by Melody Clark
"Good night, Gene," T.J. said to the man now leaving the room. Then Thomas turned toward Paulson. "As for you, I have something to show you."
"Another insulting national monument?"
"No. Proof that you're a walking, talking Adams monument all on your own."
"I'm a what?"
T.J. grabbed Jack's arm and pulled him along behind him like a three-wheeled wagon with a load.
"Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
T.J. shoved the slip for the car in the valet's direction and called out, "Bring my car around, will you? We won't be but a moment."
T.J. continued to drag Jack by the arm into the street and toward one of the corner big showcase windows that started the art gallery row.
"Where are we going?" Jack asked yet again.
"It's my surprise."
"Right now?"
"Yes, right now."
He pulled Jack around to the front of him and pushed the man toward the large showcase window of the Sutter and Brownmiller Gallery. Jack saw immediately what he had been intended to see.
In the window, on an easel, set a sketch of something familiar -- as memory colored inside the lines, the image in the sketch grew very familiar indeed.
Jack touched the cold glass window, as if to steady himself and draw nearer to its surface. "That's the wall from the Banks building," he said grinning brightly.
T.J.'s smile in reply might have glowed in the dark. "It's more than that. It's a sketch by the artist Ann Stewart who used her uncle's summer office as a makeshift studio. She decided to commemorate the view in this sketch. Part of the view is that mysterious wall of yours.”
Jack swung the smile back at his friend. "You've got no idea how much that wall has been haunting me. And now you've solved my mystery. How did you find this?"
"Lee spoke with Ms. Tennyson from National Historic,” T.J. said. “She's the one who told him about the drawing. It was donated by the Stewart descendants to be auctioned off to fund the Trust. Apparently, there was some security problem with its public display, so it was brought down to this smaller gallery for private sale.”
“What security problem?”
T.J. shrugged. "Possibly for the same reason the Feds didn’t want that part of the existing structure torn down? It seems the wall that was part of the room was too historically significant to just destroy. It's come under a covenant of trust or something."
Jack nodded. “Okay, so it has some historic value?”
T.J.'s gaze softened. "It seems Ann Stewart's uncle was, at one time, President of the United States.”
“No kidding.” Jack swallowed hard. “Which one?”
T.J. laughed. “My dearest man, Ann Stewart’s maiden name was Adams."
"Stop it!" Jack said like a knee-jerk reaction to the words. He stepped back a little, running a hand once again over the surface of the glass. He shook his head and pushed away and walked to the curb. He looked as though he was contemplating crossing the whole street to make an escape. "It just can't be my wall. It just looks like it.”
“Her Uncle John kept a summer office in that room which was kept for some tactical purpose or other, since it was near the shoreline.”
"Enough!" Jack snapped, his voice trembling with anger. "It's a coincidence. An admittedly bizarre, improbable, incredible coincidence, but it's only a coincidence. It's not the same door. I've somehow confused the two in my head. Occam's Razor says the simplest explanation --”
“... is the best one, yes, and it applies in all those cases except where it does not apply! Jack, don't be insane."
"You're talking about past lives and you're calling me insane?" Jack shot back. “T.J., the only reason the physical world exists is because all things have a limited duration. Space ends. Time ends. So do our lives. Anything else is an illusion.”
“Maybe the concept of an ending is the illusion,” T.J. said.
Jack looked deeply into his hands until he turned them into fists and then shut his eyes for a long moment. He whispered distinctly, "It's another wall in another room I'm thinking of and that one just looks like it. It's as simple as that. Anything else is just delusional.”
"A part of you knows better than that. That's why you turned away from me last year. I remind you, Jack. That there is transcendent hope and cosmic purpose to our lives, yours and mine. I remind you that nothing ends.”
"Watch how quickly this insane conversation's going to end," Jack said, about to cross the street for a final escape.
The car lights slung violently with the squeal of rubber. T.J. pulled Jack backwards into the arms of the gallery entry. The big, black featureless car swung past them and screamed away faster than it had arrived.
T.J. reached out to touch his friend's stunned face. "You all right?"
"Yeah. I think." He touched his chest then T.J.’s shoulder, as if to make sure they remained in one piece. "Thanks to you. That guy really must hate me."
"Wasn't the valet, Jack. The driver came from the far street. He was aiming for both of us."
"Yeah, yeah, I got that,” Jack said. “It was a joke. I get nervous, I make jokes, remember?”
The valet was suddenly running toward them, his sneakers snapping in the air behind him. "Are you guys okay?"
"We think so," T.J. replied.
"Should I call the cops?" the valet asked.
Jack shook his head. "And tell them what? That we were almost run over by a big featureless metal blob?"
"Just tell us where our car is," T.J. said, reclaiming the keys and filling the valet's now empty hand with a ten.
Jack looked toward T.J.'s sleek hot-ride-of-the-year candidate cooling its wheels a few feet away. "C'mon, let's get the fuck out of here before he takes a second shot, shall we?"
"That’s the best idea I’ve heard in the last five minutes."
They climbed in and buckled up in record time. A quiet second intervened between T.J. jamming in the key and revving the engine to life.
Jack said, "You know what that was about, right?"
"Yep."
"Guess Ham wasn't exaggerating."
"It seems not. I doubt the driver was trying to kill us. If he'd wanted to, he could have. It was probably just a warning."
"Well, it was a damned good one."
As T.J. hurried the car into a cross stream of traffic, he decompressed into his seat. He surveyed the streets in front of them. They were headed toward T.J.'s house. There they would have a measure of safety, which was what really mattered.
"Who do we call about something like this?" Jack asked, clearly looking for any sign of followers in the rear view mirror. "I mean without telling the whole world about … everything."
"Once we're back at my place, I'll talk to the Blue Caps. See anything back there behind us?"
"How the hell would I know?” Jack replied. “I’m not a private detective. But nothing obvious. I mean, the Joker’s ambulance isn’t tailing us or something."
T.J. nodded. "We'll be safe at my place. Tomorrow we can think through our options." He looked in Jack's direction. "You want to talk about -- "
"No," Jack said sharply. He stayed quiet for a time before he added firmly, "That topic I'd prefer to be off-limits. Completely."
"As you wish. But you know we'll be discussing it eventually."
Jack appeared to swallow hard. "I know. Just not ... right now."
"I've alerted internal security," T.J. said as he entered the bedroom from his den. "They'll be doing twice an hour flyovers and fifteen minute drive arounds. My neighbors will love me but we'll be safe enough." Walking up behind Jack, he laced his arms around him and tried to look where ever Jack was looking -- through the French doors and over the hill veranda.
T.J. saw nothing out of the ordinary. He wondered if Jack was staring at something that couldn't be seen with anyone else's eyes. "I've also spoken with Senate security,” T.J. said. “They want to come in as early as possible tomorrow so they can set-up a secur
ity detail."
"Wonderful," Jack said tiredly, rubbing at his forehead. "Maxwell Smart has our back."
T.J. laughed. "Oh, it's not quite Maxwell Smart, is it?"
Jack frowned a little. "Yeah, more like Barney Fife. He was worse."
"I don't know, I think I'd rather be Barney Fife than Maxwell Smart." He tugged on the shoulder of Jack's lounging clothes then glanced toward the suitcase that had been dropped off earlier. "I see you've found the clothing that Taneesha dropped off for you."
"Yeah," he said distractedly.
"So why so pensive?"
Jack went quiet, as if forming a firm intent. Then he said softly, "All right, I'm thinking about ... it."
T.J. fought a far too radiant smile. "Ah, but I thought we weren't discussing the wall and the room."
"We're not. We're discussing the drawing of the wall and the room."
"Ah, yes, that is different."
"Stop smirking," Jack said, grinning.
"I didn't smirk."
"No, but you were thinking about it." Jack crossed his arms and stepped back from the window. He circled around as if stalking the light. He shut his eyes for a moment before asking, "Look, I'm not saying I buy this for a moment, mind you. But if I'm sharing your delusion, I want to at least understand it. So I have questions. I'll deal with this like an attorney. Can I ask them of you?"
“You’ll listen and not prejudge?”
“I'll try. That’s the best I can do. And don’t go quoting Yoda again.”
T.J. nodded. "If I have the answers for your questions, I'll give them to you. Go ahead."
Jack sat down on one corner of the bed. “If this isn't just some narcissistic fantasy, why is it all the people with this reincarnation delusion think they're great people of history? Nobody was ever Sol the brick-layer or some nomadic wanderer who died penniless, unknown and alone.”
"For one thing, that isn’t true. For another, if there is reincarnation in the manner I believe, there are people alive who were those great people of history. I came to the idea of reincarnation after realizing my memories, not the reverse. Are people like me to deny their experiences ... their intuitions ... solely because your belief system doesn’t conform to them?”
“I don’t have a belief system,” Jack said. “I don’t believe in anything.”
T.J. stared at him knowingly. “Not believing in anything is a belief system. And I know you know that as well as I do. ”
"Theoretically maybe, but that doesn't mean that every belief system is equally valid."
"We do not as yet have enough information to assess all belief systems. Certainly I agree that politics and science shouldn't enact policy on any of this. I'm merely telling you what I believe in my heart, as you asked. You said you’d listen and not prejudge."
Jack’s mouth bent into a guilty half-smile. "I'm sorry. You're right. Go on.”
T.J. sat near him on the bed. “It is my ... intuition that you and I are born together to accomplish things. In that time, we were born to do what we did. Just as we were now. Our ancestors, Adams and Jefferson, were arguably the two most important elements of the American revolution.”
Jack nodded. "If only they both were recognized."
“One neurotic assertion at a time, please?”
“Yeah, sorry. Continue.”
"All right then,” T.J. said. “Imagine what would have happened if those men hadn’t lived? If they hadn’t known each other in all the ways they did when they did. And later in their lives, after their rapprochement, think of all their letters back and forth. Their correspondence has been vital to driving back religious extremists from laying claim to the foundation of our country. You have said it yourself many times in Congress."
Jack nodded again. "And once again, that only seems fortuitous because it brought about what happened. We only think it’s important because of our perspective. The patterns you see are relative to your beliefs."
"No judging, remember?"
"God. Sorry. This not judging stuff isn't easy for me."
T.J. continued, “If you need final proof of their destiny together, surely it’s the day of their deaths.”
Jack made a sour face. “I knew this was coming sometime.”
"They both died on July 4th, 1826. The fiftieth anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. They both died on the same damn date, Jack. Completely independent of each other, many states away, in their own beds within a few hours of each other on the very same day. The last words John Adams uttered on this earth were Thomas Jefferson’s name.”
"It only had to happen once to be an unlikely coincidence,” Jack replied. “I know that's a lame answer but ... they were both old men! They were going to die eventually. The 4th of July would have naturally been a day of mixed feelings and old anxiety for them."
"Mixed feelings and old anxiety from fifty years before? I mean, John was almost 92 years old.”
“He walked five miles a day. He came from a long-lived family. His mother lived to be 98.”
“Yes, but his father didn’t make seventy. One of his brothers didn’t hit forty. John was a short, chubby fellow who smoked, for heaven’s sake. Why hadn’t the catastrophic date of July 4th killed him before that?”
“1826 marked the fiftieth anniversary of independence. That’s a big emotional day for a 92 year old man.”
“Maybe, but Jefferson was nine years younger than Adams. If they had died on September 12, 1823, I would think it might be coincidence. But not the way it happened. Unless your brain is mired eternally in reductionism, you must admit that their dying together does suggest that a divinity shapes our ends.”
Jack made an impatient clucking sound. "Or they were both old men who got rattled by old memories on a significant anniversary of a big day in their lives and their bodies both gave out on that day. It's a weird coincidence, I'll grant you. But simple logic gives it a simple solution.”
“So far, all you’ve done is argue with my proof. Let’s see you give some proof arguing against destiny. And yes, I know you can’t prove a negative. But work with me here.”
“Fine, in the interest of fair play, I have a perfect example. The election of 1800. Jefferson stabbed Adams in the back with the whole Hamilton publication sponsorship. Where’s the shaping divinity in that? Adams and Jefferson crucified each other in that election.”
T.J. grinned widely. “And Jefferson and Adams eventually mended fences and deepened their friendship to the ends of their lives. In fact, Jefferson recognized that his presidency was only successful because of Adams’ achievements in office. And also because John’s son, John Quincy, became a very important Congressional ally for Jefferson. Which brings me to my own theory about 1800, the whole of which is fairly complicated.”
“Somehow, I knew you would have one,” Jack said.
"But I have a very short question for you, Jack,” he said, leaning toward him to look at him closely. “From where do our memories come?"
"I didn’t admit to memories."
"You didn't have to admit to them, my dearest man. I saw them all in your eyes tonight when you looked at the drawing."
Jack turned away again. "Okay, so, here is how I see it. I've absorbed the pathology of your delusion.”
“Jack!” T.J. said, laughing and shaking his head.
“I heard you out, you hear me out, okay? I may still be under the effects of the hallucinogen. Because of our ancestry and losing Izzy, I‘m especially imprint vulnerable now. Whatever memories I may think I have are merely an elaboration of that delusion I now share and which your beliefs have fostered.”
T.J. laughed again, loudly. “Who are you trying to convince of that? Me or you."
"A little of both, I think," Jack said softly. "Look, do you know how many movies we must have seen? How many stories and books we've read?”
"Before now you doggedly refused the idea that you'd seen the room in a book or movie. You said you had a personal memory, just like I do. You insist
it’s important to you. You drove poor Taneesha batty over it, trying to find it."
"Okay," Jack said, as if preparing his final question. He lay back over the bed. He covered his face with his hands. Finally, he asked, “Are you suggesting ... I mean, you're not asserting that Adams and Jefferson were ... well, you know, like you and me?"
"Politicians? Statesmen?" T.J. asked with a teasing grin. "Men who work in government?"