Quantum Leap - Random Measures

by Ashley McConnell

The next morning he woke to the sound of prerecorded church bells. The cat was gone, much to his relief. Probably off somewhere looking for food. At least the bags of trash on the porch were intact.

  He wondered if he should tell Rimae about the cabin getting trashed before she noticed the broken windows. Based on the way she’d reacted about the truck, she probably wasn’t going to be too happy about it. It was a shame, too, considering she seemed to have forgiven him about the keg.

  He wondered if he could find a glazier open on a Sunday. Probably not; he’d have to try to get it done tomorrow morning. Monday.

  Monday was the day of the party. The day of the wreck. Which might or might not be going to happen, and Al hadn’t come back to let him know. Not since Friday night.

  Bethica was supposed to be involved in that wreck, he remembered. So this Leap did involve her. He wondered if it involved her baby, too. He wished Al would show up so they could figure things out. Did Bethica tell Rimae about the baby? Did she lose it, give it up, abort it?

  He found himself considering the possibilities with an objectivity that he would once have said he didn’t possess. Too much experience with Leaping had changed him; it

  wasn’t like him to be so detached from the people around him. A lot of things were unlike him, Sam decided. He’d been wondering for a while, in fact, just what “like him” was supposed to mean anyway. He taped paper over the broken windows and went back over to the bar.

  Davey was already there, sweeping the floor. Rimae was behind the bar, setting clean glasses back in place. The boy spared him not so much as a glance. Rimae looked up indifferently. “Oh, there you are.”

  “Here I am,” Sam agreed, and wondered if he too had some assigned task.

  “You’re spending a lot of your free time around here lately,” Rimae said. She was checking stock now, counting bottles and making notes on a clipboard. “What’s the matter, aren’t there any more fish in the creek out there?”

  No assigned task. Well. He considered telling her about the vandalism, decided not to. Maybe he could get the windows fixed before she found out. The rest of the place was in pretty good shape—better than when he’d Leaped in.

  He sat down again on the piano bench. The presence of Rimae and her son put a hole in his plans for the piano; he had a feeling the classics would be out of character. Wickie wasn’t a Rimsky-Korsakov kind of guy.

  But he was unable to keep his hands off the keys. Rimae looked up as the first notes began to ripple through the air, snorted and went back to what she was doing.

  Davey, on the other hand, stopped sweeping to watch him. Sam registered the change in activity level, looked up and smiled at him.

  The broom clattered to the floor, and Davey came over to stand beside him.

  “He’s always liked music,” Rimae called out. Sam gave out with a jaunty jazz riff.

  Davey grinned, a stiff and awkward smile, reached out and began pounding on the keys in the upper register, a pounding completely out of sync with Sam’s playing, dissonant, unrhythmic, harsh.

  Sam stopped at once. “Would you like to play?”

  Davey nodded jerkily and continued pounding. Sam caught at his hands. “Hey, hold on. Let me show you.” He moved over to make room on the bench for the boy.

  As soon as he took his hands away, Davey resumed pounding at the keys.

  “No,” Sam said. “Sit down.” This time he held on to the boy’s hands until Davey was seated beside him.

  “Now look.” He let go to demonstrate the first three notes of “Chopsticks.” Davey instantly pounded on the keys.

  Rimae chuckled. “Now you’ve got him going,” she said, polishing the top of the bar. “He won’t quit.”

  Sam had the feeling she might be right, but he wasn’t ready to give up yet. “That’s quite a tune you’re playing, Davey,” he said soothingly. “That’s a good tune. Would you like to learn another good tune? Then you’ll have two of them.” And the piano might survive a little longer, he added to himself.

  He placed Davey’s hands—small, bony hands—on the proper keys and pressed down. Oh, Nicole, if you could only see me now, he thought wryly. I’ll bet you never had a student like this one. Nicole had been his piano teacher when he was younger than Davey was now. And in about-—Sam calculated absently—four years from now, she’d be hired as an understudy for an out-of-town production of Man of La Mancha, and she’d meet a man she used to know and love. Only it would be Sam Beckett.

  It was still the future for her. It was part of the past for Sam, one of innumerable loops of the past. He still thought about her. She had been, would be, a wonderful teacher, in more ways than one. “ ‘Sancho, my armor!’ ” he whispered to himself, smiling wistfully. The boy sitting beside him didn’t notice.

  Davey let Sam move his hands, unresisting, over the keys. He didn’t cooperate, either. Sam couldn’t even tell if the boy understood that the music was being played as

  a result of his pressing the keys. He stared at the yellowed ivory uncomprehendingly.

  Sam moved his hands through the pattern once, twice, three times. “There. See? Now you try it.”

  Davey went back to indiscriminate pounding.

  Rimae laughed. “Now you know why I keep that old piano closed up,” she said. “But you play pretty good.”

  “Ever tried teaching him?” Sam asked, trying to catch hold of Davey’s hands again. He finally succeeded. Holding them with one of his own, he pulled the cover closed.

  Davey recognized at once that he could no longer reach the black and white keys. He touched the wood of the cover, an oddly light touch, sighed, and then got up, went back to pick up his broom, and resumed sweeping, all without saying a word.

  “He’s always been that way,” Rimae said, shrugging. “Slow.” There was regret in her voice, but no self-pity, and no pity for Davey, either. He simply was, and she obviously refused to think of it in terms of something “wrong” with the boy. He was slow, that was all. He was hers. Sam remembered seeing Bethica, the morning before, protectively holding Davey’s hand, and decided Rimae’s acceptance wasn’t the worst thing in the world to pass on to her niece.

  Davey dropped the broom on the floor and ran out the door. Rimae looked at Sam and shrugged.

  Retarded. Handicapped. Intellectually challenged. There were half a dozen ways of saying it; they all came to the same thing, in greater or lesser degrees of tact and political correctness. But the physical markers indicated there was something more at work, too. He knew what it was, he just couldn’t.. . quite . .. put a name to it yet. Ziggy could tell him what it was, no doubt.

  But where the hell was Al?

  “I’m going to be in my office, working on the books this afternoon,” Rimae said at last. “Bethie'll look after Davey, if you want to stop on by for your check.”

  He looked up to see her smiling at him, wondering if there was a double meaning in her words. And even if there was, there wasn’t anything he could do about it. For the time being, he was stuck here.

  Al was engaged in coating the inside of a sopaipilla with honey, watching as Janna did the same thing. A trickle of golden fluid dribbled out of a hole in the pillow-shaped bread and dripped along her little finger, and she sucked at it. He smiled to himself.

  “Do I have to ask what you’re thinking?” she scolded him, smiling back. “You’ve got that look on your face again.”

  “I’m just wondering what this expedition’s going to cost,” he improvised. “And we haven’t even gone to any of the galleries on Water Street yet.” He looked at the stack of packages at her feet. “And a good thing, too.”

  “It was your idea,” she pointed out.

  They were having Sunday brunch in the La Fonda Hotel in Santa Fe, just off the Plaza. The ceiling arched three stories over their heads. The room was decorated in soft pinks and blues, the colors of adobe and turquoise, and the tables were rough-dressed wood covered with woven cotton mats. Trees grew up in the middle of the room, she
ltering them from the gaze of the inquisitive. The voices of other diners, the sound of cutlery and ceramic dinnerware, were lost in the huge room.

  “It’s been a long time since we’ve been able to do something like this,” Janna observed. “I can’t even remember the last time.”

  “Neither can I,” Al said with absolute truth. They’d arrived Saturday afternoon, walked through the Plaza hand in hand, and decided to stay over after the concert, something with banjos that hadn’t interfered with his enjoyment of her company. This morning they’d gotten up early—she was a morning person—and roamed around the shops and museums. “It’s like a whole new life.”

  Janna glanced up at him through long lashes, puzzled. He shook his head and dug into the chicken enchiladas.

  “Don’t you feel the least bit guilty?” she asked. “I mean, I do. You don’t often leave Sam hanging this way. Two whole days.”

  “I didn’t leave him hanging.” Al’s voice was sharper than he meant it to be. “He’s okay. Ziggy would tell me if there were any problems.”

  Ziggy was supposed to tell him what Sam was supposed to do on this Leap, too, but the computer hadn’t said anything yet. The original scenario had shivered and disappeared almost as soon as Sam got there, and Ziggy couldn’t nail down what else was supposed to happen. Al was beginning to feel a little uneasy about that, and he resented the feeling. Why couldn’t he just enjoy himself for once?

  The woman sitting across from him—his wife; it was beginning to sink in—raised one hand. “Hold on, Admiral. Pull back the fighter squadrons. You’re not under attack. At least,” she added thoughtfully, “I don’t think you are. Maybe you are. Or maybe I’m just feeling guilty because we spent so much money.”

  “That would be a switch.”

  Janna glared. She was beautiful when she glared.

  “On the other hand,” he went on, “the dress looks good, the jewelry is terrific, the painting . .. well, the painting sucks pond water, but you like it, so it works for me.”

  “You have no appreciation for great art.”

  “I appreciate great art just fine. Cows wearing overalls don’t cut it.” He cut another mouthful of enchilada. “Naked ladies, on the other hand—”

  “One naked lady at a time,” Janna said, nipping at a sopaipilla comer.

  He grinned.

  She grinned back, nipped at the golden bread again, her white teeth clicking as they met.

  “I understand there’s an art exhibit going on upstairs this afternoon,” she added, dribbling honey quite deliberately down the palm of her hand and licking at it.

  Al raised both eyebrows and pushed his plate away. “Upstairs?”

  The only thing upstairs that he could think of at the moment was their hotel room. He hadn’t checked out; he’d assumed she was going to take care of that.

  “It’s a private exhibit,” she added.

  “With naked ladies?” he said, experiencing some difficulty with his voice. Maybe her idea of taking care was more in line with his own than he’d thought.

  “Only one,” she whispered, taking several bills from her purse and placing them on the table.

  “One is fine. If it’s the right one.” He looked at the dripping sopaipilla. “Hey, save some of that for me!”

  She chuckled, got to her feet and held out her unsticky hand to him.

  I’ll catch up with you later, Sam, was Al’s last rational thought. I will. Really.

  He snagged the container of honey from the table as they left.

  Bethica walked along the stream behind the line of cabins, kicking at a rock, keeping half an eye on Davey to make sure he didn’t fall into the little stream. Wickie was in the bar, talking to Rimae. Telling her about how his place got trashed, probably. Telling her about the baby?

  No. He’d said he wouldn’t tell, and Wickie didn’t lie. That left everything up to her, and she didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to think about it. But it was true; he was right.

  She’d been awake all last night, staring up at the ceiling, touching her belly. There was a baby in there. Her baby.

  Kevin’s baby.

  It was hard to connect that thought to the party six weeks ago up the mountain, celebrating Kevin’s admission to USC. It was some party. Lots of food, lots of booze, the night

  cold enough to make cuddling together under the blankets logical, sensible, practical.

  She glanced up through the trees to the cabin on the far end. Wickie probably hadn’t seen the spray paint on the back door yet.

  That Kevin, he could be really disgusting sometimes. She could remember him doing things clear back to the first grade, breaking people’s windows, vandalizing schoolrooms. He’d never got caught. Nobody turned in Kevin. They thought it was funny. Sometimes they helped.

  Davey had found a piece of wood and was drawing channels for the mountain water, prying rocks out of the way. Where did he think the water would go, she wondered. No matter how hard he tried, it would eventually return to its channel again.

  The day after that celebration up on the mountain, Kevin had invited Davey up to his house. Bethica had found him with a bunch of the boys, spinning a blindfolded Davey around and around, edging him toward the Hodges’ swimming pool. Kevin knew Davey couldn’t swim. He thought it was funny. She had looked into Kevin’s eyes over the head of her foster brother and seen only anger at having his game frustrated.

  She and Kevin had broken up that day. It was the hardest thing she’d ever done. She’d taken Davey to Wickie, who would never allow anything to harm him, and told Wickie never to allow Kevin anywhere near Davey again. She didn’t have to explain why. She’d been so angry with Kevin—She could still remember the look in Wickie’s dark eyes—relief, perhaps, that she’d finally grown up.

  Now she was older than she’d ever intended to be. Her hand rested on her belt buckle, and she wondered what she was supposed to do. She might tell Wickie she had things under control, but really, Rimae was going to be so mad at her—

  That stuff in Wickie’s living room, that was the worst. How could Kevin do something like that? She could feel herself gagging again at the memory, and hastily placed a hand over her mouth.

  The worst part was, she was pretty sure he wasn’t finished, either. He was angry with her for breaking up with him, and he blamed Wickie. That business about the keg just made it that much worse. Wickie wasn’t afraid of Kevin, but he didn’t really know how bad he could be. He never gave up, never ever. And he was really angry about that keg.

  Wickie acted like he didn’t care at all what Kevin did.

  He was different. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but he was definitely different. When he first came to Snow Owl, he’d looked at her with those dark, dark Indian eyes—they used to be blank, indifferent. As if he didn’t know who she was and didn’t care. Not just her, either; he looked at everybody that way.

  Everybody except Davey. Wickie had always been really good with Davey. And ever since that day, he’d looked at her like a person, a real person. She’d gotten to know him better in the last few weeks than she ever thought she would. All the kids made fun of him, called him a dumb, drunk Indian who worked at the bar for free booze. He wasn’t that way, she knew for sure. He was smart and he was kind, even if he never talked about the future and school the way everybody else she knew did. Well, he wasn’t one of them, after all.

  She looked around. Davey was sitting cross-legged in the mud, drawing lines with his stick. A blue jay was screaming at him. He didn’t notice. She got up and stretched and walked over to watch. Davey never looked up.

  She couldn’t figure out Wickie and Rimae. Wickie didn’t care about Rimae, not really. He’d never looked at Rimae the way he ought to. He never talked about her. She asked him about her once and he just looked at her, his eyes back to being flat and cold all of a sudden.

  She could feel herself blushing.

  And then she remembered how it felt to be folded up in Wickie’s arms, and sh
e wondered if that was the way

  Rimae felt about him, and she blushed even worse, and kicked really hard at a rock and missed, and had to grab at a tree trunk to keep from falling in the stupid creek.

  A curl of birch bark dug into her fingers. Catching her balance, she looked to see if her hand was covered with blood. There wasn’t any, and she experienced a vague regret. If Wickie held her head while she threw up, he’d pay attention to a bloody hand, wouldn’t he?

  But there wasn’t even a bruise, and she sighed.

  She ought to go home. Fix lunch for Davey.

  There was supposed to be a party tomorrow night up at the clearing. She wondered if Kevin would get his keg this time. Probably; Rimae had been selling to him as soon as he turned nineteen last February. She wondered if Rimae would have changed her mind if she knew what Kevin and Bethica had done up on the mountainside six weeks ago. Would Rimae care? Would she blame Kevin, or her, or the beer?

  Yes, she acknowledged. She’d be mad about it, but she would care.

  She had to tell Kevin about the baby. He was the father, after all. He deserved to know.

  And maybe that would take his mind off Wickie.

  She could tell Kevin, and then tell Rimae, and then what? Get an abortion?

  She shivered and pressed on her belt buckle again. Maybe Wickie was wrong?

  But Wickie wasn’t wrong. Her breasts were getting larger, more sensitive; she was getting sick in the mornings; her period hadn’t come; her moods were swinging wildly all over the place.

  She didn’t want to be pregnant. She wanted to be a kid for a while longer, go to parties like the one tomorrow night up on the mountainside, pretend nothing had happened.

  She’d go. Just because Kevin was a jerk wasn’t any reason to miss a party. All her other friends would be there.

  She wondered if Wickie liked to party. Besides with Rimae, that is. The image of the two of them made her giggle, embarrassed. Rimae was old. Nice enough, maybe; she liked living in the house down the road from the Polar Bar, and Rimae was cool, but she sure was funny about Wickie.

  Maybe she could talk Kevin into leaving Wickie alone. She could tell him Wickie knew better than to mess with him now.