A Shiver of Wonder

by Daniel Kelley

  A Shiver of Wonder

  By Daniel Kelley

  Copyright © 2014 Daniel Kelley

  www.lastresortmusic.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents and places are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, in whole or in part, without permission in writing from Daniel Kelley.

  Cover design by www.digitaldonna.com

  Daniel Kelley is an author and a music arranger. His novel, Jack and Tilly, the sequel to his short story A Dance with Tilly, was published in November 2015. Nearly 675,000 books of Daniel’s compositions and arrangements have sold worldwide, and over 30,000 of his e-books have captivated readers. With lyricist JoEllen Doering, he also composed the music to the classic holiday song, “It's Christmas Time Again”.

  Daniel mosaics, bakes constantly, annoys practically everyone with puns, is a massive EDM fan, and loves playing games of almost any kind, though Hearts is his current fave. He and his wife Cynthia have three children and too many fish. Adair, Darcy and Adele are the names of the children.

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

  for Mary Rorro, who deserves so much more

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 1

  The day that David Wilcott met himself was a Tuesday. A drizzly Tuesday in mid-May, to be specific. He was both 31 and 58 at the time, and both of his selves had been aware of this meeting beforehand, although obviously the elder David had enjoyed some decades of anticipation as opposed to days.

  The 31-year-old David was only weeks away from moving out of the Rainbow Arms, a once upscale apartment complex that had been his home and refuge for almost two years. The 58-year-old David had spent years trying to forget the Rainbow Arms and nearly everything associated with its comfortable yet dilapidated trappings. He hadn’t found this an easy task, at any age.

  Johnson. The image of Johnson was the first thing to arise in David’s thoughts whenever the Rainbow Arms came to mind. That cherished, loyal, frolicsome chocolate Labrador who loved nothing more than to just accompany him about the streets of Shady Grove, or to chase moths, butterflies, or the occasional bee around the small private courtyard that ran along one side of the property. Johnson was David’s friend, his only companion when the two first moved to Shady Grove, his solace, his sole connection to a past best left behind.

  The Rainbow Arms was situated on Piston Avenue, an east-west thoroughfare approximately a mile and three-quarters south of the downtown district. It was one of several avenues named decades before after the five most prominent men in the town, who in an odd coincidence had also comprised the town council at the time. In an ebullient spurt of growth, Shady Grove had pushed south, flourishing and spreading. Easton, Smithfield, Marion, and Piston Avenues had been anointed, along with the dubiously coined Dr. Longworth Avenue. The town couldn’t have expanded farther north; a series of foothills began to rise just above downtown, and the best views had long ago been commandeered by the elite. Widening to the east or west would have cut too deeply into the farmland of William Marion or Philip Piston. But south had been Smithfield territory, and as the town’s primary industrialist he had been more than eager to build and sell.

  Shady Grove, however, had contracted over time, both in population and in usefulness to the world at large, allowing its outskirts to become dry and desiccated, unclean and a touch unsavory. Piston Avenue was one block north of Easton, the southernmost avenue in the town, but the creeping malaise of dereliction had begun to cast its shadow there as well.

  For David, though, the Rainbow Arms was ideal. While there was little about the building or its grounds that resembled or even so much as inspired the thought of a rainbow, it was quiet, pleasantly nondescript, and both far enough away and close enough to downtown for comfort. David didn’t own a car, so if he needed to be somewhere faster than he and Johnson could walk, the Third Street trolley was an easy two and a half blocks away, and it made the trip to the center of downtown in less than ten minutes.

  The courtyard, with its stone fountain, wooden benches, and drowsy rosebushes, was David’s favorite place to sit and read, or to sit and think while Johnson alternated between lying quietly and amusing himself with attempts to catch an insect. The apartment building itself was indistinguishable from many of its neighbors: two floors, seven units over seven, with a dated lobby and a strip of grass fronting a border of geraniums and ferns to cover the bald spots where the stucco had chipped away. But how many other complexes in Shady Grove could boast a quiet, walled-in garden, and to the side of the building as well? None!

  A dim passageway between units 1E and 1F led to a brief wooden gate. And opening that gate, even after nearly two years of doing so, still brought a pleasurable thrill to David. To the left when one entered was the burbling fountain, four time-cured oak benches, and a confused welter of flowering plants and shrubs. To the right, a wooden fence separated the courtyard from another feature unique to the Rainbow Arms: a caretaker’s cottage, where a man named Bill Lopes had lived and worked for over forty years.

  Bill had been the one to show David the apartment available to rent, 1F. And David had known that he was going to live at the Rainbow Arms within seconds of making Bill’s acquaintance, just outside the tiny lobby.

  “Not a chance in hell,” had been Bill’s opening gambit, mumbled really since he hadn’t bothered to remove the unlit cigar he’d been chewing from his mouth.

  David, who had carefully parked a bright yellow Porsche at the curb before letting Johnson out and ambling toward the man who was wiping down the blades of an old push mower, couldn’t help but blink. “Excuse me?”

  Bill had jerked his head toward the shiny car. “If you’re Wilcott, and who the hell else could you be at eleven in the a.m. with a dog on a Goddamn Wednesday, you ain’t gonna live here, not for shit sure, if that’s your ride.”

  David had taken one glance back at his car and then burst into laughter. And as Bill put down the lawnmower and began to rise, David had answered, “That won’t be my ride as of Saturday, and I sure as shit am going to live here. That is, as long as Johnson agrees.”

  Johnson, who’d looked quizzically upwards at the unaccustomed sound of David’s laughter, hadn’t offered any immediate response.

  “Well, blow me sideways,” Bill had replied. “If that’s the case, I just sure as hell started us off on the wrong footwise, no?”

  David had stuck out a hand,
ignoring the smeary mess on Bill’s. “David Wilcott.”

  They’d shaken. The cigar had been removed. “Bill Lopes. Good ta meetcha.”

  The lease for a small one-bedroom apartment had been signed, Johnson had chased and failed to catch his first bee in the garden courtyard, the Porsche had made three more trips to the Rainbow Arms before disappearing from Shady Grove forever.

  But David had found a home.

  Chapter 2

  While David had enjoyed some odd, even hysterical, moments along his journey, the strangeness in his life truly began with the girl. Clair. No e at the end of this child’s name. An e would have added clarity to her written sobriquet, a girlishness to her as-yet undeveloped femininity. It wouldn’t have changed anything that happened, anything that she was, most likely, but it should have been a clue that something was a touch off-kilter with her, if not massively out of whack.

  Mrs. Rushen was the woman who took care of her. She might have been the girl’s mother… but probably not, as no one had ever seen so much as a document with the words ‘Clair Rushen’ printed on it. Patricia was Mrs. Rushen’s first name, but nobody called her that. Unapproachable to an extreme, she was one of those women cursed with a bland, ageless face, and a dumpy body that could have belonged to a 23-year-old or a 73-year-old.

  No one had ever heard Clair call her by any name.

  David had met Clair in the courtyard. Perusing the Shady Grove Courier late one Sunday afternoon, he’d been stunned to discover a girl standing just a few feet away. Johnson, snoozing, had sounded no alarm, and David hadn’t heard the wooden gate either open or click shut.

  “Hello,” he’d said curiously, folding the newspaper onto his lap.

  “Hi,” had been her simple response. Johnson lifted his head and opened his eyes, but made no move toward her.

  “Do you… live here?” David asked.

  “Not yet. But tonight I will,” she answered.

  David studied her: a stilted answer from a queer little girl who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. With neat dark hair hanging straight to her shoulders, a lilac sweater buttoned over a floral print dress, and a pair of saddle shoes on her feet, she could have stepped straight out of a 1950s photograph. Her eyes were dark as well, frank and unwavering as she gazed back at him.

  “I’m David,” was what he tried next.

  “I’m Clair,” she answered immediately, without inflection.

  Johnson still hadn’t risen, a peculiarity David’s subconscious was processing. Normally he’d be all over a newcomer, sniffing and circling, tail wagging as he assayed a potential playmate.

  Clair hadn’t moved either. Who wears saddle shoes these days? David wondered as he gathered his newspaper and set it beside him on the bench.

  “How old are you?” he asked aloud.

  “How old do you think I am?” she rejoined with the merest whisper of a smile.

  And again, David found himself scrutinizing her. She had a six-year-old’s height and frame, but those clothes, and the direct manner in which she spoke… “Are you seven? Eight?” he asked.

  Her smile grew. “I’m in first grade,” she said. But that was all she offered. And then the garden was quiet except for the trickle of water in the fountain, and the singsong of a pair of birds concealed in one of the bushes.

  “First grade,” David repeated, slowly nodding his head as though her few words had opened up a world of hidden meaning to him. And he would have stupidly repeated this again if his trance hadn’t been broken by a click of the latch as the gate was pushed open.

  “Clair.” A woman stepped into the garden, shapeless in a drab, ankle-length skirt and a limp top. Johnson had stood up, but once again didn’t approach the stranger. “Clair, I asked you to wait for me in the courtyard.”

  Clair hadn’t turned. Her eyes were still locked on David’s as she answered, “I am waiting. And I am waiting for you in the courtyard. Aren’t I, David?”

  David looked back and forth between them, suddenly confused as to how he had transitioned from reading the Shady Grove Courier to becoming a mediator between two females he’d never laid eyes on before.

  “Um… we do call this the courtyard,” he stated equably. His gaze shifted to the woman. “You probably meant the common area just beyond the lobby, but there isn’t really a name for that. Though I suppose in most buildings that would be the courtyard. But here…” And once again he found himself looking at Clair. “…here, we call this the courtyard. How did you know that?” he then asked the girl directly.

  But Clair didn’t answer. The woman had stepped forward to take hold of her arm.

  “Bye, David,” Clair had uttered quietly just before the two of them turned to exit the garden.

  And within seconds, David and Johnson were alone again, with the click of the closing latch adding finality to the brief encounter.

  ~*~*~*~*~

  That had been a year and a half into David’s tenure at the Rainbow Arms. It was another two weeks before he saw Clair once more, and yet again she had thrown him a curveball.

  This time, he met the two of them in the common area.

  “Oh, hello!” he said brightly. He and Johnson had gone for their usual morning walk, and they were passing the mailboxes in the lobby when he spotted two pairs of shoes descending the stairs that led to the second floor. One pair of light brown, practical flats, and one pair of polished saddle shoes.

  “Hi, David,” Clair said. She smiled at him, a real smile this time.

  The woman was not smiling. David and Johnson were blocking the way out, and she’d halted unhappily before them.

  “I’m David,” David said, “and this is Johnson.” He tried to catch her eye. “We’ve met Clair, but I didn’t have time to introduce myself the other day.”

  The woman was clearly uncomfortable, peering over his shoulder toward Piston Avenue, glancing to the right and left as though seeking alternate routes of escape. “My name is Mrs. Rushen,” she said to no one in particular. “Good to make your acquaintance. Clair is going to be late for school.” Her eyes hadn’t once alit on David’s countenance.

  Clair reached out to touch Mrs. Rushen’s arm. The woman immediately looked at her. “I like David,” Clair said. “We won’t be late. I was four minutes early yesterday, and we left at the same time as today.”

  David noted that once again, Johnson was neither eager to inspect the pair nor afraid of them. He was calm, cool, and collected. At three years of age, perhaps his skittish years were finally behind him.

  Mrs. Rushen had nodded.

  Clair looked directly into David’s eyes. “You have a girlfriend,” she stated.

  He chuckled. Mrs. Rushen gave Clair a funny look, but remained silent.

  “Yes. Sort of,” David answered.

  “Well, which one?” Clair asked with a directness that, considering her appearance, was disarming.

  He took a breath. “Yes, I guess. Most of the time. Sort of, because sometimes we’re… well, we’re just not…” As he had in the courtyard two weeks before, David found that he couldn’t quite grasp how the conversation had swerved in the direction it had. “How did you know about her?” he asked.

  “I like her name,” was Clair’s answer.

  Mrs. Rushen appeared unperturbed. David, however, was more than confused. “Her name?” he parroted. Johnson glanced at him; his two words had come out more strained than befuddled.

  Clair’s smile returned. A hand rose to brush her bangs to the side. “The pronunciation. Zhahn-vee-ev. Not Ge-ne-vieve, but Gen-vi-eve. I like it better that way.”

  David could only gawk at her. What was this, a joke? Mrs. Rushen had noticed his discomfort, and she once more began fidgeting as her eyes sought the street.

  The smile had evaporated. A look of concern made Clair appear older, much older.

  “We need to go,” intoned Mrs. Rushen.

  “I’m sorry, David. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” said Clair as Mrs. Rushen began moving
forward. David and Johnson both backed out of her way.

  “I’m not frightened,” David replied briskly, unsure of what exactly he was. “I just… you just surprised me, is all.”

  As she strode by with Mrs. Rushen lightly gripping her arm, the smile peeked out again. “I do that sometimes,” Clair said. “I never mean to.”

  But then she was halfway through the lobby, and on the concrete walkway that led to the sidewalk. And within seconds, the pair had turned right, heading toward Fifth Street and presumably the elementary school at the corner of Marion and Fifth.

  David stood frozen in place, his eyes locked on Piston Avenue, on the spot where Clair and Mrs. Rushen had just disappeared. How could she know about Genevieve? Where could a child who had just moved to the building with an asocial automaton like Mrs. Rushen have picked up the name of David’s on-and-off girlfriend?

  Of course, Clair’s voice was that of a child, but her words were those of a much older, much stranger, girl.

  And she hadn’t answered his question. Again. Just like when she hadn’t answered his question about her age. An oblique reply, as if she were responding to a different query, or just imparting information that she wished to impart, never mind what had elicited the response.

  But she ‘liked’ David. Just as she ‘liked’ the way Genevieve’s name was pronounced.

  David had shivered, and headed to his apartment for a shower.

  Chapter Three

  The death that brought Detective Ormsby to the Rainbow Arms occurred on a Wednesday, four months after Clair and Mrs. Rushen moved into the building, and two weeks before David Wilcott’s encounter with his elder self.

  David’s first indication that something had happened was a pounding on his door at six a.m. the following morning. And if the sound of a fist clobbering the apartment’s front door hadn’t been enough to rouse him, Johnson’s subsequent barking fit while he threw himself at the bedroom door was.

  “Okay, boy. Okay,” David moaned as once again the hammering outside began. He made his bleary way through the living room. “Seriously? At six o’clock?”