From the Pen of Greg Norgaard, Book 1: Change the Past

by Greg Norgaard

  Chapter 6

  Tom scrounged around the science department for another silver wire. The last one used would be useless. Frantically he sought one in order to complete what he had started. He desperately ran from room to office to janitor’s closet to room to another office until he found one exactly where he had kept them. The piece of wire he found was the wrong length so he measured it out and clipped it down. The end needed a twist up. Instead of looking and finding the pliers he had used before, he used his teeth because there was no time. The coils were then carefully measured.

  It was that damn metal taste in his mouth. It was blood and the actual silver he had bent with his teeth. He wanted to spit but didn’t. That bloody metallic tang.

  Tom kicked the anguish to the forefront. It’s what would get him through what he needed to do. His anger and sadness continued to exist inside a combination of twisted torment that was bound to the fatal thought that this was his only chance.

  What universe is this? With that call Emily made, would this be an alternate universe?

  He reignited a half burned cigarette that was buried in an ashtray spilled to the floor during the curt melee he’d had with Dean Jacobson. He blew smoke into the ceiling as he watched the phone. The smoke penetrated his bloodshot eyes as if it was sucked into to them by vacuum. He blinked his lids hard as his eyeballs had the feeling that they were coated with dried paint. He pointedly ground out the butt into the painted brick of the wall, twisting his thumb and forefinger into the abrasive rock long after the flame had died, scraping off some skin in the process. He eyed the Bakelite telephone and with a serene glare he crossed over to it.

  There it was, dark and with a dial, and a cable that extended out and into the experiment. Tom hovered over the table with a picture of Kathy in his head. Two pictures fought for prominence. One was from his memories of her and it was in color. The other was from his dreams and it was in black and white. He worked to add color but it didn’t happen. He mashed his palms into his eyes.

  “Why are there two?” he snapped.

  Tom turned, walked over to his trench that hung off the coat-rack and pulled a flask from the inside pocket. He took a drink as he moved back to the desk. He set the flask down, pulled keys from his slacks, unlocked the bottom right drawer and lifted a revolver. He cocked the gun and then went back and locked the door and turned out the light.

  Some outside light pierced the space. Early morning sun had become twisted amongst the glow from a dimming street lamp that was then cast into the room as a white beam. The phone glowed black.

  He eyed his wristwatch. It was the watch Kathy had given to him before he had headed to war. No reason. He just wanted to look at it. He didn’t need to time this call. It would be when it would be.

  At the spot, he pulled the chair, set the gun next to the flask and flipped the switch. A smattering of electricity splashed the small window of the wall as the experiment awoke. He let it warm up. The heat permeated through the glass and the concrete. A sickened cracking uttered out from excited wires its willingness to activate.

  He stepped inside the experiment and pulled the spent silver cable wiring from the random bits and bands of metal and replaced it with the new one. His hands were bloody, making the tools and the metal wires slippery. He rubbed his palms on his white shirt as he worked. The pain from the broken sores provided the adrenalin he required.

  Tom then rewired the outflow of the Time Shift Circuit so that it would make the connection to the phone line to his home. The phone line where his wife would, if successful, receive the call.

  The speed of the particle would shoot out now, within the spiraled metal, at the right speed. He knew the call would go through to the time that he had punched into the mechanism. The call would ring just a few precious hours before his wife would leave the house on that dreadful day. Tom also knew that his message would get through. What he didn’t know was whether it would change the past, or if an alternate universe would branch off into a different dimension. It had to work. Maybe. Please. He prayed . . . God . . . please.

  A pain in his chest pulled him to the floor. He wailed out from the strike. It was that same pain that he had felt when he had lain next to Kathy. That very day when she left him alone. By slowing his breathing he managed to get to his feet and finish his work and close the door to the experiment.

  Once at his seat he drank from the flask. He would drink until the container was dry. Sip by sip he got good and loaded. It was a quick process but it was long enough that it gave him time to think. He could think about his outcome if he failed. Tom decided he wouldn’t be ready for that. There was nothing he could do if he failed.

  He stumbled about with his hands, sending the flask to the floor. He attempted to light a cigarette but changed his mind when the blood and the clumsy dexterity of his fingers fought his every move. The wounds had opened up fully as if they were ripe and new. He squeezed his fists, tighter and tighter as he screamed. The blood flowed down his forearms and to the floor as the scars completely yielded to their destiny.

  He paused, released, whispered, “Where’s my pipe?” He said, “Where’s God?”

  He contemplated the question. “Where are you God?” A whimper. “Are you here?”

  Tom sat in the dark for many moments. He contemplated what he was about to attempt. At other moments, he just considered a bullet to the brain. At one moment he even talked himself into calling it a day and just becoming a drunk where he would just wallow in his own ocean of self-misery.

  The black receiver was in his hand; it rested against his ear. He waited for the machine to produce that sound. He almost gave in and hung up, but he could not do it. Then the hum physically moved through his mass. He felt the vibration and adjusted the timing, just like Emily had shown him. The call was about to be made. He dialed the seven, seven times. He heard a click and a clunk. That was the point at which the call was picked up. She was there, listening, waiting, and she was confused. Tom could picture his love standing in the kitchen with the phone to her face saying, ‘Hello, hello?’ and then wondering who was there. Who was on the other end and not saying anything? It twisted his heart.

  Tom was drunk but spoke clearly and soberly into the receiver: “Baby, it’s me, Tom . . . Kathy, don’t leave the house. Don’t go to work, please, Baby, stay home. This is Tom. Don’t go to work. Don’t drive.”

  He breathed yet did all he could not to pause. “Don’t leave the house today. Stay home. Stay home. Stay home, stay--”

  There was a static charged click and then another clunk that was followed by a shredded whistle. Tom sat and stared into the circle that formed the phone’s microphone piece. The light from the window gleamed over the twitching muscles in his face casting a shadow across the table. He bit down hard and closed his eyes. He set the receiver into its cradle. Hesitation crept into his being. Do I feel different? Am I somewhere else? Do I remember what I just did? Should I still be here? Am I here? Where am I? Please God, let me be somewhere else. Let me be with her. Let us be together, alive. Together, that’s the only answer. The only one that I will accept.

  Tom opened his eyes. They were slow to unfold themselves to his destiny. His head did a flip inside his skull. There it was. There it still was. He almost blacked out, but he wavered in the chair, clinging to consciousness. It was the same phone. The same damn telephone. He wasn’t waking up at home next to his wife and child. It was still the damn phone; by God it was the same telephone. He remembered making the call . . . he was not home . . . his wife was still gone . . . his wife was still dead. He remembered making the damn call!

  He bellowed,” I remember the call. Noooo! I remember, I remember, I remember making the call. I remember the call. Why?”

  He buried his head in his arms. He waited. He rested there. He said, “It didn’t work. Why not? Baby, why not? It didn’t work.”

  Confusion was embedded.

  The tears exploded shooting out over the table in every direction. Ov
erflowing with pain, he crumbled, knowing he was ruined. He split in two, right down the middle. Tom had set himself up to be broken, completely. If he could have just let her go. If only he’d been able to say goodbye. He only had himself to blame. He set himself up for this pain. He collapsed in his chair as the suffering became too much to bear. His wet face fell slippery into the palms of his hands. Blood streamed down his wrists from the battered lesions and over his skin. His tears gushed over the busted open scars of his knuckles. The salty water agitated the nerves in the open wounds.

  Tom wailed as he eyed the revolver. Not only was his wife dead but his baby would never be born. The dreams he had had only fueled the desolate feelings. How could he live with the waste and the scourge that would forever wreak havoc on his soul?

  Tom made his decision. It was quick and deliberate. The gun was loaded and cocked, and all he had to do was put it to his temple, hold steady, and pull the trigger.

  He reached for the pistol, and as his hand gripped the butt of the revolver he found himself outside walking in the rain. His trench coat was on and it was soaked. He put one foot in front of the other and kept going. And his hand was empty.

  As he plodded along, the memory of Kathy dead in the street, her body streaked with blood, smashed and frail, flashed across his brain. She was limp and prone on the concrete, but then the dream he’d had of the birth of his baby was there. An image that was once haunting was now comforting.

  A wet river from the sudden downpour flowed past him down the street as it followed the path of the curb. The water then splashed up onto his feet as he stumbled into the gutter. Trees overhead moved with violence as the gusty wind tossed them about. Tom had fallen onto his hands. On all fours, the cold flood of emotion flowed over his heart as the water did the same over his hands and arms and legs. He crawled.

  Tom wept into the quickly flowing water as the clouds dumped on him from above. He was aware but heard no sound from his aching body. There was nothing but the splashing of rain and the grumble of thunder. He was in the gutter and there was an image of his wife in a casket; it sprang into his thoughts with a reminder. It was a reminder of his failure. A knot of disgust formed in his stomach as he breathed and coughed. Phlegm broke from his chest and dripped from his mouth and chin.

  Disappointed, diseased and morbid, he fought to stay alive.

  The house came into view. It was his house. It was the house where he and Kathy spent their Sundays. There it was. It grew closer as he forced his legs to push forth his frame. The house where they would have raised their kids stood in front of him. Tom stumbled his way up the road and across the street then over the sharp curb. He looked up at the sky and dropped to his knees in his front yard and then he laid in the grass. He felt the grass pricks on his tender face.

  Tom slowly pulled himself up and staggered to the porch. He dropped into the front door with his body weight and found himself on the floor of his living room. He felt the carpet with his hands. Tom stopped in the silence to feel the carpet with his fingers. The fibers touched his skin. It was his carpet; such an odd thing to be aware of. Slowly he became aware of the fact that life is a gift. A gift of feeling, the feeling of emotions and touch and sight and sound and smell . . . and then Tom noticed the smell of food.

  “Sweetheart,” said a voice.

  It was quiet.

  There it was, a soft and tender hand that touched his face and then slid into the crook of his arm. He felt secure--safe--as someone lifted him to a sitting position. It had picked him up out of his despair.

  A vision of his wife having a baby flashed over him and it was now in color. It was not in black and white any longer. It was now in color.

  “Sweetie, you okay?” asked Kathy.

  Tom blinked. He focused. It was her. He gently pulled her to his chest, put his hand on her cheek. He blinked in astonishment. He glanced about the room.

  He said, “I just called you. On the phone . . . I just called you.”

  “I’ve been home.”

  “Baby . . . I just called you.”

  Kathy’s eyes recognized the comment and remembered. He kissed her face and pulled her tight as all his memories faded to dreams and his dreams became dead memories.

  “I remember both,” said Tom. “I remember both.”

  The End.

  You have just finished reading

  FROM THE PEN OF GREG NORGAARD:

  CHANGE THE PAST

  by Greg Norgaard

  Edited by Tommy Hancock

  Editor in Chief, Pro Se Productions-Tommy Hancock

  Director of Corporate Operations-Morgan McKay

  Publisher & Pro Se Productions, LLC-Chief Executive Officer-Fuller Bumpers

  Cover Art and Design by Jeff Hayes

  E-book Design by Russ Anderson

  Visit the Pro Se Press website at https://www.prose-press.com for more New Pulp novels and short story collections

  Pro Se Productions, LLC

  133 1/2 Broad Street

  Batesville, AR, 72501

  870-834-4022

  proseproductions@earthlink.net

  https://www.prose-press.com