by Ray Deeg
He ran to a large patio table and flipped it over. Summoning all his strength, he tore the round metal top from the base. Afterward he checked his pulse with his finger; it was still there. Now sweating, he rolled the tabletop back into the archaic library and locked the door behind him. With the sharp end of a Cleveland hatchet, he punched four holes in the tabletop and began speaking out loud again. “In lieu of flowers, the decedent’s attorneys ask that you make a generous donation to their firm.” He laughed—the laugh of a madman with nothing to lose, no more parts to play, and no remaining stake in this place. He fastened the four coiled vacuum tubes into the holes he’d punched and connected them to the thing’s main framework with a wireless router. The machine’s appearance could only be described as an art deco fire hazard. The strange copper alien thing appeared dangerously unreliable, a modern hodgepodge of welds and duct tape, repairs and patches, over something much older, nearly ancient. With all the power he could muster, he set the tabletop vertically into the groove formed at the machine’s base. But the tabletop was thinner than the wide groove, and his face reflected the dilemma. Being the machinist he was, he quickly fashioned two metal brackets and fixed them to either side in order to stabilize the tabletop. Lifting the schematic blueprint again, the man checked and rechecked his work, comparing the device to the blueprint. Power, primary, magnetic, coolant, reflectors, sequencer, wheel, oscillators, and the corona should come to about here. And if I get burned, well, so be it. “I won’t be coming back for the body,” the old man quipped out loud.
He pulled a large flap on the end of the machine’s base and pumped the lever that appeared until a spark was triggered. Why is there a universe, why is there matter, why is there anything at all? he thought with a devilish grin. But he already knew the answer. The machine began to hum. The noise grew louder as the machine gathered momentum, drowning out the music. A deep rattle shook the books, clocks, and photos. The faces in the pictures stood like witnesses to the madness unfolding, but they could only stare helplessly at the old man’s insanity from the distance of their shelves and cabinets. The tabletop began rotating inside the machine’s base, slowly at first, like a miniature Ferris wheel. The man’s eyes lit up like fireworks at a fairground, and he laughed hysterically until he became winded and his laugh decayed into a pitiful cry; he’d been in so much pain. He dragged a heavy armchair across the floor, leaving large gouges in the parquet, and positioned it directly in front of the spinning tabletop.
He spoke to his friend in the ceiling again. “The important thing to remember is that this simulation is a good one. It’s believable. Things are solid, it’s tactile, and you can move your mass of molecules from one place to another; and when you finally realize what you’ve experienced, everything ordinary becomes too beautiful to bear.” The rattle grew louder until all at once the room fell nearly silent; the tabletop had reached a smooth, blistering speed. From a black clamshell case, he removed a small copper disc or large coin, which he held above a slot in the machine. He let it go, and it fell into place, clanging its way through the thing’s internal workings. It rolled and clicked around inside. Machinery groaned, gears clasped and connected, and a white-blue glow began to emanate from the spinning wheel. And then the old man caught the scent. He’d been just a kid when he’d smelled it last, but he recognized the arid, metallic taste in the fleshy part of his throat like momma’s bread.
He sat in the chair and quickly became stoic. I’m ready, he thought. It’s time. He reached into his trouser pocket, retrieved a straight razor, and unfolded the shiny silver blade with teary eyes and a whimpering jaw. Without much sentiment, using a surgeon’s deliberate slice, the man opened the veins on his left wrist and then—with some difficulty—his right. Blood flowed generously off the chair onto the parquet floor. He was a bleeder. He watched the dark, sticky stuff flow and stared again at the photos of his life. Still, the faces he’d known could only stare back, unmoved at the bizarre scene. The machine’s energy enveloped the room, and something changed. Loose papers began to float as if in water. The room became less solid, more fluid, and he pushed out a sigh of relief, resigning himself to this place. It’s corona time! He relaxed every muscle, falling deeper into the chair, and allowed himself to be taken. Given this crisis point in our evolution, most men would have held back, trembled in its presence, pushed their mothers or children to get out of its way, but not him. He would let himself go in a perfect act of abandon, in spite of the fear gripping his physical being. It was an act of faith inspired by what he’d learned those many years ago. It was real, and it was waiting for him to return.
The humming noise was even, accelerating smoothly, but as he began to drift, he heard a clicking noise. His eyelids fluttered, redirecting him back to now. The base of the machine sparked, causing a terrible grinding noise. The blue light wavered, and horror washed across the man’s face, fear blazing in his eyes. Thick yellow smoke billowed from the machine. He watched in disbelief but was too weak to react. Fluidity turned solid, and floating papers fell back to the floor. The tattered blueprint settled on the top of a large bookshelf. Metal fragments shot across the room, breaking windows and shattering a glass cabinet door. The spinning tabletop broke free of the machine’s base and plowed across the room, embedding itself into the far wall with a fantastic force. The humming noise wound down. The old man was silent while the remaining sticky stuff drained from his body. The record was over, and the tonearm skipped the needle in the center, repeating an unsettling rhythm: bump scratch scratch, bump scratch scratch. A tear ran down the man’s cheek. I have failed. He felt his consciousness being tugged from somewhere behind his eyes; he couldn’t travel now. He accepted that only a small part of the thing he was might become rejoined. He couldn’t go back or make any changes, either, so the loop would continue. My life is over. He braced for the inevitable. He felt his consciousness slipping. His vision went narrow, and stillness surrounded him. It was all that nothingness until everything went black.
Chief of Police Ian Heckie raised his hand to shield his eyes: the bright bursts from the photographer’s camera were irritating. “What’s that ghastly smell?” Heckie asked in his Scottish accent. “Open the damn windows, for Christ’s sake.” Heckie was in his midforties, a well-built, rosy-faced man with piercing blue eyes. He surveyed the library and its bizarre scene, reminding himself not to make assumptions. He spotted a framed photo on the floor. “Did you get this?” he asked, swirling his finger at the picture.
“Yup, go ahead,” the photographer replied.
Heckie picked up the frame with a gloved hand and examined the old snapshot. A young boy holding a broom stood in front of three older men in what appeared to be a 1930s-era science lab, his excited smile captured for the ages. With a silent kindness, Heckie placed the picture back on the table, next to an exquisite Tiffany lamp.
Two uniformed cops walked around the chaotic room, coming to a stop near the chair where the old man’s pale white body sat surprisingly upright. His eyes were wide open, staring into infinity—or at least past the foggy bridge that separates this world and the Gulf. His eyes were so wide they looked like two blueberries stuck in a muffin. Heckie stared, the hair on his neck beginning to rise. The blood, the strange machine now fragmented into sections on the floor, the tabletop lodged in the wall, and, my God—that smell! He felt disoriented, hot, and uncomfortable. “By all that’s holy, what on earth happened here?” Heckie asked as he inspected a golden tube.
“Maid was away for the weekend,” a young cop replied. “She found him this morning. She doesn’t know anything. He was pretty much a recluse; no one knew much about him. My wife saw him now and again at the grocery store. She spoke to him a few times, I think. He didn’t have anyone. His family and friends are long gone, never had any children…” The young cop trailed off. “Anyway, the doors were locked from the inside. Clearly, this is a suicide—bizarre and creepy, but a suicide.”
Heckie peered into the man’s hollow eyes
. “Gives me the heebie-jeebies,” he said. “What’s his name?”
“At first we thought it was Frank Ward,” the cop answered, handing Heckie the driver’s license he’d retrieved from the man’s wallet. “But when I ran his prints through FIS, they came back with the name Everett Lemily, born in 1920.”
“Jesus Christ, he was ancient,” Heckie replied. “Anything come up on the name Lemily?”
“No arrests or warrants. Not even a parking ticket. But there was a reference from the FBI. I tried to access the file, but it’s sealed in their system.”
“Who was this guy hiding from?” Heckie stared into the lifeless eyes once more. What terrible things have you done, fella? Heckie walked through the opulent house, admiring photos, art, and furniture all from an era long gone. He stopped at a wooden desk and opened a few drawers. He spotted a fancy watch, which he paused to admire. He looked up to see if anyone was in the room with him but reconsidered his old ways and closed the drawer. He already had a nice watch. In a lower drawer he found a chess set and some keys partially obscuring a large stack of torn-open envelopes, golden yellow with a red stripe running across the bottom and a clear plastic window up front. Hundreds of yellow envelopes. He jotted the sender’s address in his notepad: J. P. Morgan Trust and Fiduciary Services, 270 Park Avenue, New York, New York.
The police wrapped up their work, and Heckie watched as the old man’s body was zipped into a bag, hefted onto a stretcher, and loaded into an ambulance emblazoned with the town’s name: The Village of New Hope, Pennsylvania.
CHAPTER 2
DESTINY WAS FINDING a way back onto its path when it materialized for a moment, appearing as a smoky—almost powdery—apparition only the spirits can see. It took flight into the night sky, embarking on its quest for the coming of light. What is this light? men might ask the stars, not recognizing their own desires and higher aspirations. It is the light of your own imagination, intellect, and will, the stars might answer back. The apparition rose steadily, drifting above the streets and finding its altitude somewhere just below the spires perched atop New York’s concrete-and-steel leviathans. And up there, amid the gargoyles, eagle’s nests, and closed-circuit television cameras, destiny found its target and moved steadily through the air and into the branches of a rather voluptuous tulip tree. A glorious specimen by any dendrologist’s standards, this particular tree was different from others. It grew in a large wooden planter fifty-eight floors above Madison Avenue, on the deck of Tom Hartger’s penthouse apartment.
Tonight, its branches swayed back and forth in the light of the nearly full moon, casting long, angular shadows across the bedroom ceiling like a distorted movie reel. Tom opened his eyes, disturbed by the flickering light. He couldn’t sleep tonight. There was a tightness in his mind, a deep-down restlessness he’d never experienced before. The tulip tree’s branches swept back and forth like a metronome, and Tom wondered how much time he’d spent staring at ceilings. He considered the many beds in the many rooms he’d occupied throughout his life. It must be months of staring at ceilings—years, even.
Unlike many of the ceilings he’d slept under, this ceiling was in tip-top shape. Its ornate crown molding was perfectly shaped, finished with a clear lacquer that reflected the silver moonlight perfectly. The molding, the lacquer, the recessed lighting—all a far contrast from the ceiling of his childhood bedroom. He wondered if every ceiling he stared at for the rest of his life would be compared to that first. He could still recall the patch that had loomed over his childhood bed for so many years. The spot wasn’t uniform like the rest of the ceiling, and he remembered large indentations. Likely because of age, or shoddy workmanship, or both. It’s 1:37 a.m. Why can’t I sleep? Empty your mind; the day is over, he pleaded with himself like two people haggling over price. He’d always had a voice in his head, and it simply wouldn’t shut up. He turned his pillow over, searching for the cool side, but he couldn’t find it. The restlessness in his mind seemed louder now. Shoddy workmanship. Right. But that was the ceiling we could afford back then. They did the best they could with what they had. That old patch of ceiling had an uneven popcorn finish, and the caulk had coagulated in the corners where the ceiling met the window jamb and wall. What’s with all the nostalgia tonight?
All at once, a precise memory flashed in his mind. He could see the light coming in from the hallway, forming shapes on the ceiling of that childhood bedroom—a perfect vision from decades ago, nearly another life. The light was thin at the door’s opening but became wider as it moved into his room. And without an inch more on either side, the beam from the hallway aligned perfectly with that strange patch of ceiling, forming new shapes each time he looked. His young mind could easily untangle the messages hidden inside those shapes. He knew he was special because he could decipher the message, penetrate past the surface. He discovered castles, pyramids, and dinosaurs imprisoned in that patch of wall and ceiling, and he set them free. He released them using a power he alone could summon. All those magical things were hiding, waiting until the coast was clear before allowing themselves to be seen—but only by him.
He was seven then, and it was in the stark silence of that small bedroom that he had realized for the first time that he was alive and thought about what that meant. To be alive, inside a body, to be aware and conscious. To sit up in bed and listen to the ringing in your ear. What is this place? But the question wasn’t about his room or his house or even his neighborhood, but about this plane, this body, this mind—everything he could see, feel, and touch. What is this place?
When Tom was eight, he woke from an afternoon nap realizing he was being carried by the man with the funny face and the missing arm. As Tom came to, he realized that he was being carried down the steps into the basement. Tom knew it was his grandfather by the way he was being held, a distinctive, backward-leaning posture that allowed more of Tom’s weight to fall on Phillip Hartger’s chest. Phillip didn’t look like other people. Tom’s grandfather had suffered a strange burn when he was eleven years old, and one side of the man’s face was gone—it just wasn’t there. Between his disfigured face and that missing arm, Phillip Hartger had for most of his life been a social pariah. As a teen, Phillip endured stares, teasing, and looks of disgust. Wherever Phillip went, mothers turned their children’s faces and covered their eyes. Phillip became a hermit, rarely venturing outdoors unless necessity precluded all other options, and then only leaving his house late at night when the twenty-four-hour stores were empty. One night, a drunk picked a fight with Phillip. He followed him out of a bar and beat him up pretty good. It’s tough to fight back when you only have one arm, but you only need one arm to light a match. When Phillip recovered, he burned the man’s house down.
As Phillip walked down the steps with him, Tom woke from his dreamlike state. As his view cleared the basement ceiling, he saw something he’d never seen before in the darkness of that dingy basement. He blinked, thinking he might still be dreaming. His grandfather moved his head back to take a gander at the paralyzing awe gripping Tom’s face. Tom knew right away that he was receiving a gift. Phillip beamed while Tom’s eyes grew wider, neither of them able to contain his excitement. Sitting on the far side of the basement was an incredibly elaborate model train. The train sat motionless on a track that circled a detailed landscape—a whole town, a little train station, even a nearby farm. There were trees and grass and a mountain with a tunnel where the train entered one end and came out the other. It was a whole world, perfectly miniaturized and sitting right there in Tom’s basement.
The track made a perfect circle around the square, six-by-six-foot wooden base. The monster model looked nothing like a toy; it was enormous, detailed in every way. It was so spectacular that even the most fervent disciples of model training would be green with envy. Tom still remembered the pronounced grin on his grandfather’s half face. It was especially memorable because he’d never seen him laugh. Then again, he'd only seen the man a few times in the eight years he'd been alive.
Phillip wasn’t involved in their lives. He was a successful businessman—a millionaire—but he hadn’t given them a damn thing except for the massive model train.
Tom’s pleasure at the gift was short-lived. His father quickly came down the stairs, and the argument that ensued was one of Tom’s last memories of his grandfather. Phillip Hartger died a few months later. He remembered watching his father sprinkle Phillip’s ashes into the Long Island Sound, crying as they dissolved into the dark water. That was also the day Tom’s father had cleared up a question Tom had always been afraid to ask. Phillip had paid a woman to bear his son: Tom’s father had never known his mother. Tom could understand how Phillip’s physical appearance had cursed him to live a life few others could bear, yet he had never seemed resentful. He had been so filled with the energy of life.
Now, contemplating the grandiosity of his penthouse ceiling, Tom rather missed the shoddy workmanship of his childhood home. Visions from his childhood were coming back more vividly than ever tonight. He could smell the familiar stink of the old house in Greenwich, Connecticut. He still owned it but hadn’t been back in over a year. Tom thought about his model train, about his grandfather, and about his own father’s bizarre tale. A real train’s horn erupted far off in the distance, perhaps on the other side of the Hudson. It echoed off the tops of the buildings before the faint sound traveled in between the tulip branches and penetrated the window glass. He allowed himself to be taken by it. Finally, he thought. He closed his eyes and felt his breath flow calmly. His muscles relaxed as he put on his engineer’s cap and that ole red bandana. All aboard. He’d received a message tonight, an invisible nudge delivered by an apparition pushing destiny back onto its path. It was telling him the time was coming to till those long-forgotten stretches of field and sow the seeds for a new kind of harvest.