Tales of Mystery and Truth

by Jeffrey K. Hill

  He imagined the boyfriend who had stood her up seeing them walking together, feeling remorse, feeling regret. And then the momentary satisfaction this thought gave him faded, because he cared nothing for that boyfriend. Or, perhaps, he owed everything to that boyfriend. He realized if the boyfriend had not stood her up, she might never have met her future husband, and his father.

  It was all too confusing to contemplate. He simply forgot all his thoughts and enjoyed the moment.

  This was what he thought so many men had dreamed of: being young again, but with the knowledge they had gained as old men. He could hold his mother’s hand and enjoy it, actually commit the moment and the feeling to his adult memory and not suffer it to fade as childhood memories surely did. He could kiss her cheek and note her smell, not simply have it register within himself subconsciously. There was so much he wanted to do; so many possibilities seemed to exist there in the past that did not in the future.

  They turned the corner and far ahead he could see the crooked tin flue on the ramshackle newsstand that stood beside The Beggars of Azure.

  “How long can this last?” she asked, without apparent motive.

  He smiled, fascinated, trying to read in her face the destination of her thoughts.

  “I have a dear friend,” she said, giving his arm an affectionate squeeze, “and a wonderful job. Do you think either thing inappropriate for a respectable woman?”

  “I think friendship is rare, and should be valued highly when found.”

  If he had any doubts, her smile won him.

  “As to the other,” he said, “why shouldn’t you work?”

  “Well, I was brought up how to cook and wash and keep house. It was meant for my husband to earn a paycheck; but I just enjoy it so much.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  She tilted her head, as if taken aback, or perhaps amused. “Would you want a wife who worked in a place of business all day long, instead of keeping your house for you?”

  His mother, he knew, would stay at home, keep their house, raise him and his sister. Only when Frannie was well into her teenage years would their mother go to work outside the home. But Peter was not sure if she gave up her work for his father, or for him. He thought of Violine and wondered if she would give up her professional career for a child.

  “I would want a wife who was important to me,” he said. “Whatever she wanted to do, inside or outside the home, I would support her decision.”

  His mother’s eyes twinkled, and her lid drooped as if on cue. “What an unusual man you are.”

  They walked on in silence, admiring the day. Smells of baked goods suffused the air, and children shouted with urgency. His mother seemed to take delight in their games, in their tiny earth-shattering disputes.

  As they approached the corner, Peter was overcome with a mad desire. They would not turn for the back of the bookstore as usual. He no longer cared about possibly destroying the stitches in the delicate lacework of time. This day he wanted to enter the front of the bookstore with his mother, as if he might bring her back, from the dead, from the past, into his own world.

  “Should we cross here?” she said.

  “I want to go this way,” he said, a shiver of excitement running through his legs.

  To distract himself from the nervous anticipation, he began telling her some story which he would be unable to remember later—which, later, it would not even matter to him—and she was looking at him, laughing, and he was rapt in her attention and delight.

  They stepped into the roadway. Peter heard a horn as if inside his ear. He felt no impact, only a jerk on his arm.

  When he turned around, he was unscathed at the edge of the roadway, and she was limp on the bricks in front of a trolley car.

  “Francine!”

  Peter stared in disbelief. His mother lay crumpled and still. The memory of her death struck him with horror. Then he had an awful fear for his own survival. The newspaperman came to her side and cradled her head. Peter’s only thought was to call for help, and he darted toward the back door of the bookstore.

  Inside, he went straight behind the coffee bar and grabbed the telephone. He dialed the emergency number, and in the few seconds he waited for an answer, James and Cara rushed to his side.

  He barked at the operator to send an ambulance. She asked for details, but Peter had no patience. He thrust the phone into Cara’s hand and headed back toward the scene, James in troubled pursuit.

  He burst through the rear door and heard it slam behind him as he leapt into the street. Already a siren wailed in the distance. A moment later James and Cara emerged, and she called Peter’s name. He suddenly stumbled to a stop, praying the voice was his mother’s calling for help—but the street was empty.

  * * *

  Peter was racked with guilt. There was no doubt in his mind that he had been with his mother. Yet the sudden unexpected accident, leaving her, for all appearances, dead, meant she would never marry, and Peter would never be born. He had tried not to drop a wrench in the gears of time. But the moment had carried him away. He worried he had condemned himself, and his father, by his selfish actions. That could be the only reason the trolley had not touched him, in spite of the fact he was standing right beside her when it struck.

  He telephoned Violine, once again across the sea, and they talked quietly about nothing in particular for two hours before she reminded him of the time difference, and begged to be allowed to sleep.

  In those empty waking hours, he cursed himself for hubris. As an historian, he should have known better than to tinker with the past. And he cursed himself for stupidity. The bookstore was the only thing familiar to him—the image of the telephone behind the coffee bar had flashed instantly in his mind. He might have run into the butcher shop, which was closer by fifty feet perhaps, but without knowing where to look he would have lost time asking, and more than likely explaining. He had simply reacted. And he cursed himself for running heedlessly into the bookstore, despite a twinge of some unidentifiable apprehension as he let go the back door.

  Once he fell asleep, he dreamed of a future. The Beggars of Azure crumbled into ruins. The city shivered with hunger, buffeted by a wild storm of blood. Cattle withered, stumbled, and fell to the ground where flies gathered to simmer on their bloated tongues. Stroke after stroke of lightning flashed down, igniting God’s fire everywhere until the air glowed like smoking metal. Into this scene Peter stumbled, confused and covered in slime. Somehow he knew he had caused this destruction. This was his domain.

  For days, he played over every detail of the accident. He grasped at the thought of the newspaperman by his mother’s side, a tiny glimmer of hope that she would receive the help she needed to survive.

  James telephoned and Cara visited. Peter was neither relieved nor irritated by either of his friends. He was in the worst place he had ever been, with no prospect of escape. He had killed the first person who had ever cared for and comforted him. Violine, the only other person who had done the same for him, was not there. And for days he had been unable to reach his father.

  Peter wondered if this was how his father had felt after his mother had died the first time: alone at the edge of the abyss. Then he suddenly smiled at the faint ironic, though illogical, thought that the horrors he had done would at least now spare his father ever knowing the pain of Francine’s death.

  When Violine returned home late in the afternoon of the third day, Peter was, by then, so cold and lost he felt no relief. Her existence as his wife was no better proof of his own existence than his friends or anyone else around him. He felt that only the presence of his absent father could relieve him.

  He spent an excruciating night with Violine. He looked at her as if she were a stranger. She slipped into bed warily. Her hair smelled like smoking metal. He could feel her looking at him, but he kept his back to her. He saw an image of himself lying among blood-soaked sheets, and he shivered. A hand brushed his shoulder, and he rolled out of be
d. Despite the degree of his torment, he scorned the peace she tried to offer.

  After a few moments she followed him downstairs. “God, I hate to see you like this,” she whispered. “What happened?”

  He shook his head, staring at the wall. He knew he could not look at anything again without being reminded of what he had done.

  “You know I love you, Peter. You can tell me anything.”

  Whatever had happened was to others like the blank margins around the pages of text in the book of Peter’s life. They might scribble their own perceptions or interpretations there, but they would never know what truly belonged there.

  He turned to look into her despairing eyes, and said, “This is my hell.”

  She went back upstairs. He heard her weeping, then silence. He recognized the low murmur of her voice, and assumed she was calling a friend, a doctor, someone.

  He stared, unseeing.

  When the murmur ceased, he saw her form at the edge of his vision, probably checking on him. Then she retreated, and the silence of nonexistence blanketed the house for the night.

  But night and day no longer had any meaning for Peter. There was just breathing to the steady slide show of images that flashed behind his blind eyes. All lies, he told himself. Though they had the semblance of life, he had no expectation of the imminent arrival of Death. He knew the waters of Purgatory were too kindly for drowning.

  The light of morning brought only a dimmer focus on the images of his torment. They were a sort of waking dream, and though he could not control what he saw, he could prevent himself from deriving any hope or satisfaction from them.

  Violine set a tray with oatmeal and fruit in front of him. He wondered how she did not know they would still be there, untouched, when she returned. He heard her voice again on the telephone, this time more resolute, but he could not make out any words.

  She returned an hour, or a day, or perhaps years later to collect the wasted breakfast.

  “You’re going to make yourself ill,” she said.

  “I’m not even alive,” he replied.

  She banged the tray and dinnerware in the kitchen. The sharp sounds of frustration continued without any effect on him. Then the telephone rang, and he jumped, startled. He heard Violine’s voice again, this time pleading. The next moment she was at his side, holding out the telephone.

  “It’s your father,” she said.

  * * *

  “Dad, did Mom—” Peter stopped. He had recovered from despair with the knowledge nothing in the present had changed. By the same evidence, he realized the mysterious woman he had met could not have been his mother. He was left with confusion. “Was she ever in an accident that you know of?”

  He stared at his son. “What makes you ask?”

  “Well—”

  “You know we never meant to hide anything from you kids. It’s just that we didn’t want you to think anything was wrong with her.”

  He had thought he did not know his mother’s past. He had imagined a secret life, a life incomprehensible to him, but only because it had predated his own existence. And a few things had genuinely surprised him: that he resembled his grandfather so much; that his mother was on her way toward a career, at a time when there was no such thing for a woman; that if not for the stupidity of an unknown boyfriend, Peter might never have been born.

  He nodded gravely. “What happened?”

  “She was hit by a trolley car.”

  His heart clenched, and tears erupted from his eyes.

  “Her elbow was sprained,” his father continued, “but a muscle in her leg was torn pretty bad, and a collapsed lung. She never really recovered from that.”

  Peter recalled that his mother had often experienced a shortness of breath, and she always had difficulty walking up the stairs.

  “The doctor said he was surprised her injuries weren’t more extensive. Of course she had lots of bumps and bruises, and—oh, a broken fingernail that she would have made you think was the worst that had happened.”

  Peter laughed through his tears with his father. He wondered if his mother always remembered him. Did she carry for her whole life, like a keepsake locked away, memories of the man she had met in the bookstore, of the picnic they shared, and the look of wonder on his face as they watched the leafstorm? Perhaps she named her first son after the memory of that man.

  “I’m sorry, Peter.” His father reached out and touched his hand.

  “No,” Peter replied, shaking his head and wiping his wet cheeks, “I’m fine. I’m happy, really. I love you both.” He smiled with trembling lips. “And I miss her.”

  “Me, too.”

  They were both silent for several minutes while Peter recovered and watched his father blink away his tears. Peter looked around the room, enjoying the sunlight, savoring the clear recollection of his mother as a young woman. From then on, he and his father could share that past. They could harvest the memories they had gathered together, and would feast.

  “And you met at a dance,” said Peter, “so she was fully recovered by then.”

  His father smiled. “She could barely get around, but the doctor said it would be good for her. That’s probably the real reason I danced with her, because she sure wasn’t going to be any better than me.” He laughed and then in a conspiratorial tone, added, “And, of course, I knew she couldn’t get away.”

  “At the hospital,” Peter said.

  “Their annual fund-raiser, our annual hell-raiser. It was the first time I didn’t get hustled out by my pants.” His father smiled broadly. “Pretty lucky, huh?”

  The Living Dead

  The last day of Ezra’s life dawned clear and dry.

  The morning before Ezra’s death dawned clear and dry.

  It was Sunday, so he had slept late. He and his friends were going to visit Pavko and Milada and their newly born second son George. Afterward, he hoped, he and Cara could go to dinner and spend some time alone together.

  He dressed with that last hope in mind, choosing his only pair of pressed pants and jacket. Beside her wardrobe, even his best clothes were as mere rags. His friends would surely take note of the ploy, but he was in earnest.

  Just as he opened the door to leave, the telephone rang. He went to the side table to answer.

  “Ezra, I’m glad I caught you,” said Cara, breathlessly.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I just don’t need a ride to Milada’s.”

  His hope disintegrated and he stood holding the receiver to his ear, unable to respond.

  “Ezra, are you there?”

  “I’m here,” he said quietly.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “You don’t need a ride.”

  He heard a muffled voice, as if she had covered the mouthpiece. Then she said, “I have to go.”

  “Maybe when we leave we I can take you out for dinner?” he said.

  “I can’t go, Ezra. That’s why I don’t need a ride. Tell Milada I’m sorry.”

  Before he could reply, Cara had disconnected the call.

  Now he could take a more direct and faster route to Pavko and Milada’s apartment, and so he had time to spare. To his despair, all he could do was wonder why Cara had canceled at the last minute.

  He wished he could go back to sleep, but he wasn’t tired. He wished he could inebriate his sorrows, but he had nothing to drink.

  After pacing and puzzling for five minutes, he left. He decided to follow the side streets, so to keep out of the main traffic and to extend his unexpectedly shortened travel time. He never enjoyed the awkward attention of being the first to arrive at any gathering. In a failed attempt to take his mind off Cara, he tossed around ideas of a lovelorn swain for his next novel.

  In one section of the street, children were playing stickball. Further along an enormous purple ball bounced into the road. Ezra stopped easily and allowed a chubby child to waddle out and retrieve it safely. He wondered if he would ever have a family of his own.


  At the edge of the business district, he noticed an old man pushing a cart full of goods from the market. Several people congregated at a tram stop, smoking and laughing. Ezra stopped and proceeded at the two major intersections. Then, passing several cross streets, he saw no one else around.

  He imagined himself a stranger entering a deserted city and learning the history of its demise through the books left behind. It seemed a more promising premise than the lovelorn swain, but he knew such a story would be better suited to Peter’s voice and style.

  A black panel truck shot out from an access road to an empty factory. The driver never even slowed down for the stop sign, or looked for cross traffic. Ezra reacted, slamming his foot on the brake while spinning the wheel to the left, with only the hope of reducing the impact of the crash.

  The car spun. The side of the truck loomed in the passenger window. Ezra flinched, anticipating a barrage of metal and glass.

  He heard his tires screeching, his horn honking, and Cara saying, “Tell Milada I’m sorry.”

  There was nothing he could do to halt the slide of the car across the pavement. He turned, to protect his face, and out the driver window he saw the other side of the black panel truck moving away.

  When the car come to a stop, Ezra stumbled out the door and stared at the truck, stopped in the middle of the intersection. The driver appeared around the front of the truck, his hands held up. Ezra stepped forward.

  “Hey, man, I’m sorry,” pleaded the driver.

  Ezra ignored him and stepped to the side of the truck. He stared at the pavement where swirling rubber tracks down the center of the intersection marked the path his car had taken. But the clearance below the truck didn’t extend above his waist.

  “What happened?” asked the driver.

  “You cut in front of me,” mumbled Ezra.

  “I thought you were gonna T-bone me.” The driver glanced at the pavement, then at Ezra’s car, then back at Ezra. “You passed right through.”

  Ezra shook his head. “Impossible.”

  The driver leaned forward to look at Ezra more closely. “You’re okay, aren’t you? Nothing broken or bleeding?”