Emit

by Jack Beal

  It isn’t just the sensation of my brain spiraling around in its juices—the stench of my own nervous sweat and taste of puke on my tongue leave me regretting my enthusiasm.

  Everything around me is as still as a statue except for the monitor, now reading 1.1.

  As a deafening clack! blasts through the silence, an invisible force strikes me in the chest, knocking the wind out of me. 1.2.

  The whirling inside my skull grows faster the higher the number climbs. Another feather flutters slowly to the ground, but I can’t concentrate. It’s like my brain refuses to acknowledge anything but the ache pulsing through my limbs. It feels like somebody’s trying to stretch my cheeks down over my chin. 2.3.

  My muscles go limp as if preparing to slide off my bones. I clench with all my might, but my muscles remain slack.

  A warped humming lures me with honeyed tones. It sounds like a lullaby, tempting me to let go and succumb to a long sleep. The blackness lurks before me. It calls to me gently, promising me solace within its unending calm.

  But I refuse to allow myself to be led back into the void. Instead, I focus on my breathing. But even that proves arduous.

  I’m losing grip. 3.5. The first thing to desert me are the colors, which fade away before my straining eyes.

  My teeth are clenched so tight I can taste the blood. My fingers are still wrapped around the controllers, but I lack the force to clench them. Even my head is too heavy for me to hold up. As it slouches limply toward my chest, my eyes graze the screen. 5.8.

  From within this monochrome sphere, I watch the dimness paint itself like silhouettes upon the walls. Shadow by shadow, obscurity conquers light, until only a pinpoint of brightness remains. It dangles like a single lightbulb suspended at the opposite end of a long tunnel until it, too, goes out.

  “No man ever steps in the same river twice,

  for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.”

  ~Heraclitus

  SEVENTEEN

  OVERLAPPING REALITIES

  1953, 12 YEARS OLD

  Distant cries lick at the darkness like flames. They cocoon me in their warmth before ushering me along this long tunnel. As I crawl toward the light, my mind grows duller. With every inch I wriggle forward, I leave a piece of my journey behind. I know I shouldn’t. There isn’t much time left to figure it all out: only two more zaps, to be exact. I should hold on tighter! But something won’t let me. The weight is too heavy. As I leave the void, I let go.

  Outside, the air is a sweet mix of Mary Janes, chalk dust and white paste. Breathing it in, a feeling of safety wraps around me. I bat open my eyes and smile.

  It’s recess paradise! The school yard has got to be three times the size of the one Willy Sawyer and I used to shoot marbles in while we dreamt of becoming soldiers. To my right, a field of grass is dotted with kids playing games of blind man’s bluff and London Bridge. To my left, giggling girls skip stones across blacktop-scribbled hopscotch boxes. Long strips of pavement butt up against crisscrossed iron fences separating the school yard from the outside world.

  “Come on, Robbie! Stop being such a bogart!” It’s that loudmouth, Arty McComwell, shouting at me for hogging the ball.

  “Only if you stop being such a candy ass!” My voice sounds like a girl’s, but at least I throw like a boy. As the red rubber ball strikes Arty square in the head, I let out a loud guffaw. That’ll show old grease-head to talk to me like that.

  Marching toward the tall stone building with its long, slanted roof, I pass a group of girls skipping rope. One girl in particular catches my attention. Debbie O’Ryan. Hopping through the double cords, her hair springing up and down like coils of ribbon, she’s got to be the prettiest girl in the whole school. When she offers a quick wave, my heart skips faster than the bouncing rope. But something is wrong. Debbie doesn’t go to my school. Debbie’s not even my age. She’s the daughter of the sheriff who took me home when the police found me. When they told me I’d been missing. When they told me my dad was gone.

  I stuff the thought from my mind. Maybe my memories are wrong. Maybe me and Debbie are great friends. We’ve probably even been dating since the fifth grade.

  A sharp holler jars me from my daydream. It’s Miss Marion telling us it’s time to return to our lessons.

  “But the bell hasn’t rung yet, Teacher!” It’s the voice of that goody two-shoes, Dolly Perry-Powell.

  “Yes, Dolly, I know,” Miss Marion’s voice quivers. Glancing up at the bronze bell hanging motionless before a late-summer sky, she adds, “We won’t be using the school bell for quite some time, I fear.”

  “Why not?” Spinning around to face the teacher, Dolly’s poodle skirt swings up around her knees.

  Miss Marion bites her lip, probably because Dolly comes from a long line of Perry’s and Powell’s that erected the schoolhouse and its bell. Or maybe it’s something else. Something that’s got our teacher’s mouth pinned down oddly at the sides.

  With the clap of her hands, Miss Marion signals it’s time to go inside. As my class queues up single-file, I fall to the end of the line. When our teacher claps again, we trudge glumly into the school house.

  But before I’ve even made it to the door, Arty and some of the boys at the head of the line begin hooting wildly. Soon, the classroom is filled with an excited hum. When I finally poke my head through the doorway, I can understand why! All the blinds are drawn and a projector is set up at the back of the room.

  “We’re not really going to watch television in class, are we teacher?” Dolly’s sugarcoated voice filters through the buzz.

  “Not exactly. It’s a movie.”

  The class erupts into fits of hoots and cheering.

  “Shush!” Miss Marion’s voice pierces through the commotion. “Take your seats and quiet down or there will be no film!” Order regained, she moves to the rear of the room and slides a thick, heavy disk onto the machine before turning out the lights. As the reel rotates, the classroom is filled with a series of loud pops and crackles. My stomach lurches in excitement as a thick beam of light shoots across the room, illuminating the specs of dust that float in the air like stars.

  The movie starts. As a cheery tune permeates the classroom, a helmet-wearing turtle plods across the screen and picks up a white flower. I laugh out loud when a mean little monkey creeps up behind the turtle with a stick of dynamite. But as the film draws on, my grin fades. The movie isn’t some kind of treat. It’s a warning.

  When the loud popping grows silent and a wobbly “The End” fills the screen, nobody says a word. Miss Marion turns on the lights. That same pinched sadness is weighing down her lips, making her voice sound funny. “This is why we won’t be using the school bell the same way anymore. Do you understand?”

  We nod.

  “Starting today, what must we do when we hear the bell?”

  One of my classmates raises his hand. “Duck and cover, Teacher.”

  “Very good, Tommy. And what must we do if the bell rings while we’re in the corridor?”

  “Get down on the ground and face a wall with no windows,” Dolly exclaims proudly.

  “And what if we’re in the school yard?”

  “Why, get back into the building as quickly as we can and find a place to hide,” Dolly blurts before any of us has a chance to answer.

  Seemingly indifferent to the fact that Dolly’s been hogging the stage, Miss Marion continues. “One more thing is going to change. Everybody is being assigned a partner. You are not only responsible for yourselves, but for the wellbeing of your partners.”

  A vibrant humming excites the classroom.

  “The pairs go as follows:
Arty and Dolly, Charles and Cindy, Robbie and Debbie…”

  By the time Miss Marion’s finished reading off the list, my cheeks feel like hot coals. They only burn hotter when she claps her hands for silence and announces, “Get with your partner and follow my instructions.” Once we’ve taken our new seats, she calls out the magic words. “Duck and cover!”

  The scrape of thirty chairs screeching across the linoleum floor is followed by the thud of just as many bodies hitting the ground. Head crouched between my knees, the only thing I can hear is the click-clacking of Miss Marion’s heels as she comes around to check we’ve done it right.

  “Nice work, children,” she finally announces, tapping her pointer on her desk. “You may come out now. That will be all for today. You may pack up your things.”

  “Teacher? But it’s not even noon yet.” Of course. If anybody would tell Miss Marion it wasn’t time to leave yet, it’d be that teacher’s pet, Dolly Perry-Powell.

  I glance up at the clock hanging over the door. The small hand is nearly straight up and the long hand trails just behind it. I hate admitting it, but Dolly’s right. It’s only eleven fifty-eight. School ends at three-thirty.

  Miss Marion glances at her wrist watch. “No, Dolly. It’s already half past three. The wall clock must have stopped,” she assures us. “Don’t forget,” she adds, “starting this afternoon, you’ll be lining up in your pairs.”

  Grabbing my books, I take my place in the line next to Debbie. Avoiding her gaze, I peer up at the frozen clock. Only, it hasn’t stopped. The red seconds-hand continues to orbit around the ring of numbers, even if the two black needles remained glued where they are. It’s like time is turning and unmoving all at once.

  But why? Could this be one of those signs I’m supposed to be following?

  I try piecing the information together. The clock stopped before twelve. Twelve is the whole. But it didn’t stop at the whole. It stopped two minutes earlier. A chill sends the hairs on my neck standing straight up. What if the two minutes represent the two zaps I still have left? What if the clock is a reminder my time’s almost up?

  “Earth to Robbie!” Debbie O’Ryan is prodding my shoulder with her forefinger. “We’ve been dismissed.”

  My zoning out results in our being the last two to leave the schoolyard. Stepping through the chain-linked fence’s doorway and onto the sidewalk, Debbie asks me which way leads me home. The question makes me cringe. In the distance, a grim three-story building with dark, slanted roofs and a towering steeple marks the sky like a silhouette. I couldn’t imagine a better building for an orphanage. “Straight ahead,” my voice cracks.

  But Debbie doesn’t notice my upset. “Me, too!” she beams, eyes sparkling. “I guess we’re partners for a little longer.”

  I’m suddenly wishing it wasn’t the case. Not wanting her to know where I live, I search for a way out. But I can’t find any. When we reach the orphanage’s high, brick entranceway arch, I stop. Debbie’s pretty eyes grow wide as saucers. “You’re not telling me you live here?”

  Embarrassment lumps in my throat. All I can do is nod.

  “Have you seen one?”

  “Seen one what?”

  “A ghost, of course! Everybody knows Saint Joseph of Cupertino’s is haunted!”

  I shrug at my shoes, which I’m sure Debbie can tell are hand-me-downs now.

  “I’d sure like to come in and look around,” she hints, taking me by the hand.

  Saint Joseph’s is an orphanage for boys. No girls allowed. If Debbie wasn’t the cutest chick in the whole school, I’d have already told her to get lost. Obviously, I give in.

  Debbie follows my lead, creeping below the dangling sign, darting across the side lawn and disappearing behind the somber building. As we duck out of sight, a pair of headlights flash across the brick archway. By the time the black and white rolls into the driveway and comes to a stop at the orphanage’s jutting entrance, Debbie and I are sneaking in through the back door.

  We tiptoe through the unlit corridor. It makes me think of a human spine: a long, straight passageway extending from one end of the building to the other with openings jutting out from either side like vertebrae. At the end of the hallway, we come to a thick, wooden door. It’s so heavy we’re both huffing and puffing before it finally gives, opening with a sigh.

  On the other side of the doorway is a rickety old staircase. As we step on, it lets out the same creaky sound Grandmom used to make when she’d bend over to tuck me in at night. “Don’t get old,” she’d warn me, planting a kiss on my forehead and sitting down to tell me a story.

  But the further I descend into the gloom, the further the warm memories of my childhood become. As the staircase sways dangerously below our feet, we cling to the metal railing for dear life. Once the swaying calms, we move down, two steps at a time, until we hit the dank earthen floor.

  “Where are we?” Debbie chokes through clouds of incense and dust.

  In an attempt to sound brave, I deepen my voice. “Where else would you hope to find a ghost, but in the catacombs?” But my words only send chains of goosebumps across my skin.

  This place is a whole lot creepier than I’d imagined. I’m about to suggest turning back when Debbie’s voice pierces through the darkness. “You’re right. Let’s keep moving.”

  At least my bravery fooled one of us.

  Caught in my own trap, I have no choice but to continue. Groping around the walls, slimy with I-don’t-want-to-know-what, I discover a hole. My heart feels like it could beat straight out of my ribs. Still, I plunge my arm inside and fumble around. As my hand brushes against a familiar object, the battering in my chest calms. A second later, I’m lighting a thick, pillar candle and shoving the pack of matches in my pocket.

  The glow is bright enough for us to see a few feet in front of us. Taking advantage of the light, Debbie reaches into the hole, plucks out a second candle and tilts its wick to mine. As the twin flames illuminate our path, we continue, side by side. The hall is so narrow our shoulders brush up against its slick walls.

  When we reach an opening at the end of the hallway, I hesitate. Squeezing my hand, Debbie directs me over the threshold. Inside, the air is thick with sadness. I lift my candle higher. But as the flame brightens the room, I swoon. We’re standing at the center of a round chamber, it’s walls made entirely of bones.

  I try to avoid looking at the empty shells of men long gone. But I can’t. They’re everywhere, watching me with empty stares. Stumbling backward, my hunched shoulders smack against something sharp. Whipping around, another line of skulls peers down on me. I can’t breathe.

  “What’s wrong?” But Debbie’s words sound as if they’re coming from the bottom of a deep well. My vision tapers like the tip of the candle I’m still clutching.

  “Breathe!” Her voice is even farther this time. The words fall upon me like rough shards, broken from passing through the wall of human remains.

  Gasping for air, I open my eyes. Debbie helps me to my feet before dipping down to pick up the candle from where it lies snuffed out on the ground. She tilts her wick to kiss mine, and from one flame, a second is born.

  “Follow me,” she says, leading me out of the bone-laid hollow and down an identical hallway sitting opposite the one we came from. At the end is a spiral staircase. This one, winding in the opposite direction from the other. A mirror image.

  Taking me by the hand, Debbie leads me upstairs. As she pushes open the wooden door, streams of white light flood over us. It’s funny the way a light within a light seems never as bright. Abandoning my candle, I shadow Debbie down the long spine-like passageway. When she stops, I do the same.

  Drawing her pointer-finger to her lips, her eyes
burn with adventure. My chest tightens. I never actually wanted to find a ghost.

  Debbie creeps along the ramp-like channel to our right. Reluctantly, I follow her downward. At the end of the passageway, a second doorway awaits. As the sound of voices ricochets off it, my breathing becomes shallow.

  “What is it, Robbie?”

  The truth escapes in a mass of stutters, “I-I-I’m scared.”

  Debbie folds her fingers into mine. “It is when we are most afraid that we accomplish the most remarkable of things.”

  Her words catch me off guard. I’ve heard them once, a long time ago. But before my mind has the time to process them, it’s too late. “Hurry!” Debbie’s already pushing me into the next room.

  As we fly from room to room, the click-clack of footsteps is gaining on us. “This way,” Debbie murmurs, changing her route. As we enter a room with more beds than floorboards, the memory comes back like a flash. The nun leading me upstairs and showing me to a bed sandwiched within the long line. The stinking trunk beneath it and remembering having forgotten my shovel downstairs. Sneaking back into the vestibule, overhearing Father Tinney and trying to flee. I remember being paralyzed with fear and my mother’s words wrapping around me, giving me the strength to continue. It is when we are most afraid that we accomplish the most remarkable of things.

  Those were my mother’s words. The same words I found written in a letter to my father. Squeezing through the narrow rows of beds, the rest of the letter races back to me. Do not lose heart! she’d written. It takes but a single flame to light a fire.

  Suddenly, I know what I have to do. Extracting the little booklet from my pocket, I strike a match and drop it onto the closest bed. The bedsheets erupt in a sea of orange.

  The fire spreads effortlessly across the tightly-packed beds. Before long, billows of smoke darken the room. “Come on, Robbie!” Arms outstretched, I follow the sound of Debbie’s voice until our hands meet. Yanking me out of the smoke-filled room, she thrusts me back into the spine-like passageway and out through the back door.