlight bathed the snow-shrouded park in an icy, bluish glow. John stood and turned slowly, listening and watching.
Laughter?
Silvery peals shadowed muffled steps. A young couple chased one another through the knee deep fresh powder. Their breath puffed the air and glazed their sparkling eyes as they ran, fell, and rose to run again. Snow clotted mittens dipped down and came up throwing fine sprays onto back, chest, and face.
He smiled wistfully as they fell in a tangle of arms and legs. They rolled together, their lips pressed close. Ruddy cheeks lifted with broad smiles as they whispered. Turning over and over and finally lying flat with faces upturned towards the wise, white moon. Their arms moved slowly and then faster, shooting angel clouds above the winged silhouettes emerging beneath their bodies.
John’s eyelids stung with the burn of reminiscent tears. He blinked rapidly, unable to turn away from the happy couple.
Moments, minutes, hours later, they stood and walked arm and arm towards the bench. She raised her mittened hands and clapped them together. Snowballs dangled from the saturated yarn. The man pointed to the bench. He pulled off one encrusted glove and slapped it against the arm. She nodded and kissed him quickly before tugging her hand free.
Her left hand.
Metal and stone glinted in the moonlight as the ring spun free and sailed through the air. John watched its progress, feeling his own heart lift and fall heavily to the white earth. The treasure plunked into the snow at the base of a large Blue Spruce tree and sank from sight.*
John rubbed a cold hand over his eyes, not surprised to feel dampness against his fingers. Visions often brought memories floating to the fore. Usually he was fixated on a crisis and could easily ignore them. Here, alone, was another matter. The man and the woman were not unlike Sarah and himself, a moment, a lifetime ago. He sighed shakily and walked towards the towering Blue Spruce from the vision.
Damp, rotted needles and leaves were mounded around the trunk. John knelt on one knee and leaned on the tree for balance. He carefully pawed through the debris while keeping the memory of the vision firmly fixed in his mind’s eye.
*Moonlight touched the spinning band as it arced high and then dropped suddenly as if pushed by an invisible wind.*
John’s hand plunged deep into the soggy mess. Something hard and rounded grazed his fingertips.
*The trunk beneath his hand shrank to a thin twig. John stood up and stepped back to get his bearings.
The worrisome gray of the April sky seemed to flow down into the earth, leaving a featureless amber sheet. Green grass, morphed suddenly into tones of sepia and gold. Detail washed away as time seemed to spiel backwards.
What? When….
Empty space appeared in the place of trees and budding shrubs. Narrow streets paved with gravel and pitted with fresh puddles formed the boundaries of the park. The concrete slab glowed in the weak light, still delineated by wooden forms. The tank was conspicuously absent. John turned around and discovered a large grassy space where the fountain should stand.
The past…
Seeking the familiar, he looked up and out towards the street.
A young couple strolled arm and arm onto the grass. The man spoke rapidly and punctuated his words with fluid gestures of his free hand. His companion smiled and followed the movements with sparkling gray eyes. Laughter and quiet conversation teased John’s ear as they strolled the perimeter of the fledgling park. Eventually, they approached the small Spruce and the man pulled her down onto the grass beside it.
His mouth twitched, vacillating between a frown and a smile. His hand hovered above his pant’s pocket as she looked on.
“What is it, Will?”
“There’s something I want to ask you, Liv. I just don’t…well you know, the words just don’t sound right…”
Liv blushed and took his restless hand in hers. “It’s only me.”
“Only?” He looked aghast at the implication. “You deserve so much more than I could ever give you, honey.” He looked down at their twining fingers and then back up, swallowing loudly. “You’re high class all the way…”
“And so are you,” she interrupted firmly. “Tell me, please!”
Will slipped his hand free and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small, gray box and held it out to her with trembling fingers. “This is for you.”
“Oh my…”
“For always,” he whispered as she cradled the box in her palm. “Open it, honey.”
Liv brushed a hand across her eyes and popped the lid. Sunlight poured over her shoulders and onto the ring nestled inside. Arcs of color splashed her quivering lips and accented the twin tears rolling down her cheeks. “It’s beautiful…oh my, it’s beautiful!”
“Will you marry me, Olivia?”
“Yes, oh yes I will!”
He cupped her cheeks and kissed her tenderly before sitting back with a long, breathy sigh. “Thank God!”
Olivia laughed sharply and held up the ring. “William Anders a little self control if you please.”
“Oh sorry,” he mumbled contritely and then grinned. “Let me see your finger.” He slid the ring into place and kissed her quickly on her smiling mouth. “Now it’s official!”*
John sat back on the wet grass holding the ring between his thumb and two fingers. The remnants of Olivia and Will’s long ago joy brought a smile to his lips. He reveled in the warmth of their memory. Heard Olivia’s laughter, felt Will’s relief and pleasure as she said yes.
The moment passed and he came back to reality with a soft gasp.
The ad was in the present. The young couple that reported the lost ring were a part of his generation more or less. Why did the ring indicate otherwise? Who was William Anders?
John sighed heavily and clambered to his feet. Everything had to be a mystery, nothing was ever straightforward. He slouched beneath the burden as he pocketed the ring and made his way back to the jeep. Once seated, he gripped the wheel and cranked the engine until it caught. His hand hovered over the gearshift and then dropped to the newspaper discarded on the passenger seat.
Alex and Terry, each name labeled with a cell phone number.
Dammit! John patted his pockets until he located his phone. He would not get involved this time. Alex and Terry were the owners of the ring. William Anders belonged in the past and he would not say otherwise. Firm resolve faded to ashes as he began to dial. Disgusted with himself, John snapped the phone closed and jammed it back into his pocket.
Where did one go to find a dead man? Or just a very, very old one?
He slammed the jeep in gear and chirped the tires as he backed out onto the quiet street.
Cleaves Mills Town Hall would have all the birth and death records. If Anders were dead then his search would come to a quick and easy conclusion. A small part of John hoped otherwise, in spite of the complications that would ensue. The vision of the proposal was not random. The ring had a history that needed to be addressed, even if it simply meant flowers on a long forgotten grave.
He drove back into town and parked across from the large, brick building that housed the offices of the City Clerk and the Chamber of Commerce. The reception area was empty when he entered and approached the desk. “Excuse me?”
A short, auburn haired woman stood by an overflowing cabinet, her nose buried in files. “Be right with you.” After a moment she stepped back and shoved the heavy drawer closed with her hip. “May I help…oh, Mr. Smith? What can I do for you?”
John smiled tentatively. Being recognized was always a tricky proposition. “Would it be possible for me to see birth listings for,” he thought for a second. “Say 1915-1925?”
The clerk lifted a curious eyebrow. “Is this for the Sheriff’s department?”
“No, it’s not.”
“Doing a little genealogy are we?”
He flushed, embarrassed and wary of lying. “Not exactly…”
“I see.” She drew out the last word as she wandered slowly away from the counter and towards the vault in the back of the room. “Well I’m afraid any records before 1950 are still in paper ledgers. Not enough hours in a day to enter them all in the computer.”
“I understand,” John replied sympathetically.
The clerk nodded to herself and tapped a code into the panel beside the door. “You looking for someone in particular,” she called out as she propped open the door and walked inside.
John tapped his fingers on the counter and glanced surreptitiously around the small, empty office. Less was usually more, he had determined over the last two years. “Just following a hunch you might say.”
Several minutes passed while the woman hunted through the stacks of files, ledgers, and folders inside the vault. John fidgeted uneasily as cool sweat trickled down his back. What if this were a waste of time? Then again it was his time to waste, what was one more hour in the grand scheme. Still…
“I’ve heard about your hunches,” the clerk mumbled as she emerged carrying a brown leather ledger. “Is there something I should know about here?”
John shook his head and waited patiently for her to put the records on the counter.
“Anything else?”
“Well… maybe in a minute.”
“Uh huh.” She turned away and went back to her desk. “I’m all alone in here as you can see, Bev is out with a cold.”
“The weather has been very unpredictable,” John commiserated. A plethora of images washed over him as he flipped open the book. Licking suddenly dry lips he began scanning the names.
The population of Cleaves Mills had grown and contracted with the whims of the Depression, war, the baby boom, and the rise and fall of the textile industry. The ten years John had chosen to study were at a time of low ebb and the lists were short. He found William Anders after only five minutes. “January 5, 1922.”
“Say again?”
John straightened and smiled crookedly. “Oh sorry, I didn’t realize I was speaking out loud.” He tapped the page. “Where might I find a death date for this person?”
“My but you are an odd one,” the clerk groused good-naturedly.
“That’s been said before.”
“No doubt.” She got up and waved him to a small dark office. “In here. If they died after 1950 you’re golden. If not…well I hope you have some time on your hands.”
Too much… He bit back the response and followed her. Inside the office were a desk and a squeaky leather chair on wheels. An old computer with a bulky 17-inch monitor squatted in the center of the dusty blotter.
“We only use this hulk once in a while. Need to update really.” She booted up the machine and clicked through a series of files. “Who are you looking for?”
“William Anders.”
“Friend of yours?”
Her curiosity was becoming annoying but John held his tongue. Close only counted in horseshoes and hand grenades and he preferred to touch as little as possible in the presence of the nosy clerk. Better, faster, to let her find the name.
“There’s nothing listed,” she said at length. “You want me to check tax rolls or voter registration.”
“If you have time,” John paced to the open door and leaned against the frame, idly fingering the head of his cane. His stomach was doing slow, nauseous flips in protest to only a coffee breakfast. Never mind that the clerk seemed to be taking every opportunity to study him over the rims of her filmy glasses.
“Anders you said?”
“Yes.” He walked back to the desk. “Did you find something?”
“I’ve got a Jason Anders and a Jill Anders-Rowe… Hmm, wonder if she’s related too… Oh here it is, William Anders. Lives over on 6th Street. Number 2010.”
John swallowed a sigh and averted his eyes. So close, was that why the ring had given such a strong vibe? He nodded and offered the clerk a strained smile. “Thanks very much.”
“You’re welcome and Mr. Smith?”
He paused halfway out the door and turned back. “Yes?”
“I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
It was possible, just possible, that she really was not as intrusive as she first appeared. This time the smile John flashed was genuine. He nodded again and left.
Outside the sun was high overhead and patches of blue had begun to appear in between the budding branches of the trees.
John crossed the street and went into a convenience store. He purchased a candy bar and a Pepsi to quiet his grumbling stomach and then returned to the jeep.
The ring in his pocket seemed to throb with a life all its own. Urging, demanding that he seek out William Anders against all succeeding claims. John hated to be pushed. Horrific, guilt driven images of bloody children were unlikely to haunt his steps this time around. Once had been sufficient lesson and now he knew better than to go against the grain. Knowing better did not lessen the urge. He wanted to control the visions, to make them work to his advantage. The gift, the curse, frequently had other ideas and would make itself understood no matter anyone’s desires.
He drove back to 6th street absently chewing on the candy and swilling Pepsi in large, undignified gulps. His body would undoubtedly resent the junk and make him pay for the poor choices later. Right now he did not care. He was caught in the middle. A position he was intimately and frustratingly familiar with. The only consolation; this time no one’s life was at stake, just their peace of mind and his.
Number 2010 was a small, square house badly in need of paint. The screen on the porch door was patched and the hinges nearly rusted through. The driveway on the side led to a garage with a tarp for a door. The chipped chrome bumper of a tan, late model car peeked out from behind the flapping blue plastic.
John parallel parked in front and stepped from the jeep. The house was directly across from the park. He walked to the grassy verge and then turned slowly around, lost momentarily in memory.
*Sunlight poured down over their heads as Will and Liv walked arm and arm onto the grass. Behind them sat a neat gray house trimmed in white. Flowerboxes filled to bursting, a 1950s sedan parked in the drive its fins clean and shiny new.*
“Son, are you wantin’ something here?”
John blinked and the image melted away to reveal the same house in its present, dilapidated state. He walked back across the street, cautiously seeking the gaze of the elderly gentleman peering through the ratty screen. “Yes, Sir. I think I’m here to see you.”
The man’s dark eyes met his in a long, appraising stare. “You think?” he finally asked.
“Yes, I may have found something of yours in the park this morning.”
The eyes dropped to the floor and the man rubbed his grizzled chin with one bony hand. “Nope, I don’t go in that park, not ever.”
John paused at the end of the dirt walkway, uncertain how to respond. There was no question that this man was William Anders. Albeit much older, much harder, and deeply troubled by memories John had not seen. He put his hands in his pockets and hesitantly approached the porch. “Sir, I know what I found belongs to you.”
“Certain are you?”
“Yes.”
“And how would that be?”
There was nothing John dreaded more than trying to convince people he was not crazy or a fraud. Usually, Bruce or Walt was on hand to help run interference. Now there was just he and an old man’s understandable paranoia. “My name is John Smith. You may have heard of me?” he asked hopefully.
“Nope.” William straightened and looked past John to his jeep. “You sellin’ somethin’, Son?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Well I told you I don’t go in that park. Not ever.”
“You did,” John ventured tentatively. “A long time ago.”
William pinched his large, white nose and briefly met John’s eyes. “Maybe. What’s that to you?”
“Could I come in, Sir?”
“Why?”
John grinned sheepishly. “Well it’s kind of cold out here and frankly I feel a bit awkward discussing this from the street.”
“You sure you’re not sellin’ anythin’?”
He shook his head. “I give you my word.”
William scrutinized him from toe to hairline and paused on his right hand resting atop the cane. “Kind of young for one of those.”
“Auto accident,” John explained as he mounted the stairs.
“I see.” The old man released the lock and pushed the door open. “You’re right, it is cold out here.”
*Rain poured down in undulating sheets that shimmered in the porch light. Hinges squeaked and John stepped aside as a young William Anders crossed the porch to stand in front of the screen door. He glared into the darkness. The dark eyes were glass and his mouth puckered and pursed as he murmured a prayer beneath his breath. In the distance an engine rumbled, the sound increasing to an ominous roar as the vehicle turned on to 6th street and pulled up in front of the house.
A police car.
William’s trembling hand fell to the lock on the door. He flipped over the hook and pushed it out towards the approaching officer.
“William Anders?”
“Yes…”
John sucked in a deep, relieved breath as William broke contact with the door and moved further onto the porch. “Somethin’ the matter?” the old man asked.
“Uh… no,” John quietly denied.
The rain and the stricken look on young William’s face were eerily familiar. It was easy to substitute Sarah for him. To know that she felt the same horror as the local Sheriff arrived at her door on a June evening a lifetime, a heartbeat, in the past.
John shook his head to clear the image and stepped through the open door. “Nice porch.”
William grimaced. “It was once.” He led the way inside and gestured John to a chair at the kitchen table. “Want a drink?”
“Sure.”
“Molson okay?”
The Canadian beer was dense and had more of a bite than John preferred. His moneyed palate tended towards wine or straight liquors over ice. This was not a time to be pedantic however. “That will be fine, thanks.”
William took two bottles from the fridge and placed them on the table. He sat down and pulled the top off a can of Planter’s mixed nuts sitting in between the salt and a bottle of Tabasco. “Can’t have beer without nuts.”
“True,” John agreed as he took a small handful and set them on the vinyl tablecloth in front of him.
The old man chewed thoughtfully on a brazil nut and took a long swallow from the beer. “So what’s really on your mind, Son?”
In a different time and place, he could picture William as a straight shooting, no nonsense businessman. The kind of manager people actually liked because he took the time to come to the staff holiday parties and signed company birthday cards by hand. It was a feeling not a fact he could verify-at least not yet. John had learned to follow such hunches since awakening from the coma. He chose the truth, gambling that William had heard it all in his long life. “Mr. Anders, I was in an accident back in 1995. I spent six years in a coma. When I woke up I discovered that I could see things about people’s lives by touching them or objects associated with them.”
“You a fortune teller?” the old man mused as he picked a peanut from the can.
“Not exactly. I’ve helped the local Sheriff’s department with some cases. Helped find a few people…”
“Smith huh? Sounds familiar, not sure why though. I don’t read the papers no more, nothin’ but bad news anyhow…” He trailed off and studied a callus on the ball of his thumb. “Don’t have the money for cable and can’t get only snow on that old Sony in there.”
John smiled to himself. Beneath the roughened voice he sensed a canny mind trying to decipher the who and what of him. Ordinarily, the feeling would be quite unnerving. He found strange comfort in William’s curiosity, though. A balm for the edginess that seemed to fill his every waking moment since the apocalyptic vision at the Stillson rally. “I have 150 channels Mr. Anders. Trust me, you aren’t missing much.”
William looked up suddenly. His eyes were bright and hard with suspicion. “So you see things? What does that have to do with me or that piece of land over there?”
The confrontational tone startled John. He took a bracing swallow from the beer and set the bottle down deliberately out of reach. William was demanding honesty and he did not doubt for a second that he would be out on the street if he offered anything less. “I read about a missing engagement ring in the paper this morning. I thought I would have a look around. When I got to the park I got a vision of a young couple carousing in the snowstorm we had about three weeks ago. Do you remember the storm?”
“Of course.”
“The young woman wearing the ring took off her mitten to beat the snow out of it. The ring came off and ended up buried in the needles beside a large Spruce.” He took a breath and added in a gentler tone. “You know the tree, don’t you?”
“There are lots of trees over there.” William muttered.
John let the qualifier pass. “I dug down and found the ring and then I saw you.” He sat forward, seeking the old man’s now restless gaze. For a moment he hesitated. The power of the memories stirred to life had caught him unaware. What would they do to this battered heart seated before him? Gone was the opportunity to turn away, perhaps he should not have come?
William met his eyes and gestured weakly. “Get on with it.”
John licked his lips. “I saw you and a young woman, her name was...”
“Olivia.” The name drifted out and fell heavily to the floor. William’s square, gnarled hands entwined on the table clothe. The thumbs crisscrossed over one another in jerky, frenetic strokes. “Liv…she loved that little tree,” he whispered.
“I saw you two sitting beneath it,” John said as he reached into his pocket. “You gave her this.” He placed the ring in the center of the table and sat back.
William stared at the ring. His papery skin quivered as his jaw worked slowly from side to side. Fear, anger, sorrow chased across his features, none settling for more than a moment in the dark eyes. “1952,” he began. “I was 30 years old. A veteran. Saw more death in my early 20s than any man should have a right to. Do you know fear, Mr. Smith?”
Did he? Such questions frequently roused John in the middle of the night. He had never been keen on introspection. The outside world offered enough mystery and challenge for any eager mind. He did not care to examine the inner self too closely, perhaps for fear of what may lie there. Things were different since the coma. Now he asked those questions. Mainly because living with the visions demanded understanding. Did he know fear? Oh yes, intimately and in frightening detail.
“You don’t have to answer, Son.” William said. “Kind of an open book you are.”
John ducked aside and restlessly fingered the top of his cane. He had not intended to broadcast his feelings so plainly. Was this how people usually felt after he touched them? After the pronouncement of doom spat out in clear, concise and unmerciful detail, He shivered at the thought.
“I came home to a changed world. Olivia…well she worked at the local diner. But she was high class… so far above that kind of thing. I wanted to make her happy. Set her up so she would never have to clean up after them blowhards down there ever again.”
“So you asked her to marry you?” John prompted softly.
William looked out the window. His eyes squinted as he struggled to focus through the glass and screen. The trunk of the Spruce was barely visible near the edge of the sill. He sighed shakily and clutched the neck of the beer bottle. “Right there under that little Spruce.” The haunted gaze shifted to John. “But then you knew that, didn’t you, Son?”
“I did,” John admitted with a guilty flush. He rarely felt intrusive. The visions were a tool, the images clues to a larger mystery that usually held no personal attachment. This was different and he opened his mouth to apologize.
The old man waved dismissively, seeming to read his mind as easily as he drew the vision from the ring. “You had no way of knowin’.”
The need to hear the rest of the story felt indecent in light of William’s manner and words. John reached for the discarded beer and drained half the bottle. He watched the old man’s reflection shift in the curve of the glass and felt the fool. This was not right. He put the bottle down decisively and rose to leave. “This is your ring, her ring, you should have it back and I should be leaving.”
“Sit down, Son.”
“Mr. Anders…”
“Sit down. There’s more to the story and someone should hear it.”
“I’m not sure I deserve to be that someone,” John admitted ruefully as he sank back into the chair.
“Did you mean any harm by comin’ out here today?” William countered.
“No.”
“Then you’ve no reason to feel bad.” William smiled faintly. “Olivia… my God she was a pretty thing. We planned our lives, bought this house and settled down. Wanted a family we did but decided to wait.” He looked at his empty beer and then nudged the bottle to the center of the table. “Life goes by much too fast, dontcha think?”
John nodded. “It does.”
“Yeah.”
The low tone spoke more to himself than John but he listened nevertheless. Respectful of the intent and the heavy heart that lay behind it.
“We wanted to wait,” William said. “Wanted to enjoy our time together and we did. Right up until that rainy night in September 1954.” His hand strayed to the ring, trembling fingers hovering above it for a long moment before descending. “She died in a wreck that night.” He looked up with glistening eyes and a sad little smile. “You knew that too, didn’t ya Son?”
John gasped softly, struck by the old man’s willingness to embrace his knowledge. “I suspected,” he replied. “I don’t always get the whole picture.”
“Probably a good thing that.”
“Probably.”
“Liv really loved that ring and I was gonna keep it but…” He swallowed audibly and looked at John’s half full beer.
He tapped the glass and nodded permission.
William kept one hand over the ring and grasped the beer with the other. He drained it in two long swigs and set it sharply on the tabletop. “It hurt too much, you know?”
John looked away and closed his eyes. Flares of remembrance shivered across his frayed nerves. Hurt, yes he knew hurt. The cold knot of dread growing and tightening in his stomach when he touched Sarah for the first time after the coma and saw her happy life unfold. Discovering months later that all was not tea and roses did not diminish the sensation. In fact, he felt worse than ever having slept with her and woken up alone on the floor of his living room. “I know,” he said when the silence could stretch no further.
“I gave the ring to her sister after the funeral. Told her to keep it, sell it, whatever she liked,” William continued. “Liv was gone, nothing mattered anymore.” He released the ring with a jerk and it slid across the table to bump against John’s cold fingers.
*Young William walked through a small office. Heads turned and hands waved genially as he passed. He stopped and talked frequently. As he moved through the space it seemed to grow larger. The colors changed and the equipment evolved. Typewriters and rotary phones were replaced by computers and small, portable units. File cabinets, desks, lamps, and assorted machines shrank and changed in color and material composition.
He passed through lacquered doors and into a large factory complex. The machinery around him underwent a similar change. Ancient, rumbling behemoths replaced by smaller, cleaner units pumping out a product John could not easily identify.
William himself aged as he walked. His clear, open features gradually altered, pulled down by age and worry. Still the people he passed greeted him with respect and genuine affection.
He made a circuit of the expanding factory and walked back through the doors. A surprise party awaited him. Streamers and balloons filled the air and the gathered crowd cheered and whistled. His smile did not reach his eyes but it was warm and sincere.*
John shifted in his chair, drawing back and away from the ring. He looked up and caught William’s uncertain stare.
“You’re seein’ something, aren’t ya?”
“Olivia would have been proud of the man you became.”
“How do you know?”
John smiled and stood up. “Trust me.” He tapped the table, carefully avoiding the ring. “She would have.”
“I miss her,” William muttered into his chest. “The days are shorter now, all blend together. Sometimes I forget whether it’s Monday or Tuesday.” Leaning heavily on the tabletop, he pushed himself erect. “I never forget that day in September.
“I understand,” John replied tightly. “I’m sorry if I opened old wounds, that was not my intention.”
“I know that, Son.”
He swallowed past the lump in his throat and pointed at the ring. “It’s come full circle.”
“Home to roost?” William reached down and picked up the shiny circle. He raised it up towards the kitchen light and studied the colors undulating across the surfaces of the gems. His mouth pursed and he placed a gentle kiss on the diamond.
John turned away and reached for the door. The sun beyond the porch was full and bright now. Whether hope or illusion he could feel its warmth radiating through the dark paneling.
“Mr. Smith?”
The low voice caught the breath in his throat. John paused with his hand on the knob and turned. “Yes?”
“Full circle,” William repeated. He held out the ring and smiled wanly. “They should have it.”
“What?”
“The couple you saw, Son. What were their names?”
John stared, nonplussed. “Alex and Terry but…”
“No buts, no second guessin’ here,” William interjected flatly. “I don’t know how Liv’s ring wound up on her finger but I’m thinking it was meant to be.”
“You’re sure?”
William shrugged stiffly. “Sure as I can be. Son I’m 80 years old. The only thing I can be sure of is that the people we love live on in our souls, not in the trinkets we buy them. That’s somethin’ you can’t learn except with time. Give ‘em the ring.”
John reached out and the ring fell into his palm.
*Moonlight streamed through the open curtains and fell across the bed. William lay on his back, his eyes closed, his hands folded serenely across his body. His chest rose and a stuttering breath puffed out from his pale lips. The dark eyes opened and shifted to the side. John followed the line of sight to a picture on the nightstand. A smiling Olivia leaned against the 1950s car, one slim hand resting on the right tailfin.
William smiled and shut his eyes.*
John closed his fingers over the ring. He looked into William’s open features and saw acceptance. This man knew his fate and he embraced it without reservation. “Thank you.”
“Nothin’ to thank me for.”
“Good-bye, Sir.”
“Take care, Son.”
The door closed behind him with a heavy, final thump. John stepped down from the porch and walked briskly down the dirt walk to the street. He smiled to himself as he climbed inside the jeep and retrieved the newspaper from the seat. Pulling out his cell phone, he dialed the first number and waited.
“Hello?”
“Hi, I’m calling about the missing ring listed in the paper. Is this Alex?”
*THE*END*
