Sandcastle for Pegasus

by Bob Avey

  Billy Taylor brought the heavy handset to his ear and said, “Yeah, this is Billy.”

  The excited voice of another boy, who sounded about the same age as Billy, came through the receiver. “What are you doing, Taylor? Sorry you didn’t make the cut. But, hey, if I had anything to say about it, you’d be on the team.”

  “Thanks, man. I like that.”

  “Yeah, hey, no problem. Say, me and a few other guys were thinking, you know, about what we were talking about. Anyway, we got to thinking why don’t we go cruising around, you know, see what we can see. Kenny’s brother has a car. We kind of hoped you would go along too. It will be cool. What do you say?”

  Martin had stayed in the background during the conversation, but this didn’t sound good. He tapped into his father’s thoughts and determined that, sure enough, Kenny and the boys were up to no good. He didn’t think his father would go along with something like that, stealing cars. But just in case, he offered a few vivid scenarios of what could go wrong.

  “I better not,” his father said. “Mom’s got a lot for me to do around here today.”

  Way to go, Dad.

  “Hey, I got to go, okay. Talk to you later.”

  A good feeling, one that said he’d done the right thing, went through Martin’s dad.

  Tapping into those thoughts, however, triggered Martin’s memory, and suddenly his mind snapped back to Luke, Krystal, and Susan. Grandpa Frank would be proud of Luke for doing what he thought was right even in the face of danger. He’d said as much in the library. Grandpa had been talking to Billy, but Martin had taken it to heart as well. He was much like his father in avoiding conflict, which sprang from his inherent lack of confidence. In the end, his father had done the right thing, at least for that incident, the car stealing plan.

  If there ever had been a time for him to step up to the plate and shoulder the responsibility of protecting his family, Martin knew it was now. He was, in addition to being his father’s son, his grandfather’s son as well.

  What would Grandpa Frank do?

  Martin knew his grandfather would not avoid the problem. He would take whatever was in front of him, and he would take it head on. It was his way. Martin would do the same. He was a Taylor, wasn’t he?

  He would find Doctor Stewart and try to reason with him. If that didn’t work, he would think of something else. But he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  MARTIN

  Sunday, May 04, 2014

  Friday, September 13, 1991

  Having decided to follow Grandpa Frank’s advice and meet life’s problems head on, Martin was left with another problem. If he wanted to talk some sense into Doctor Stewart, what would be the most beneficial time and place for that to happen? The more he thought about it, the idea of meeting Stewart early on, perhaps catching him before he’d become so hardened, made sense. That narrowed it down somewhat. However, that still left a lot of ground to cover.

  With little effort, Martin directed himself back to his home office, during the time right after he’d met John Rainbow at the hospital where Alice Stewart was giving birth to Angela. It seemed like a good idea. He had operated there without much notice.

  Just to be sure, he checked the house, going quickly to each room and glancing in. As it had been before, the house had a slight misty look to it, but it was intact, and no one was there.

  Martin made his way back to the office and sat down. As he switched on the computer, he looked through the double window that looked out over the front yard. One ghostly neighbor glided past the house, moving aimlessly along the sidewalk.

  In that moment, Martin completely accepted his fate. He could no longer pretend it was all a dream or even an elaborate hallucination. He had become a traveler, and with that came an undeniable sense of responsibility.

  He returned his attention to the computer monitor, and after a few minutes of research, he had the information he needed. It seemed Doctor Jackson Stewart had attended the College of William and Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia, and on Friday the thirteenth of September 1991, a controversial political rally had been held at the school. It had made the news, and Doctor Stewart had strong political leanings. Something like that would have drawn his attention.

  Martin had the time and place. Now all he had to do was figure out how to get there. He had learned from his experiences, and gathered from his conversation with John, that his traveling was not accomplished in the same manner. From what Martin could determine, both John Rainbow and Doctor Stewart traveled as themselves and did not change with the time. With Martin, however, he was either the younger or older version of himself, even going into relatives’ bodies when the time called for it. And the answer wasn’t as simple as choosing another time. He had gotten a sense about these things. No other time and place would adequately accommodate what he hoped to accomplish.

  As he had before, Martin formed the image of a calendar in his mind—a large one, the kind one might write significant dates in—and once there, he flipped the pages until he came to September 1991. He would need a few days in which to reach Williamsburg from Tulsa. He chose the eleventh day, and as he mentally put his finger on the target, his surroundings scattered into a swirl of color.

  . . .

  Martin’s world resolidified into the warm and familiar setting of his childhood bedroom. Instinctively, he checked his watch. At eight years old, he had worn a wristwatch, not that he would need it to check the time. Several clocks decorated his bedroom walls, and each one of them, as did his wristwatch, read 6:00 p.m. He had the rest of the evening and one good day to get to Williamsburg. Not much time. The clocks were not a surprise, but the significance of them did not strike him until now, as he once again sat in his bedroom and admired the timepieces. He had always been fascinated with time, and now he was literally a part of it.

  He quickly threw up the mental wall, though young Martin, as perceptive as ever, had already sensed something wasn’t quite right. He jumped off the bed to dash into the living room, where his parents would be watching television.

  The older Martin caught himself before he could leave the room with subtle but reassuring thoughts of everything being okay, and that it was just some stray thoughts he had not yet learned to deal with.

  Martin once again sat on the edge of his bed. He wasn’t hungry, so he must have just finished dinner. When his younger self settled down, he rose from the bed and inspected the small room, remembering some things he saw, a couple of model cars and a model of the bones of a Brontosaurus. He’d painstakingly glued the plastic bones together when he was around six years old.

  But he wasn’t there to reminisce about his childhood, though admittedly the thought was pleasing. He was there to find Doctor Stewart and talk to him. The trouble was, how was an eight-year-old kid going to get from his home in Tulsa, Oklahoma, to a college in the state of Virginia? He studied his small hands and spindly legs. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to be so small. What he’d surely thought extremely difficult before now seemed nearly impossible.

  He had no wallet, so he checked his pockets and found a grand total of seventy-five cents. Even with 1991 prices, he wouldn’t get very far on that.

  A knock sounded on the door, followed by his mother’s voice. “Are you all right, dear? It’s not like you to sit in your room like that. Why don’t you come out and join us?”

  A swarm of emotions invaded Martin’s senses. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to panic or break into a happy dance. One thing was for sure. He had to answer. “Okay, Mom. Be right there.”

  Now what, Martin?

  No matter how happy he was to hear his mother’s voice, he had to be careful. Something could go c
razily wrong. He opened the door a crack, but when he saw her there—the younger version of his mom, not the ghostly one that had looked unreal in the casket—tears he could not hold back leaked from his eyes. Against his better judgement, he rushed toward her and wrapped his arms around her waist.

  “It’s so good to see you,” he said. “I love you so much.”

  She immediately dropped to one knee, her hands cupping his face while her thumbs dried the tears. “I love you too, Martin. But why are you crying?”

  He fought for composure as his mind raced for answers. “Sorry. I fell asleep on the bed and had a bad dream.”

  “What kind of dream, dear? I’ve never seen you like this. You’ve got me worried.”

  “It’s nothing, really. I’ll be okay, just an old, silly dream, that’s all. You know, like the ones I used to have.” It was true. He’d been prone to nightmares when he was younger, though admittedly they’d never been so bad as to bring him to tears. “I’ll get over it.”

  She smiled, which nearly brought the tears again, but Martin fought them off.

  “Dad was just saying how good a dish of ice cream might taste. I’ll bet that would drive away the dreams. What do you say?”

  “Sounds good, Mom. Sounds really good.”

  For a moment, she studied his face as if she weren’t quite convinced things were all right, or worse yet, she had detected that something about her son wasn’t right. Then, she smiled and walked down the short hallway toward the living room.

  Martin hesitated, but he couldn’t just sit there and pretend it would all go away. And ice cream did sound pretty good right now. Whether that was Martin’s influence or that of his younger self, he wasn’t sure. One thing was for certain, though. He’d come to this time and place for a reason, and he had little time to get it accomplished.

  Sliding off the bed, he left his room and went into the living room where his mom and dad were already sitting with folding food trays in front of their chairs with bowls of ice cream on them. Martin’s chair, the one he’d always sat in while watching television, was set up in the same fashion. A warm feeling settled over him as he comfortably took his spot. His mother was a stickler about eating only at the kitchen table, but ice cream in the evening after dinner was her one exception.

  Switching on the TV, Martin’s mother sat the remote beside her and then took a bite of ice cream. Martin’s dad had already started on his.

  Martin uttered a silent prayer not only for the ice cream but also for the opportunity to once again take part in this enjoyable, weekly ritual that had been such a special part of his childhood. He wished he could stay a while and just soak up, or rather relive the memories, but John Rainbow’s words hauntingly reminded him that he should abandon those thoughts and concentrate on his mission. Timeline fragments, especially those created by the traveler were not stable.

  “It’s great, Mom. Thanks for getting this for me. And thank you, Dad, for reminding Mom of the ice cream.”

  Neither of them said anything, but both of them shot questioning glances in his direction. He guessed he hadn’t been so appreciative as a child. He would have to tone it down. He didn’t remember his parents being all that perceptive about things, so he must really be acting out of character. To lessen his chances of being discovered, he would have to make his move tonight. As soon as everyone was asleep, he would quietly leave the house and make his way to the airport. He’d been thinking it over, and there was no way he could convince his parents to take him to Williamsburg. And at eight years of age, he couldn’t legally buy a ticket. There was only one way to get there. He would have to figure out how to be a stowaway, and he would have to do it quickly.

  “That was delicious. Could I go to my room now? I’m kind of tired.”

  “Well, if you want, dear. But Home Improvement’s getting ready to come on. You always seem to enjoy that.”

  Martin smiled. That did sound like fun, but he needed time to think and plan. “Yeah, but that’s okay. Dad would rather watch something else, anyway.”

  “Okay, dear. Put away your bowl and tray first.”

  Martin did as he was asked and then went directly to his room. He hoped that without him distracting them, his parents would also turn in early. Once in his room, Martin sat on the bed to gather his thoughts. Nothing about this was going to be easy, and he’d be lucky if he pulled it off. Getting out of the house unnoticed would be difficult enough, but nothing compared to the challenge of getting to the airport on foot in the middle of the night. At least the weather was nice. It’d been warm that day, which should carry over into the night this time of year. He glanced at one of the wall clocks, which said it was 7:20 p.m.

  Martin’s mom had been in a curious mood which was completely understandable. She would no doubt check on him a few times before she finally fell asleep. He figured he should get undressed and get beneath the covers to make his feigning sleep look more believable. He’d keep his clothes close by, neatly folded in case they were discovered—an idea he thought rather astute for someone like him. It wasn’t like he was well practiced at this sort of thing. He had, in fact, been a good kid, even bordering on boring. He owed it to his family, he guessed. Eating ice cream away from the kitchen table was about as wild as it got around the Taylor home, but that was just fine with him.

  He had nothing but good memories from his childhood. His dad had always acted as if he were disappointed in him, and that had bothered Martin at the time, but now he knew his father had been disappointed in himself. His disappointment with Martin was because he hadn’t been able to bust out of his own life by living vicariously through Martin. It was a complicated issue, but one that made sense when thought about in those terms.

  With more time to relax, as much as one could in such a situation, Martin again looked around his room. There were the clocks, but alongside them were pages he’d cut from hot rod magazines. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t loved cars and motorcycles. The more he thought about it, the more such a trait seemed incongruous with his personality.

  There, in the corner, was the chest of drawers his dad had brought home, and his mom had painted for him so he would have a good place to store his socks and things. They were not well-to-do, he and his family, but they got by.

  He glanced at the bedroom window, the one he would use to exit the house when the time came, and he had second thoughts—not that escaping would be very difficult. The window opened easily enough. He’d tried it as a kid, though he’d never gone through with it. The screen was off too. It had fallen off in 1990, and his dad had never put it back on. As far as Martin knew, the screen was still there, propped against the house.

  A regretful feeling spread through Martin, and he had to stop his trip down nostalgia lane before he changed his mind and called the whole thing off. He didn’t want to put his parents through this, waking up to find him gone, but he saw no other way. Calling the whole thing off was not an option, anyway. He sensed that the moment he learned about the political rally. This was important, an integral part of his overall mission to bring back Candy and save Luke.

  Another thought presented itself, or perhaps it had been brewing all along. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hoped he could also save Doctor Stewart. Something kept telling him Jackson Stewart had not always been the heartless man he appeared to be now. Or was it then? It was all so confusing.

  The house had grown quiet even before Martin’s watch showed 10:00 p.m., but he lay there another hour just to be sure. Even then, he hesitated as he quietly got out of bed and got dressed. Giving one final look around the room, Martin slid open the window, hesitated briefly, and then crawled out and dropped to the ground. In the quiet of the night, as he left the yard and stepped onto the sidewalk, everything seemed surreal, and he wa
s reminded of the ghostly world he’d experienced in 2014.

  Being in good shape, not athletic but certainly in the sense of having always been on the go, and coupled with his sense of urgency, Martin made good time.

  At 3:30 a.m., he walked through the sliding doors of the Tulsa airport, checked the monitor for the correct gate, and made his way through security and on to the waiting area near the gate. Once there, he plopped down into a chair for some rest. He had about two hours before the flight was to leave, so he leaned back and closed his eyes. If everything went according to plan, his parents, if their typical behavior patterns were followed, wouldn’t discover he was gone until sometime around 7:30. By that time, provided he could sneak on-board the plane unnoticed, he would be on his way to Williamsburg.

  Hearing some voices nearby, Martin opened his eyes, and when he saw it was just after 6:00 a.m., he sat forward. People were already lining up to board the plane. He pushed himself from his chair and made his way to the bathroom to wash his hands and face. Afterward, he walked back near the gate. So as not to be noticed, he kept a comfortable distance. He waited until the area had cleared out and most of the passengers had boarded, and then he walked briskly toward the skywalk. As he drew near, the lady who was checking tickets stopped him. He had hoped to get past but had expected as much.

  “I left something in the waiting area,” he said. “Mom said I could run back and get it, but when I got here, it was already gone. It’s okay, though. But I need to get back on-board, else Mom will come looking for me. Trust me, that won’t be good.”

  The lady smiled. “What was it you lost?”

  “It was nothing to worry too much about, a 1957 Chevy, Hot Wheel.”

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  Martin almost blurted it out but stopped himself. “Billy,” he said, “Billy Smith.”