The Tesla Gate

by John D. Mimms

  “Good morning, Thomas,” he drawled. Father Wilson had always sounded more like a stereotypical southern evangelist than a stereotypical Catholic priest. He paused momentarily, half-looking at the ground and half-looking at me before he continued.

  “How are you today?” he said quietly with sincere undertones of empathy in his voice.

  I extended my hand to him. “I’m fine, Father.”

  He looked genuinely shocked for a moment but quickly recovered and shook my hand vigorously.

  “I’m glad to hear that Thomas. I just stopped by to let you know that if you ever need to talk, I am here,” he said, and then paused as his face wrinkled into a more serious expression. “Especially if you would like to talk about what is going on now.”

  It suddenly dawned on me that he must know about Seth. Determining how he found out didn’t take very long because the only people that knew Seth was back were Don and Gina Lewis. I didn’t think Don had told him because he was too busy with his own issues. The question is, did Gina tell him before or after I spoke with her this morning? I guess it didn’t really matter; she thought she was doing the right thing as misguided as her good intentions often were.

  “We’re fine,” I said, watching his reaction carefully.

  My suspicion was confirmed as he showed no surprise at my use of the plural pronoun.

  “Glad to hear it, glad to hear it!” he said. “Is he …?”

  “In the house,” I finished. “I would prefer that we leave him out of our discussion.”

  Father Wilson nodded sheepishly.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “And, no … his mother is not with him,” I said as a breeze blew the aroma of Ann’s prize rose garden past my nose. The fragrance invoked a sweet memory of my beloved wife. It took everything I had to suppress a tear.

  Father Wilson did not respond but simply nodded with a sympathetic smile.

  I decided not to beat around the bush.

  “Can you explain what is happening, Father?” I asked.

  His face lit up as brilliantly as the lavender sky.

  “Oh, yes … isn’t it wonderful?” he beamed.

  All I could manage was an incredulous stare; the good Father had taken me completely by surprise. Before I could formulate a response, he continued.

  “It proves what we have been preaching for centuries, proves it beyond a shadow of a doubt!”

  “What?” I managed to utter stupidly.

  He looked at me as if I was laughable.

  “Why, the existence of the soul of course!” he grinned with the same overindulgence of excitement.

  I have to admit that my view of the whole event had been very narrowly focused. I had not yet considered the larger implications that this incident held. Frankly, it was just not that important to me. What was important was a “who,” and that “who” was in the house, and I wanted to get back to him. As anxious as I was, my curiosity kept me engaged with the Father.

  “Why are they here?” I asked.

  “Well from what I hear, they are here by choice,” he said.

  I nodded with as neutral an expression as I could manage. I had no intention of telling him anything about Seth, especially not his mention of the doors and Ann.

  “That proves another point we have been preaching for centuries,” Father Wilson said. “It proves that God does give us free will!”

  I was starting to think that Father Wilson was sounding more like an attorney than a priest, laying out his proof to a jury of one.

  “Is that what you came to tell me?” I asked, starting to get a little irritated. I really wanted to go in and check on Seth.

  “No, no,” he said, his jovial demeanor suddenly replaced with a look of seriousness. “I wanted to warn you.”

  He got my attention.

  “About what?” I asked.

  He blinked and fidgeted before clearing his throat and continuing with a question.

  “Did you know that everyone who dies now has no choice?”

  I shook my head and shrugged, clearing not grasping his meaning.

  “They are stuck here whether they like it or not,” Father Wilson said.

  I started shaking my head, confused as to what exactly he was telling me. My shaking head slowly ceased as comprehension dawned.

  “Everybody?” I asked.

  The Father nodded his head curtly.

  “Everybody,” he said.

  Grief is capable of putting all kinds of strange thoughts into a person’s head. I had a thought hit me from nowhere.

  If Ann and Seth had to die, why couldn’t it have been a couple of weeks later?

  I felt ashamed for thinking such a thing and quickly tried to shove the thought out of my head, but it refused to leave, hanging on as stubbornly as my love for my lost wife.

  Father Wilson allowed me to absorb this information as he nervously pulled at his collar, trying to get cool. It was still relatively early in the morning, but the temperature was already in the mid-’80s. Sweat beaded on my lip and streamed down my back as I pondered this for several moments. Gradually my thoughts fell back to his original statement; that he had come to warn me about something.

  “What did you want to warn me about?” I asked.

  “Well,” he began with a nervous cough. “Do you know Elbert Bachman?”

  I nodded my head. I did vaguely know Elbert and his wife. They were an older couple at the church, very nice and generous, but we were not close friends. I guess that is why I was shocked last year when Elbert asked me to be a pall bearer at his wife’s funeral. I agreed to the request and in the end I was honored to help lay his beloved Gertrude to rest. I guess I had something in common with Elbert now, something terrible.

  “Yes,” I said. “His wife died last year.” I paused for a moment and asked, “Is she back?”

  Father Wilson nodded his head mournfully. I didn’t understand his sorrowful reaction until he answered.

  “Yes and Elbert tried to be with her or be like her,” he said.

  “He died?” I said.

  “He committed suicide,” the Father said staring at the ground and slowly shaking his head.

  It felt like a small tea kettle had boiled over in my stomach at this proclamation, I was suddenly reminded of the conversation I had intended to have with Father Wilson. But it was nothing compared to the volcano that was about to erupt.

  “So … they are together now?” I asked.

  The Father continued to shake his head sadly, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

  “Not exactly,” he said in a hushed voice.

  He finally looked up at me after several silent moments and said in the same quiet voice, “It proves what we’ve been saying about suicide all these years.”

  I looked at him, feeling my cheeks start to flush with anger.

  “Is he burning in Hell?” I asked, sarcasm dripping from my words.

  If the Father was offended by my off handed remark, he didn’t show it. His mouth was drawn in a straight line and he looked directly at me as he spoke.

  “He is in a coma; well at least his spirit is any way. According to what I heard on the news this morning that seems to be what has happened to everyone who has committed that unforgiveable sin since this all started.”

  My curiosity dispersed my anger momentarily.

  “A coma?” I repeated a bit perplexed.

  “Yes, it seems the spirit left the body true enough, but then it instantly falls into a deep, catatonic sleep.”

  “No one has woken up?” I asked.

  “Not yet, but of course it hasn’t been that long yet. I think it is God’s way of telling us it is wrong, and he separates these souls from the others,” Father Wilson added.

  I could feel my anger starting to rise again. I don’t know why
Father Wilson has always gotten under my skin; I generally agree with most of his beliefs. I think it is his delivery, his lack of tact, especially when it came to his non-age-appropriate discussions with the children at the school. Like Don, he never has had much of a filter between his brain and mouth. That is a dangerous condition for a priest to suffer from. Little did I know that with my next question, my inner volcano was about to blow.

  “So what did you want to warn me about?” I asked, impatiently. While this information was interesting, I didn’t see how any of it pertained to me.

  Father Wilson looked at me with raised bushy white eyebrows and spoke in a hushed but unfiltered tone, like the answer should be as perfectly plain as the nose on my face.

  “I didn’t want the same thing to happen to you.”

  First, I was dumbstruck. The thought had never even entered my mind. That lasted only a couple of moments as the rage seemed to work its way up from my gut and spread to all of my extremities with a radiating heat, finally erupting from my mouth with a viral explosion.

  “Who in the hell do you think you are? What the hell makes you think I would even consider something like that?” I hissed.

  Father Wilson’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly like a fish gasping for oxygen. He continued to gaze at me with eyes bulging from shock and a mouth still silently opening and closing. I walked around and opened the passenger door, pretending that I was looking for something in the glove box, hoping that he would take the hint. I am not a short-tempered individual by any stretch of the imagination, but Father Wilson was one of those few people who could push the envelope with my resolve to be civil. Thankfully, he slowly retreated to his car and drove away. Deep down I felt bad about our encounter, but on the other hand I don’t think anyone has said something so offensive to me in a long time. The very idea that I might contemplate suicide to be with Seth. I would do anything for my boy, but I don’t see how that could be helpful, especially now that he is back.

  I went inside to check on Seth. I needed to cool off as well, between the weather and Father Wilson I felt like my head was in a crock pot. I found Seth sitting on the living room floor playing with a couple of Hot Wheels cars. He seemed as pleasant as ever, thankfully unaware of my confrontation with the good Father.

  “When can we go, Daddy?” he asked.

  “Now,” I promised. “As soon as you gather your toys.”

  Chapter 10

  Unseen Developments

  “Travel, in the younger sort, is a part of education;

  in the elder, a part of experience.”

  —Francis Bacon

  I managed to recapture the same sense of adventure from ten minutes earlier as we pulled away from the curb. It reminded me of my first time on the Jungle Boat Ride at Disney World. I wasn’t really sure what to expect. My heart hammered in my chest like a caged bird when I remembered my promise to myself to go by my parents’ old house. I exhaled and swallowed as I made a left turn at the next light and headed to the far side of town.

  At first, it was nothing out of the ordinary. The streets and neighborhoods were not filled with ghosts dragging chains across the streets or odd looking specters hitchhiking, like from the Haunted Mansion ride, which was another one of my favorite Disney attractions as a kid.

  Although, I do have to admit that on my first visit, my anxiety got the best of me causing me to flee in terror through the crowd. My parents caught up to me by the Country Bear’s Jamboree and after a little motherly coaxing and a Mickey Mouse ice cream bar, I was ready to brave the darkness of the old foreboding house.

  The streets and neighborhoods were the same as they ever were, save the strange sky overhead. Traffic was at a minimum and the eerie lack of human activity reminded me of the sleepiness of the town at 3 A.M., not at 10 A.M. as it was now.

  I didn’t realize how much I wanted to see my parents until I arrived at their former abode and found it unoccupied. The family still lived there as evidenced by the furniture inside and toys in the yard but they were not home and neither were my parents. I knocked on every door until my knuckles throbbed in protest but there was no response. The Erions were our neighbors when I was a kid and they still lived next door. I started to walk over and ask questions but as I reached the property line I stopped in my tracks. Their living room curtains were open and I could see them sitting around the table and having a meal, but it was more than just Mr. and Mrs. Erion.

  The ethereal glow of a person like Seth could be clearly seen through the window. Whoever it was, their back was to me. It took a few moments for recognition to sink in but when it did my stomach twisted. It was the Erions’ son, Jack. He had been about ten years older than me, but he was probably the closest thing I ever had to a brother. Jack always played catch with me, took me to movies, and even bought me baseball cards. I was only nine when he was killed by an eighteen-wheeler on a snowy road just north of Conway. It broke my heart almost as much as when my parents died.

  My first impulse was to run to the door and reunite with my old friend, but I had to remember why I was here. I had come to look for my parents but my first priority was Seth. Besides, as much as I was sure that Jack would like to see me again, I needed to give him and his parents some time. They needed to make the most out of their miracle as much as I needed to make the most of mine.

  I cautiously stepped back and out of view then looked back at the SUV in the driveway. Seth was curiously looking at me through the window. I smiled reassuringly and waved then climbed the front steps of my former residence. I retrieved a business card and a pen from my pocket then hastily scribbled a message on the back.

  Please call me if you meet Phillip or Tamara Pendleton. I am their son.

  After carefully sliding the card in the door jamb where it could easily be seen, I turned and slowly walked back down the stairs and up the sidewalk to the SUV. My heart was heavy with disappointment, but it was also light with anticipation of my time with Seth. My life had become an emotional contradiction the past couple of days.

  We continued to the highway looping around the south side of Conway and connecting to I-40 to the east. I tensed as we neared Oak Grove, a massive 40-acre cemetery in the southeast part of the city. I am not sure why passing the cemetery made me so nervous. Did I expect it to be one big ghost gathering of all those who were laid to rest there? If that was the reason, my fears seemed to be unfounded. No, I think the real reason for my apprehension was because Oak Grove is where Ann and Seth had been laid to rest. It looked as calm and serene as it had two weeks ago.

  The monuments glistened with a bluish tint, probably a mix of sunlight and the lavender light in the sky. The lush green grass and branches from a few sporadic oak trees blew lazily in the morning breeze. It would make a lovely location for a picnic if not for the stigma all such places carried.

  I could see Ann and Seth’s double headstone near the east wall. It was fronted by two brown rectangles interrupting an otherwise immaculate lawn; two weeks is not enough time for grass to grow. Seth seemed unaffected as we passed; he smiled as he listened to his radio program, taking no notice of the cemetery, completely unaware of what lay beneath the ground just yards away.

  I say “what” and not “who” because the “who” is sitting right here beside me. I am convinced of that. Well, at least half of the “who” in this case. A tear slid down my cheek as I thought of Ann. Her “who” had moved on, had gone through the door, had left Seth and me, leaving only the “what” – her body – behind. That thought suddenly sparked a surge of anger through my gut, considering the fact that if this storm did not happen, Seth would have been condemned to follow me around, alone and unseen for years, possibly decades.

  This surge of anger frightened and disgusted me at the same time. Did she have a choice? Did she move on believing that Seth was following and he pulled back at the last minute? These were questions that I had no answer for and no
comprehension of. I guess if giving someone the benefit of the doubt was in order, this was a textbook example. Ann was a good mom and would do anything for Seth, of that I had no doubt.

  Passing the cemetery made me realize something. Living people would not want to hang out at a cemetery, so why should the dead be any different? The answer is that they wouldn’t. Seth came home because of his love for me and that is the place where he was happy in life, which is where he belonged. Maybe there are a few people that would be completely content hanging around a cemetery for eternity, probably a very few people. Most would go where they are happy, where they feel safe, where they are familiar … for the most part they would go home.

  At that moment it dawned on me just why the streets are so deserted. It has to be more than just caution, heeding the government’s warnings to stay indoors, but that was only part of it. Besides, who listens to the government anyway? I suspect a lot of them had house guests, unexpected guests.

  As we approached the interstate entrance ramp, I looked over at Seth and noticed his head was lolled back on the seat, the back of his head submerged about an inch into the leather, faint little snores rattled from his mouth. I guess he does sleep. It did not seem logical that a spirit, free of the limitations and weaknesses of the human body, would require sleep. It brought to mind a line from one of my favorite poems by D.H. Lawrence:

  And if tonight my soul may find her peace in sleep, and sink in good oblivion, and in the morning wake like a new-opened flower then I have been dipped again in God, and new-created.

  My mother used to recite that to me frequently before bed. She said that it meant sleep is just as restful to the soul as it is to the body. I don’t know much about poetry and never was a big fan of it, but that passage has stuck with me all these years. Maybe it stuck with me for a reason … the truth of the verse speaks louder now than ever.

  I started to wake him but then I thought better of it. I would let the little guy sleep. I reached over and gently reduced the volume on the radio, then carefully changed the station to our local ABC News affiliate; I wanted to get an update on the situation. What I heard both astounded and troubled me; it was something I had not even remotely considered.