Channel '63

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  As long as you come back to me.

  As always, I was mindful not to tell Clifford too much about the future. Occasionally, however, comments would leak out regarding the social and political turmoil of my time. They didn’t seem to cause any major upheavals in the world that I could see, although they definitely influenced Clifford’s writing:

  “What I’ll Do For You”

  While Congress relaxes

  After raising your taxes

  I’ll veto it for you.

  And you feel like a chump

  As you pay at the pump

  I’ll fix all that, too.

  But the change in seasons also brought a change in Clifford’s attitude toward life. The rise of the ‘60s counterculture was just picking up steam. Rebellious young people were searching for their own identities. Clifford, too, was struggling to find his voice through his music. Fewer of his songs spoke of love and happiness, and more commented on his turbulent times.

  He attacked the Establishment:

  “The Jail Song”

  Post your bail

  Or rot away in jail

  How’d I get myself in this jam.

  What the hell

  I’m sitting in this cell

  No one gives a damn.

  The Vietnam War was also a target:

  “Compassion”

  I’ve seen the rain

  The darkness and the light

  I’ve felt the pain of being alone.

  I’ve heard the cries

  Of children in the night

  Follow me

  Follow me.

  The cottage TV faded up on 1963. There was Clifford, slouching in his chair, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. On the back wall of his office hung a large Peace Sign, along with protest posters and bumper stickers that read We Shall Overcome! and Make Love Not War!

  Clifford’s appearance had changed radically. His hair was long and shaggy, with bushy sideburns that ran all the way down to his chin.

  “How ya doing, Cliff,” I said.

  “What’s shakin’, baby,” said Clifford, in his beatnik-style voice.

  “A funny thing happen at school last week. I had a long talk with my old friend, Lydia, that involved you. You want to hear about it?”

  “Sure . . . I guess,” said Clifford, disinterested.

  “Lydia isn’t my closest friend, but we usually share what’s going on in our love lives. Well, I hadn’t shared anything with her lately, and she was growing suspicious—”

  Clifford kept looking away as I was talking. He fidgeted in his chair, like a toddler in need of an afternoon nap.

  “Are you listening to me?” I asked.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Something’s wrong. Why don’t you get it off your chest?”

  Clifford sat up in his chair. I gave him my full attention.

  “Alright,” he said. “Here it is: I turned 18 yesterday.”

  “You did?” I said, delighted. “Congratulations! Did you have a party?

  “Hell, no! The guest of honor was in no mood for a party.”

  “Why not? Didn’t get any presents?

  “Indeed I did, including this.” He held up an official government letter. It was from the Selective Service System: a federal government agency that requires all 18-year-olds to register for military duty. In the event of war, the military can call you into service at a moment’s notice.

  “I’m not even old enough to vote, for chrissake!” complained Clifford.

  “What’s the big deal?” I said. “Kids your age have to do the same thing here, too.”

  “It may be a minor inconvenience in your time, but it’s a very big deal in mine. They say that the Vietnam War will get worse before it gets better. The army sends more soldiers over there every week. Drafting deadbeat protesters like me will be next.

  His prediction was right, of course. Vietnam was probably the most unpopular war in our history. “Draft dodgers” would number in the thousands.

  “I don’t want to die in some war I don’t believe in,” said Clifford. “I could refuse to go when I’m called up, but they’ll send me to prison if I do. I could move to Canada, but who wants to do that?”

  “I wish there was something I could do to help,” I said.

  “There is!” Clifford leaned in close to the screen. “Nobody knows when the war’s gonna end, but you do. If I knew that, I could find a way to postpone my induction until it’s over.”

  “You know I can’t tell you that. I’ve told you a lot about the future already.”

  “You haven’t told me squat! You’ve told me about games you play on TV sets, and hand-held music boxes that will replace transistor radios. So what?”

  “I’m afraid to tell you any more than that.”

  “You’re such a square! You say you want to help me, then you say you won’t. A few simple words from you could help a lot of people. Think of all the other lives you could save. Tell me, Amy, how does the Vietnam War end? Will we have a nuclear war with Russia? Will China get The Bomb?”

  It was tempting. I did know how those things would turn out, and between Clifford and I we might save some people. But his arrogance was a real turn-off. He had become way too radical to be trusted with what I knew. Still, the answers he wanted would be so easy for me to give him.

  This might have been a good time to call Hubert.

  “What if I told you everything you’re asking for, and it backfires?” I said. “I could be screwing up my own world and not even know it.”

  “But you will know,” said Clifford. “Give me the information I want. Then you can tell me if anything has changed when you come back tomorrow. Dig?”

  But I didn’t have to wait for tomorrow. I could search Hubert’s tablet right now and know instantly what impact I was having on history. And the tablet was right there in my bag!

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I said, while slowly reaching into my bag, that was just out of Clifford’s view. I grabbed hold of the tablet.

  “Man-o-man,” said Clifford. “And I thought you were so hip. You talk big about changing the world, but when it comes to doing something about it, you cop out.”

  I quietly placed the tablet on the coffee table and turned it on.

  “That’s not true,” I said.

  The home page popped up on the screen, with a search engine window begging me for a keyword. I could reveal Clifford’s whole future to him by typing in his name. I could search his song titles and tell him if he had found any success with them. Searching for the Vietnam War would show me everything Clifford wanted to know about it. But what else would it show? Would I find Clifford’s name on a prison inmate roll? Would I find that he had turned tail toward Canada? Or even worse, would I find his name as one of the honored dead on the Vietnam Memorial?

  My hands trembled as I reached for the touchscreen. I typed in the keyword Vietnam, but I was afraid to go on. I couldn’t do it! I turned off the device and stuffed it back in my bag.

  I felt a sense of relief for now, but what about later? That temptation to discover what awaits Clifford would always haunt me. The truth about one’s future is something no one should know. If I were to learn Clifford’s fate, I would feel obligated to tell him about it, and I didn’t want that responsibility.

  “You’re not listening to me,” said Clifford.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” I said.

  “That figures. But that’s okay. You just go on living in your computerized, self-indulgent world. Just don’t expect me to be here the next time you flip on the TV.”

  I can’t recall ever feeling rage and sadness at the same time. My temper flared while my tears flowed. Our relationship had reached a crossroad, and neither of us was willing to let the other one pass. I was afraid that the most wonderful time in my life was coming to an end.

  I couldn’t look at Cliffor
d any more. I reached for the TV’s on-off knob.

  “You’re brushing me off. Is that what you’re doing?” said Clifford.

  I pulled my hand back. “And why shouldn’t I?”

  I reached for the knob again.

  “No, wait!” cried Clifford. “I’m sorry, Amy. Forgive me. Okay, so I’m a little testy. You’d be the same way if you were in my shoes.”

  “Please, Cliff. Can’t we forget about saving the world and go back to being friends?”

  “Friends? I don’t even know what that word means anymore. Voice your opinion now days and people don’t want to be seen with you. My parents are the worst. They won’t go to social events for fear of what people might say about me behind their backs. I feel like telling them: I quit! I resign from this family!”

  I had heard that line before. I said those same words in a courtroom, not so long ago. The TV screen was no longer just an electronic tube. It was a mirror, with myself in the reflection.

  “Same time tomorrow?” said Clifford.

  “I’d like that.”

  Chapter 13

  Two Amys

  The County Clerk’s office was right next to the courthouse. I went inside and entered a huge, open area, with a long counter that seemed to stretch for a mile. Behind it were rows of back-to-back office desks. The back wall supported floor-to-ceiling shelves jammed with 3-ring binders, all neatly alphabetized. Signs hung above the counter every fifteen feet or so, to guide confused customers like me where to go. I followed the signs, Marriage Licenses, Real Estate Records, Divorce Records, finally arriving at the one I was looking for: Birth Certificates.

  Seated at a desk was an elderly, stone-faced woman, with her hair done up in a tight bun. Around her neck was a thin, pearl necklace attached to her reading glasses. She looked like one of those strict librarians, always shushing anyone speaking above a whisper.

  All of the other desks were empty. It was the lunch hour.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said to the bookish, old woman.

  She was going over a document, making checks in the margins with a red pencil, like grading a test paper.

  “Please, wait your turn!” she insisted—an odd thing to say, considering that no one else was in the room.

  Finally, she stood up and waddled over to me. “What is it, young lady?”

  “I’d like to know how to get a copy of a birth certificate?”

  “Is it yours?“

  “Yes.”

  “Duplicate copies are $25 dollars.”

  I handed her a twenty and a five. She printed out a receipt, whomped it with a rubber stamp, then handed it to me, along with a request form.

  “Fill this out and return it to me,” she said, then waddled back to her desk.

  The form asked for general information: name, birth date, mother’s maiden name, that kind of thing. I signed the bottom.

  “Here you go!” I said, holding the form in the air.

  “Please, wait your turn!” said the woman once again.

  Returning to the counter, she snatched the form from my hand, then quickly scanned it with her cold, gray eyes.

  “Do you have some identification, miss?” she asked.

  I handed her my student ID card. She entered the contents of the form into a computer on the counter, then gracefully hit the enter key, like Liberace hitting the final note of a Beethoven concerto.

  “Done,” she said. “You’ll have your certificate in eight weeks.”

  “That long?” I said.

  “This is a government office. Promptness is not something we are known for.”

  “Or accuracy. I would hate to wait that long only to find out you sent me the wrong one. Can you pull it up on your computer and let me see it first?”

  She grumbled, then stepped up to the computer. “I’ll try.”

  After a few keystrokes, the woman perched her glasses on her nose and leaned in toward the screen. “Hm. The server is running slow.”

  “Is that a problem?” I asked.

  She paused. “No.”

  Then she typed some more. “I’m showing an error locating your file. I’ll have to cross-reference.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  She paused. “No.”

  She typed again. “Ah! Here it is!”

  “What does it say?” I asked impatiently.

  “Interesting,” she said, rubbing her chin. “Very interesting indeed.”

  “What is it?”

  “This is highly unusual.”

  “Please, tell me what it says!”

  She lowered her glasses and looked me in the eye. “I‘m afraid I can’t do that, miss,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not authorized to give out private information without my supervisor’s approval, and he’s at lunch.”

  What a rotten trick!

  “Why didn’t you tell me that at the beginning?” I asked.

  “I repeat,” she said, “you’ll have your certificate in eight weeks. Good day!”

  “Please let me see it. I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Rules are rules, young lady. I wouldn’t expect one so young as you to understand that.”

  I grabbed the computer monitor and turned it in my direction. But the instant it came into view . . .

  Click!

  That old witch cleared the screen.

  Meeting Bob Phillips in the green city park was better than in a stuffy lawyer’s office. The leaves in the maple trees showed off their fall colors. Birds sang happily from hundred-year-old oaks. Wooded paths meandered past fountains and a children’s playground. It was cool and pleasant, and I felt relaxed—something I truly needed after dueling with that old biddy.

  I sat on a park bench, where I told Bob to meet me. Directly in front of me stood a statue of Father Dorian. Fragrant flowers encircled the monument to our town’s founding father. Dressed in his missionary robes, he held a dove in one hand, while the other reached up to heaven. A prankster had placed an empty liquor bottle in his raised hand. How appropriate.

  Across the way was a shopping cart full of plastic garbage bags. Asleep on the bench next to it was a bag lady, huddled under a torn blanket. I remembered what Judge Higgins had said about homeless teenage runaways. Was I seeing my future self in that old woman?

  “You wanted to see me?” said Bob Phillips. He took off his coat, slung it over his arm, and sat down on the bench next to me.

  “Yes,” I said. “How good are you at being a private eye?”

  “I’ve never been one,” said Bob, “nor would I want to be. What did you have in mind?”

  ”My mom has some information that I think has a bearing on my case. I need you to do some undercover work for me.”

  “I told you. I’m not a spy. I’m too old to play James Bond.” He posed his fingers to look like a gun, then flashed me that raised, Sean Connery eyebrow.

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” I said. “We’re not talking international espionage. I think there may be some public records that will show what Mom is hiding from me. You’re an attorney. You know how to get at that stuff.”

  Bob blew over the top of his index finger, as if his “hand” gun had just been fired. “I already know the information you’re looking for.”

  “You do? Well, let’s have it.”

  Bob stood up and put his coat back on. “Let’s take a walk.”

  We strolled over to the playground. Children were laughing and playing, as all kids do when in the presence of seesaws, slides, and monkey bars.

  “Give kids a place to play, and the real world disappears,” said Bob. “Anything outside of their playground domain is of no concern. These kids don’t even know we are watching them. The adult world, especially, is the farthest thing from their minds. The only thing that matters is how fast they can run, how high they can jump, and how loud they can scream.”

  “I guess that’s true,” I said, “but what are you getting at?”

  “You may not wa
nt to hear this, but you’re somewhere between their world and adulthood. You still have one foot in the sandbox—and you should stay there.”

  “I get it,” I said, feeling a bit insulted. “I’m not mature enough to be out in the adult world. I don’t know what life is all about. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Knowledge can be a dangerous thing if you’re not equipped to handle it.”

  “Try me!”

  Bob sat me down on a nearby bench.

  “Families come in all shapes and sizes,” he said. “Starting a family is a big step, and parents have a lot to consider before committing to it. Some want only a few children, some choose not to have any at all. But others dream of a big family. Your mom was one of those.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said. “How many kids was she hoping for?”

  “More than what she got. After delivering her last child, she learned that she was unable to have any more children.”

  “Oh, I see. Poor Mom. No wonder she won’t talk about childbirth with me. She had my brother and sister, then I was born—and she probably blames me for not having the big family she always wanted.”

  “She doesn’t blame you, Amy. You see, she only had two deliveries.”

  I suddenly realized what Bob was trying to tell me. “You’re not going to say what I think you’re going to say, are you?”

  “I’m not suppose to tell you this, Amy.” Bob swallowed hard. “You were adopted!”

  I was in total shock. Somewhere out in the world were two important people I had never met: my real mom and dad.

  “You mean I’m not Amy Dawson? Then who am I?”

  “You know I can get disbarred for what I’ve told you already.”

  “The cat’s out of the bag now, man. You have to tell me.”

  Bob took a deep breath.

  “I’ve been in touch with my contact in the state records office. He has access to information that isn’t available to the public. I told him about you, and asked him to do some digging into your past. He turned up records from an adoption agency confirming that your parents adopted a baby girl, around the same time you were born. He’s trying to track down the adoption papers now, along with your original birth certificate, that will reveal your true birth mother’s name. The certificate you have now was changed when you were adopted, naming your adoptive mom and dad as your parents. Due to privacy laws, adoptees are not permitted to see these documents, so I don’t know how far we’ll get.”