by Harmon, Amy
He didn’t respond to that, and Maggie turned, pacing away from him for a moment.
“Have we ever danced?”
She spun around and looked at him, her mouth agape. “Why? Did you remember something?”
“Have we ever danced?” he shot back, repeating the question.
“Yes,” Maggie breathed. “We’ve danced. I love to dance. You said you used to watch me. Then one night you actually danced with me. You’re a good dancer. Do you remember that?”
He turned away and braced his hands on the hood of the Camry. “I had a dream where I was dancing with you….but it wasn’t the way you describe. In the dream it was still 1958. Everything in the dream was true to life – except you. But it hasn’t faded like dreams do. It feels like a memory. But how could that be? Unless you were around in 1958?” He looked at her and raised one eyebrow in question.
She shook her head. “No.” Only in her dreams.
“Yeah. I didn’t think so.” He leaned under the hood and began to scope out the inner workings of the Camry. Maggie watched him for a minute. Maybe, like her, he had heard all he could for the moment.
“I brought something for you,” she offered after several minutes.
He didn’t respond but kept tinkering with this and that.
“It’s a scrapbook from the years you were gone. It belonged to Roger Carlton. He could never come to grips with your disappearance; he was a little obsessed with it.”
“How did you get your hands on it?”
“We found it a while back. He’s been dead over a year now. He was married to my aunt....Irene Honeycutt. I think you knew her.”
“Irene Honeycutt is your aunt?” His voice was incredulous, and he stood up so fast he banged his head on the Camry’s raised hood.
Deja vu slammed into Maggie. They had had this conversation once before, only that time it had involved Irene’s car. The words were almost exact, including Maggie’s next response.
“My great aunt. Her sister was my grandmother.”
“Your great aunt…” Johnny repeated slowly. Maggie remembered how he had tweaked her braid the last time. She guessed that part of the conversation would not repeat itself.
Johnny slowly straightened and walked back to where Maggie held the big book out in front of her. He took it from her gingerly and began to flip through the pages slowly, one by one. He sank into the chair Maggie had vacated, so Maggie rummaged around until she found a bucket she could sit on and pulled it close to him, watching him as he read, following along as he turned the pages of the worn scrapbook.
He stared at the headings and the pictures, shaking his head in disbelief. His breath came faster and faster, and Maggie feared he would hurl the book across the garage. She reached to take it from him when suddenly he flipped to the back where the pictures were inserted in neat little rows.
“Where did he get these?” He traced the picture of himself standing with his mother and Billy at graduation. “I haven’t even seen some of these.”
“He had police reports and all kinds of stuff. Irene hadn’t ever seen the book. We’re not sure where he got them.”
“Look at that….that’s me and Peggy at the Prom.” His voice trailed off as he stared at the picture. “There’s another one – you can see Carter there in the background. He sure had a thing for Peggy. I think that’s your aunt right there.” He pointed at a photo, and Maggie leaned toward him to look. Sure enough, the photographer had captured a group of young people in sports coats, bow ties, and ball gowns sitting around an oval table with a seashell centerpiece. Irene was smiling brightly into the camera; Roger had his arm slung possessively around her shoulders.
“Huh…” Maggie frowned. “She told me her dress was red. I could have sworn she said red. This photo may be black and white, but that dress definitely isn’t red.”
Johnny jerked the book from her hands and stared down at the photo. His eyes widened perceptibly as he drank in the details of the picture of the smiling teens. He sat frozen for several heartbeats and then slammed the book closed and tossed it rudely at Maggie. Jumping up from the chair, he paced back and forth between the two cars with their mawing hoods, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He was a bundle of nervous energy, and everything she said just seemed to make him angry.
“Johnny?” Maggie asked softly. He didn’t respond. After a moment she resumed talking. “I don’t know what to do or say. You saved Shad’s life…Gus told you about that, didn’t he?” Johnny jerked his head in affirmation. “And you saved my life. Something happened that night; somehow you escaped Purgatory. I can’t explain it, but….” Maggie took a deep breath and plunged on. He deserved to know how she felt. “I think you made a choice. You chose life and all the ugly hard things that go with it, even though Heaven would have been easier.”
Johnny had stopped pacing and was facing her, his feet spread, his hands clenching the greasy rag like it was a lifeline. Maggie looked down at her own hands so she wouldn’t have to watch him watching her. She didn’t see him cross toward her, but suddenly he was there, in front of her. He tossed the rag to the floor and reached for her, gripping her by the shoulders and pulling her to her feet. Johnny’s eyes were bright with unshed tears, and for a moment Maggie thought he would break down. His hands were big, and it hurt where his fingers dug into her flesh. He was almost panting as he spat out his next words.
“You think I chose this life?” Maggie stared at him stonily, willing herself not to flinch.
“Did I love you, Maggie?” She didn’t respond.
“Did I love you?!” Johnny cried. She nodded mutely, and shut her eyes against his belligerent gaze.
“Did I kiss you, Maggie?” His voice dropped to a whisper. Maggie’s lips trembled at the mocking in his voice.
“Yes. You did!” Maggie meant to mock back, but her voice betrayed her and broke on the last word, revealing her hurt.
He pulled her close to him then and buried his face in the crook of her neck. He folded her in his arms so tightly she thought she would have to push him away to breathe….and she didn’t want to push him away, though she knew he held her not out of love, but out of desperation. Johnny lifted his head and whispered hoarsely, his eyes on her mouth, his lips only inches from hers.
“If I kiss you now, do you think I’ll remember? Do you think the world will suddenly make sense? That I will remember that choice? That maybe the last fifty years will come back to me?”
Maggie glared at him, willing him to release her, yet wanting him to kiss her, and hating herself for it. Johnny gripped her even tighter in response. Then he dipped his head until his lips brushed hers softly, so softly. Maggie shuddered and he stiffened. She thought surely now he would push her away. Instead, he lowered his mouth again, this time parting her lips with his and holding her face in one of his hands. Johnny’s kiss was warm and insistent, and it was at once familiar and yet completely brand new…his lips on hers, his taste in her mouth, his scent engulfing her. For a moment, she melted into him, letting the fire in her belly burn away the pain, letting him kiss her, and kissing him back. But there was no love in his kiss. And that made him a stranger; it was a stranger’s kiss. The realization hurt her pride, and Maggie fought her way out of Johnny’s arms and pushed him away as angrily as he’d pulled her to him. He let her go, and for several minutes neither of them spoke.
It was Maggie who finally broke the silence and approached him once more, shoving her hands into her pockets, mirroring his stance. “I’m so sorry, Johnny. I know you don’t want to be here. I know none of this makes sense. The craziest part of it all is….you were willing to give your life for me…what was left of it at least. But as much as I want you, I can’t expect you to live your life for me, or to live your life with me. I wanted to be with you so bad. I would have stayed with you in that school, because I was more afraid of losing you than I was of the fire. I thought it was the only way we could be together. But you wouldn’t let me stay.”
Jo
hnny turned away from her, rejecting her, dismissing her appeal. Maggie felt her heart shatter. She finished her plea in a broken whisper.
“But I would have chosen you too; and I haven’t forgotten. Not one second. Not one minute. Not one kiss.” And then, picking up the scrapbook from the concrete floor and setting it in his hands, she turned and walked out of the garage. She walked away from the Johnny who no longer knew her or loved her, out into the grey future to the car that had weathered the decades while Johnny wandered in Purgatory. He didn’t come after her.
~6~
A Time to Build Up
Johnny had treated Maggie badly. He wasn’t sure why. She had made him angry. Again, he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the fact that she knew him – or some version of him – that Johnny couldn’t remember or hardly believe. When she told him he used to read to her, he had almost laughed out loud. He didn’t like to read. In fact, he hated it…didn’t he? The problem is, as soon as she said it Johnny remembered just the previous day when he had been wandering though Jillian’s house, at a loss of what to do with himself. He’d had the sudden urge to pull several books down from her overflowing shelves and dive in. He had even grabbed a copy of a book called A Tale of Two Cities, and before he had even opened it, he knew what the first words were…verbatim. He had opened it fearfully and read in growing horror. He knew the story…..with his eyes closed. He may have known more, but he’d flung the book across the room, breaking its binding. The cover had fallen off, and Jillian had looked pained when he’d shown her. It was one of her favorites, apparently. He’d felt like a heel. Then she told him it had once belonged to him. She said his mother had given it to him for graduation. There was an inscription inside the front cover.
May, 1958
To Johnny,
May it always be the best of times,
Love, Momma
Since he had been released from the hospital he’d spent most of his time in the garage with his car. Jillian had said his mother had never been able to part with it. She had kept it all these years – having Gene give it periodic tune-ups, keeping it in running shape. It was the only time he’d felt a glimmer of happiness since this whole horror show had begun. Plus, it had given him something to do. Then he had spent his time looking under the hood of Jillian’s car. There was no carburetor, and everything was smaller. Jillian said many things were computerized in cars nowadays. Then she had to show him a computer. When he’d touched it, a spark shot out from his finger tip and it had shorted out. Jillian had groaned. She’d been able to get it started up again, but as soon as he had touched it, it shorted out once more. He’d decided to stay away. He had been careful to not mess with her car – other than to change the oil and just look. So far the car still worked – computer and all, although he had been told he now had enough money to buy whatever he wanted, including a new car if he destroyed Jilllian’s.
Chief Bailey, with funds from Mayor Carlton and assistance from the the president of Honeyville Bank and Trust, had helped his mother set up an account that would provide reward money for information about his disappearance, but it would also collect interest and be available to Johnny if he ever came home. Dolly Kinross had always believed he would. When it became her responsibility, Jillian Bailey had minded the money religiously. She had happily informed him it was now his. There was over a million dollars in the account.
Now his thoughts slid back to Maggie. She wasn’t the kind of girl he usually went for. She wore big glasses, and she seemed kind of feisty. He’d always liked his ladies blonde, agreeable, and a little on the full-figured side. Maggie’s hair was dark and her frame maybe too slender, although he’d had to readjust his thinking when he’d seen her today. She moved like a dancer; she was graceful and lithe, and if he hadn’t been so distracted and irrationally angry, he might have liked to just watch her move, surreptitiously of course. She was funny, too. His mouth twitched a little, remembering....donut seeds. He had been in no mood to give into her attempts to make him smile, but he smiled now as he thought of her dopey jokes.
He hadn’t meant to grab her, or to kiss her for that matter. He had wanted her to tell him what she knew. But everything she said just made him more confused. He felt so out of control; and she was so infuriating, the way she looked at him like she understood what he was going through. Worst of all, she was in love with him. He could see it all over her face. And then he had seen that picture in the book she’d shown him. The picture of Irene in what appeared to be a peach dress, just like in his dream. Not red. And Maggie had commented on it too. All at once he had been suspicious that the universe was playing tricks on him, like his existence was just a wall of cards and any minute it would come crashing down and he would lose another fifty years.
It was then that he’d grabbed Maggie and held on. He had mocked her and teased her. But it was to cover his fear and to give himself an excuse to hold her tighter. She had felt good in his arms. Her taste was sweet on his lips, and he had forgotten for a moment that none of it was real. She had pushed him away, but not without kissing him back first.
She said she loved him. She said she would help him. But Johnny was fast coming to the realization that he was way beyond help. He was in quicksand up to his neck, and he was sinking fast. He almost welcomed the thought of oblivion and wished the end would come quickly.
***
Since the night of the fire that destroyed Honeyville High School, the town had scrambled to make arrangements for the 600 students that had been misplaced by the fire. Before the fall of 1958 and the erection of the new school, Honeyville High School had been located on Main Street. The original buildings still stood, but they had been renovated and were now used as city buildings, including a library, a senior citizens center, and a courthouse. The old school gymnasium had been used as a recreation center for the past fifty years, getting a face-lift every so often to keep it safe and habitable.
The school board and Mayor Pratt, along with the teachers and administrators of the high school, decided the best course of action would be to move the students back to the “old” high school for the time being, as it was the only facility large enough to accommodate the entire student body.
A new courthouse and county jail had been completed earlier in the year, and the city had planned on demolishing the building that had housed both the court and the city jail, now almost 100 years old. Instead, the space was reverted back to a high school and all the city functions were moved to the new court house, along with a few trailers and portables for the police station and other various displaced city offices. The people of Honeyville would have to do without a library and a rec center during school hours. The original high school cafeteria had been remodeled into a senior center long ago, so the old folks were misplaced during the day as well, relinquishing their space for its original purpose. In just a matter of weeks, a temporary high school was pulled together, and Maggie and her classmates were back at school. There were no lockers, very few computers, lots of thrown together work spaces and mismatched desks, but it was functional, and Maggie was glad to get back to some sort of steady routine.
Gus had moved to the new/old school with the rest of the high school staff, and Maggie still cleaned after hours, collecting trash in strange rooms and unfamiliar hallways, trying to pretend nothing had changed. But things had changed; Maggie felt the shift within herself was almost as noticeable as her altered surroundings. Maybe it was the age of the old school, or Maggie’s heightened sensitivities since the fire, but on more than one occasion she had seen glimpses of people and events long since past. There were no lunch ladies at the temporary Honeyville High cafeteria – the facilities weren’t sufficient, so students just brought lunches from home, but Maggie had seen a lunch lady with a white kerchief covering her hair, wearing a truly ancient pair of sturdy shoes and an apron covered dress, dishing up huge portions of nothing on tray after tray to kids who no longer lined up at her cafeteria window. One morning before dance practice she’d se
en a boy in canvas sneakers and outdated shorts standing at the free-throw line, tossing up a ball that made no sound as it bounced off the gymnasium floor. The frequency of the sightings was unnerving, but Maggie attempted to ignore them as best she could. Usually, they blinked out in a matter of seconds, and Maggie was never truly frightened by them.
Dance team practices resumed, but the team now had to meet before school in the old gymnasium, and many of the girls complained about the rough floors and poor lighting. Maggie didn’t care as long as she could dance and, in dancing, lose herself for an hour or two. Region competition came and went, and then state. Then morning dance rehearsals were no longer scheduled as the end of the year drew close, but Maggie continued to come early before school, turning on the music and finding solace in the movement and a measure of joy in the quiet of the old gymnasium.
That morning she docked her iPod in her portable player and warmed up to a random selection, moving with whatever came out of the speakers. When one of Johnny’s old favorites filled the room, she moved to turn it off, hating the rush of emotion the music caused, hating that the song was ruined for her.
But she hesitated a breath too long, and the melody wrapped itself around her, almost begging for a second chance, and she found herself swaying in surrender. Up on her toes and down on her knees, stretching her limbs in silky supplication, she moved over the old wooden floors where many had danced before her. Her eyes were closed, allowing her to concentrate on the movement, and she didn’t see the room around her shift and slide into some place new, but she heard the music swell and change as the song came alive in living color.
Suddenly figures were swirling around her, faces smiling, skirts billowing, couples spinning and twirling to the music she had lost herself in. She stood under a huge fishing net filled with balloons and dripping with silver and gold stars. A band in matching sport coats sang to her left, but the sound she heard was not in sync with the moving lips of the lead singer or the flying sticks of the cheerful drummer, as if the soundtrack of time was disconnected with the picture playing out in front of her. It made her slightly dizzy, and she turned from the band, looking out across the floor that was now filled with ghostly dancers. A banner hung on the back wall proclaiming the theme of the occasion. “Under the Sea – Prom 1958.”