The Widow's Walk

by Robert Barclay

  When she began crying quietly again, Garrett simply let it happen. He couldn’t begin to know how much she was hurting. Perhaps even worse, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. Seeing her husband perish that way must have been like hearing about his death for the very first time. He also realized that she was quite probably the only woman in history who had first heard about her husband’s demise, and was then forced to go back in time and actually witness it.

  But why? he kept wondering. Why were all of these things happening to them? Why was he the only person on earth who could see and hear her? Had he been specifically chosen for some reason? And if so, why him?

  “You are right,” she finally said. “At long last, I do have my answers about Adam. I was sometimes tempted into thinking that he might have survived that day, even though by this time he would of course be long dead. And now that I know he’s actually gone . . .”

  Garrett nodded. He wanted to sympathize with her, and see her through this crisis as best he could. But at the same time he couldn’t help thinking that with Adam truly gone, she might at last feel free to love him.

  Then he sighed and shook his head a little as he realized how selfish he was being. This wasn’t about him; it was about her and her feelings, and he would do everything in his power to help her through it. If she came to love him, so be it. And if not . . .

  “I cannot know why this is happening to us, Garrett,” she said. “Nor do I know how all of this is going to end. But we must find our answers soon, because after this most recent flashback, I have come to realize something. Do not ask me how I know, I just do.”

  “And what is that?”

  Before answering, Constance wrung her hands worriedly.

  “We are running out of time,” she finally answered.

  Chapter 21

  That evening Garrett stared out his college office window, watching the students pass by. There were so many of them, each one preoccupied with his or her own little world. He could still easily remember his own times here, first as an undergraduate student, and then later as both a master’s and Ph.D. candidate. He had loved those days, and compared to now they seemed blissfully carefree. Part of the reason for that, he knew, was that he loved learning and it had always come easily to him.

  While letting go a sigh, he returned to his desk and sat down. The clock on his desk said five minutes to six, and he would have a visitor soon.

  His flashback with Constance on the deck of the Intrepid had seriously rattled them both. Again, the experience was far more real than any dream he had ever known. It was as if the two of them had actually been aboard that ship, and when they were thrown overboard, he was certain that they would die. The entire thing had been a terrible and awe-inspiring experience. But then they had each awakened safely back in the dining room at Seaside, both of them dry as a bone and with exactly the same memory of what had just occurred. He desperately needed to find out what was happening to them, and that was why he was here in his office tonight. Just then came the anticipated knock on his office door.

  “Come in,” Garrett called out.

  John Jacobs opened the door and stepped tentatively into the office.

  “You asked to see me?” he asked.

  “Yes, John,” Garrett answered. “Please come in and sit down.”

  As John took one of the guest chairs opposite the desk, Garrett could see that the young man was nervous. Garrett could easily understand that, because it wasn’t every day a student was unexpectedly summoned to one of his professors’ offices. John sat tenuously on the edge of his chair, as if it might suddenly bite him.

  “Have I done something wrong?” John asked nervously. “If this is about my last paper, I know I made a few mistakes, but—”

  Garrett quickly waved one hand, cutting John off.

  “No, no,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong. I’ve asked you here because I was wondering if you would like to take on a little project for some extra credit. If you’re too busy right now, I can certainly understand. But if you could help me out with this, I would greatly appreciate it.”

  Obviously relieved, John finally relaxed a bit. He was a tall and lanky young man in his midtwenties, with closely cropped, dark hair. He always gave Garrett the impression that when the good Lord made John, all God had left at his disposal was sinew, bones, and sharp angles. John was a Ph.D. candidate, one of the few Garrett had known with that rare combination of both an artistic and an analytical side. So much so, in fact, that once the young man completed his studies, Garrett was considering asking him to join his firm. Most important of all, Garrett trusted him.

  “What can I do for you?” John asked.

  Garrett leaned back in his chair.

  “I need some research done,” he said. “And I think you’re just the guy for it. But first, I need to tell you that this must be accomplished with discretion. Anything you find out, you bring to me, and me alone. Got it?”

  “What sort of information do you need?”

  “I’m going to try my hand at writing a novel,” he answered. “It’s going to be about a person who gets trapped in time between the worlds of heaven and hell. You don’t really need to know anything more about it than that, John. But what I do need from you is a list of people who may be experts in such things—psychics, mediums, soothsayers, or anybody else that can shed some light on the topic for me. Then bring the list back here to me, and I’ll take it from there. In return, I’ll exempt you from your next paper.”

  “How much time do I have?” John asked.

  “I know this is short notice,” Garrett said, “but I’d like to have the distilled list one week from now.” He took a few moments to open his schedule and flip through it. “Shall we say, one week from today?”

  “Sure,” John answered. “I can do that.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you how to get started,” Garrett added, “but I’m assuming that Web browsing will be your best bet, at least at first. And John, please make sure that you do a good job of weeding out all the weirdos, okay? I don’t have time to deal with crystal ball gazers and tarot card readers. I want only people who are legitimate sources—hopefully academics, if possible, whose credentials can be verified.”

  “I understand, professor,” John answered. “And I thank you for putting your trust in me. I’ll do my best. Truth is, it kind of sounds like fun.”

  Garrett smiled.

  “Great,” he said. “In that case, I’ll see you back here, one week from today. And, John, if you run into any snags or have any questions, just give me a call here on my office phone and leave a message.”

  John stood from his chair.

  “Anything else?”

  Garrett shook his head.

  “Nope,” he said. “Just bring me a good list, okay?”

  “Will do.”

  With that, John left the office and closed the door behind him.

  Satisfied, Garrett returned to the office window. Nothing out there had changed during the course of his discussion with John, just as he knew it would not. In his experience, every university had a sort of sameness to it, a kind of commonality that he had found boring, yet endearing at the same time.

  After thinking about it, he had decided that putting one of his brightest students on this problem was his best option. The work would go faster, and once he had a distilled list, he could start making phone calls to try and find someone who actually might be of help to him and Constance. He hadn’t enjoyed misleading John about supposedly writing a novel, but there had been no alternative. The only question was—what would John find in all his searching?

  Only time will tell, Garrett thought. But if Constance and I are to ever discover a way out of this, that list had better hold somebody who can help us, and help us quickly.

  Chapter 22

  One week later, Garrett again sat in his college office, glumly staring down at the list of ten names that had been supplied to him by John Jacobs. Garrett had alread
y called six of them, each one proving useless. Thinking, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

  It wasn’t his student’s fault, he knew. If anybody could have provided a list of people who might be of potential use, it was John. The six people Garrett had already called were very different from one another in their approach to all things metaphysical. One of the men, whose gravelly voice suggested that he was well into his eighties, seemed to immediately forget whatever Garrett told him. Another of them, a woman this time, had seemed promising until she started asking Garrett about his marital status. And yet another man suggested that Garrett take up astrology and examine the stars for his answers, because such knowledge could only come from God himself.

  Sighing, Garrett looked at the next name on the list, a woman from some remote village in Oregon. He punched in the number and talked to her for a time, only to discover that she too could not help him. When the last three people on the list proved no better, he finally tore up the sheet of paper and unceremoniously dropped the pieces into his wastebasket.

  Garrett was becoming extremely discouraged. He and Constance seemed to be up against something that they simply could not understand, much less find any way to escape. More and more now it was not only Constance for whom he worried, but also for himself. There had been no flashbacks for a week, but something in Garrett’s heart told him that there would be more of them, provided a solution to their bewildering problem wasn’t found.

  Feeling the need to move, Garrett stood from his chair and began quietly pacing back and forth before the office windows, thinking. After a time he stopped, folded his arms across his chest, and again looked down at the many students continuously scurrying here and there. Just then he saw a professor he recognized, presumably on his way back to his office. Garrett knew this man well, and he suddenly realized that he might actually have some answers, or at the very least point him in the right direction.

  Why didn’t I think of him sooner? he thought. He’s nearing retirement, but he’s still sharp as a tack and just might be able to help.

  Smiling lightly, Garrett realized that this was the first true ray of hope he had encountered since this bizarre episode started. He returned to his desk and waited for another ten minutes or so before calling him. When the other man picked up the phone, Garrett greeted him happily, and then asked for an appointment. When the fellow agreed, Garrett hung up the phone and smiled.

  Chapter 23

  As Garrett and Constance crossed the grounds of Boston College, he smiled widely at her apparent amazement at seeing the campus. By now the two of them had become proficient enough at avoiding other people that they could walk side by side, which also made discreet communication far easier.

  While they walked, Garrett kept reminding himself that Constance was no longer totally a woman of antebellum times. Conversely, neither was she a woman totally of modern times, and nothing could have sufficiently prepared her for venturing out into the real world. She was the product of more than seventeen decades, he realized, and he would always do his best to respect that.

  It was a cool and crisp Tuesday afternoon, the trees still shedding their leaves as they prepared for winter’s onslaught. They were on their way to meet Dr. Jim Baker, a professor and a friend of Garrett’s.

  As Garrett and Constance walked toward the building that housed Jim’s office, Garrett couldn’t help but notice how intently Constance was watching the other young women. Although she had seen many women at the mall the other day, these females were different in that they were actually attending college. Because such a thing was unheard of back in Constance’s time, he could well imagine her amazement, which also caused him to wonder if she was jealous. At last he decided that she probably was not, because despite all that she had endured, she was perhaps the most grounded woman he had ever known.

  As they approached the building, Garrett said, “Is there any particular way that you want to handle this? I’ve been in Jim’s office before, and I know that there are two guest chairs opposite his desk, so I assume that I will sit in one and you will sit in the other. And I also suppose that you will be free to talk to me, because he won’t be able to see or hear you. So if there’s anything you want to say to me, or if there’s any question that you want me to ask, please tell me, because I have a feeling that I’m going to need you in there.”

  Constance nodded.

  “I only hope that he can help us,” she said. “And like you said before, if he is unable to help, then perhaps he can point us toward someone who can.”

  When they entered the building, the halls were filled with students, some of who greeted Garrett. As they went, Constance slipped in behind Garret like she had done at the mall, so as to help avoid running into anyone. At last they found themselves at Jim Baker’s door, where a small brass plaque read: DR. JAMES BAKER, PH.D., PROFESSOR OF AMERICAN HISTORY. Garrett knocked and soon heard Jim welcome him inside.

  As they walked into the office, Garrett held his breath for a moment, wondering if by some chance Jim might sense Constance’s presence. When Jim did not, Garrett breathed a little sigh of relief. Walking across the floor, the two men shook hands heartily. After exchanging a few pleasantries, Garrett took the guest seat on Jim’s right, and Constance took the other.

  Jim’s office was larger than Garrett’s, with a more spacious window that looked out onto the quad. Garrett had always been envious of his friend’s dark-paneled bookcases, hardwood floor, and huge antique mahogany desk.

  Dr. Jim Baker was a large and jovial man. He was beloved by his students for his pleasant nature and for not taking himself too seriously. His gray hair was thinning, which he had complemented with a neatly trimmed beard. His glasses, which hung from a string about his neck, were only for reading.

  Smiling again, Jim leaned forward and put his palms flat upon his desk.

  “Now then,” he said, “what is it that a lowly history professor can do for the famous wunderkind of the architecture department?”

  “Truth be known,” Garrett answered, “I’m going to try my hand at writing a novel.”

  Jim raised his eyebrows.

  “Impressive,” he said. “Architect and novelist. And after that you’ll compose your first symphony, I suppose? Just kidding, Garrett. But in all honesty, shouldn’t you be talking to somebody in the English department?”

  “Nope,” Garrett answered. “You’re exactly who I need to see.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ve gotten it into my head that I want to write a novel about someone who should have died but was instead trapped between life and death for some unknown reason. I was hoping that given your expertise in American mysticism, you might have some knowledge of such things, or could maybe point me toward someone else who might be able to help. What I really need is background information. I know that I’ve got a lot on my plate right now, and starting a novel is the last thing I need to be doing. But I’ve got this idea in my head, and I need to get it out and onto paper.”

  Jim nodded judiciously.

  “Although I’ve never tried my hand at writing a novel,” he said, “I know the feeling well. It was like that when I wrote my Ph.D. dissertation. I’d get an idea, and I just had to write it down before I lost it.”

  “Exactly,” Garrett answered.

  “Most people don’t know it,” Jim said, “but American history is replete with mysticism, spells, magic, and all manner of weird things. From the witch trials at Salem, to the vampires that once supposedly inhabited New Orleans, and the many esoteric practices of Native Americans, there is literally too much information to absorb. The class I teach about such things barely scratches the surface. But other than vampirism, I can’t say that I’m overly familiar with what you’re suggesting.”

  “Question him more about Salem,” Constance said to Garrett.

  At first, Garrett had to fight the inclination to turn and look at her because she had been so quiet until now, and he had almost forgotten that she was
there. After shifting a little bit in his chair, he looked back at Jim.

  “You mentioned Salem,” Garrett said. “Can you think of anything in that history that you believe could help me?”

  “No, but I know someone who might.”

  Jim opened his laptop and brought up his contacts list. After searching through the list for a few moments, he came upon the name he wanted and wrote the particulars down on a pad. He tore the page off the pad and handed it to Garrett. Garrett read the information then looked back at Jim questioningly.

  “Dr. Brooke Wentworth?” he asked. “Sounds positively regal.”

  “I know,” Jim answered with a smile. “Truth be told, Brooke and I were once pretty close, if you know what I mean. Anyway, for my money, she’s the foremost authority I know in the kind of things that you’re talking about.”

  Garrett looked back down at the piece of paper Jim had given him. It listed the woman’s name and phone number. It’s not much, he thought, but at least it’s a place to start.

  “Brooke, huh?” Garrett asked, half to himself.

  “Yep,” Jim answered. “As best I know, she’s the world authority.”

  “Okay, then,” Garrett said. “And just where do I find her?”

  Jim smiled and leaned forward a little more.

  “Why, in Salem, my friend,” he answered. “Where else?”

  Chapter 24

  The following morning was dark and rainy, causing Garrett to drive carefully as he and Constance headed north to keep their appointment with Dr. Wentworth. Under normal conditions the drive from New Bedford would run about two hours, but because of the heavy rain he expected it to take longer. Despite Dr. Wentworth’s Ph.D., Garrett remained skeptical about whether she could help them. But she was their only remaining lead, and to ignore her would be foolish.