Live it Again

by Geoff North

  Hugh sat down at the small writing desk Heather had given to him when she’d moved into the bigger bedroom down the hallway. It was meant to do homework on, but all he recalled were the countless hours spent creating his own superhero comic books and attempting to write adventure stories that would put Verne and Wells to shame. Hugh had loved writing at a young age- it was a pity he’d given it up. He looked through the drawers littered with worn down pencil crayons and bent trading cards. There were sharpeners, half-used erasers, pieces of plastic model molding, a pair of dull scissors, green army men with most of their arms and legs broken off, candy bar and bubble gum wrappers, and piles upon piles of paper with both sides completely drawn on and written in.

  Hugh leafed through a few of his forgotten creations and came across a copy of the Human Volt. Six pieces of type writer paper folded in half with a dozen crooked staples running down the spine to hold it together. He laughed at the sight of it. This had been his greatest hero, the one he’d always come back to, a being composed solely of electricity. It had also been the easiest to draw. A few squiggly lines for the body, and a head covered with a purple mask. Why a being made of pure electricity needed a mask to conceal his true identity was never explained in any subsequent issues. And there had been a lot of them.

  He bent down to open the bottom drawer and felt something stab softly into his groin. He pulled out the folded lottery newsletter from his pocket and studied the rows of winning numbers that would affect a handful of strangers in the future.

  One of those lives could be mine. He ran his small finger down the first row, then down the second. He stopped at the fourth set on the third line. Thirty-five million dollars on May 19, 2010 would go without a winner. The following draw three days later for forty-two million would be split three ways.

  Or would it?

  He stared at the numbers drawn on May 19.

  8, 12, 20, 23, 34, 36

  There was a Smokey the Bear calendar taped to the wall above his desk. Today was Friday, June 21, 1974. He did the math quickly in his head. In just under thirty-six years he could buy a ticket with those numbers on it. That was an awfully long time to wait for a life of luxury and carefree comfort. Surely he had enough knowledge about the future that could pay off sooner than that. In less than a decade he could start buying stock in the little software companies that would become giants, and not long after that, in the early nineties, he could invest in the online companies.

  Still too far away. He needed something that could produce cash right away. Those comic books only had a month or so of shelf life in the store before new titles took their place.

  I’ve been given this opportunity to live my life again…to make countless billions, and all I’m worried about is comic books?

  Why not? He was only ten years old after all. It wasn’t like his parents were going to lend him a few grand to play with on the stock market. The only other thing he had any extensive knowledge about was hockey. He could list off every Stanley Cup Champion back to the early forties, who they had defeated, and in how many games. He would have to wait a few more years before wagering in professional sports.

  Maybe he could become a forecaster of future events like that Nostradamus guy. Bad idea, he thought. If he told the world who would be president in 1980, or warned them of future terrorist attacks, he would probably find himself thrown in prison, or worse, have his brain picked apart by scientists to see what made him tick.

  If he tried to change history too much, he was likely to screw his own future up. He might never meet Cathy; never have the kids he loved.

  Maybe I could do better? Perhaps meet some rich super model, or a famous movie star… I could travel the world a hundred times over. Why have children at all?

  He groaned and threw the newsletter on top of the desk with the rest of the clutter. He flopped down on the bed and shut his eyes.

  I’m an evil, uncaring bastard.

  How could he for even one second consider denying them their future? It was his family, sometimes dysfunctional, but whose family wasn’t? It was his…and he was theirs. He was a husband and a father. It should be--would be his only goal in this second life.

  Get them back.

  The sound of a dog barking outside brought him out of his deep, troubled thoughts. He peered out the bedroom window and saw a big, scruffy collie at the base of a fir tree in the back yard. Hugh opened the window excitedly and yelled. “Colonel! Up here boy!”

  The dog stopped woofing and looked around to see who’d called his name, one floppy ear perked up.

  “Up here, Colonel! I’m up here!” Hugh pounded on the windowsill with both hands. Colonel finally spotted him and his pink tongue lolled out to one side affectionately.

  “You remember me, hey fella?”

  The collie turned his long snout back to the tree and his frantic barking resumed. He could sit there for hours yelping at squirrels and birds. Hugh pushed away from the window and bounded down the stairs. He had known the old dog for as long as he could remember. His parents told him he was the same age as Gordo. Colonel had been a much better sibling in Hugh’s opinion than Gordo had ever been.

  He rushed by Heather near the bottom of the steps. “Excuse me,” he said giddily.

  “You’re going to break your neck if you don’t slow down.”

  In his mind, Hugh saw a fleeting image of Benjamin, his little body curled up at the base of the stairs on the cellar floor in 1992.

  Not today.

  He pushed the thought out of his mind, ran through to the back porch and rushed outside.

  “Colonel!” He yelled still running. “Come here boy!” The dog’s long head bobbed back and forth in time with his wagging tail. He woofed one final time and half-ran to meet the boy. He was old and stiff, the result of living a long, active life on the farm. Hugh slid on his knees, finally blowing the thin jean fabric clean through, and wrapped his arms around Colonel’s warm neck. The dog gave his face a lick and offered him a paw. Hugh laughed and buried his face in the matted fur. He smelled of hay and dandelions. He kissed his long snout and traced his fingers along the multiple grey scars above his black nose. “Remember the raccoon that gave you these?” Hugh was crying again. “Or maybe it was that porcupine you tangled with down in the old grain bin.” Colonel looked at him with contented disinterest, his pink tongue hung out one side like a slice of ham.

  “I came back boy,” he whispered. “I can tell you everything and it won’t affect a thing. I came back from the future…well it’s sort of the future…I got a second chance.” Hugh sat back and crossed his legs. Colonel sat patiently in front of him, his wet raisin eyes full of warm, summer adventure and life.

  “I can stop you from dying next spring.”

  Hugh recalled the fateful spring morning when they heard the dog’s mournful wails from half a mile away. He’d been missing for almost a week and his family had already given up on the idea of him miraculously returning. Old Colonel was famous for getting in trouble, he’d scrapped with raccoons and porcupines, been sprayed by skunks, and chased the occasional fox, but he rarely failed to return home after his supper dish was put outside every evening. They followed the sad sounds of his weakening yelps to a marshy runoff between fields. He was stuck in three feet of cold water and mud with only his shivering head showing above. Hugh’s dad had tried wading in to rescue him, but the dog was so anchored in it required a chain attached to the back end of a half-ton truck to pull him out.

  They took Colonel home and placed him in the work shed with a wool blanket wrapped around his body. Hugh’s mom said he needed rest and would be fine, but she hadn’t been able to look him in the eye when she’d spoken. Colonel was in the same spot when he returned home from school. He hadn’t moved an inch. The dish of treats Hugh had left in the morning sat next to him untouched.

  “He’s not in any pain,” his father had tried reassuring him.

  “But he’s still cold,” Hugh said, gently stroking the dog’s h
ead. “Can’t we give him another blanket?”

  “Wouldn’t do any good at this point. A dozen more blankets wouldn’t make a difference. He needs rest more than anything.” He’d taken his son’s hand and started to lead him out of the shed. He’d resisted and looked back at Colonel one last time. Hugh knew in that moment it would take more than rest. He saw tired suffering in those unblinking, wet eyes. The long snout turned toward him, and Hugh saw something else there too. The dog was grateful to be alive; he loved the entire Nance family for saving him and caring for him. He would give it his all to make it through the night for them. Thank you his kind, old face said. Thank you.

  The next morning Hugh had come downstairs and asked his mother how Colonel was. She shook her head. “I’m sorry sweetheart.”

  It was the longest walk of his life across the front yard to the work shed. He’d paused at the door, hesitant to go any further. He didn’t want to see, didn’t want it to be fact. He remembered thinking that once he stepped through, the innocence and safety of childhood would evaporate in an instant.

  He went through the door anyway, and he had been right.

  Colonel was still there, as he’d been the entire day and evening before, but he was no longer panting. It was so still and quiet in there that morning. Hugh looked at the lifeless, glassy brown eyes.

  “No,” was all he’d said. No goodbyes, no I love you, just no. He shut the shed door and went back to the house.

  His parents said it would be alright if he stayed home from school that day, but Hugh had insisted on going. He couldn’t bear to stay on the farm all day knowing his old friend had gone so far away and was still so close by.

  He went to school and buried his nose into the work assignments for a change. He listened to his grade four teacher as she read a chapter from Watership Down. He did his math and he paid attention during history lessons. At noon hour, he volunteered to be goalie during a soccer game put together by his friends, and he thought he might actually get the through the rest of the day without shedding a single tear.

  When the game was at the far end of the field, Hugh had a few minutes to himself. It had been the first significant amount of time he’d been alone all day. That’s when he’d broken down. He’d never cried harder in his life. His eyes gushed and his nose ran with warm snot. When the soccer ball slammed into his face he wasn’t even sure what it was, nor had he cared. He’d just bawled harder. Some of the kids laughed, but when he finally told them the whole story, they’d all crowded around him to offer support and condolences.

  Even Scott Harder, the one that kicked the ball in his face, had patted him on the back. “Sorry about that pal, it’s hard losing a pet.”

  “No kidding,” he’d said.

  That wouldn’t happen for another ten months, Hugh thought, as he stroked Colonel’s floppy ear. The dog licked his palm and ran back to fir tree, barking all the way. Hugh stood up, put his hands in his pockets, and watched the dog for a while longer. “It doesn’t have to happen to you this time,” he said quietly. “Not to you, not to Billy Parton…not to Ben.”

  He looked around and saw the farm as it had been, how it was again. The house, the work shed, the three-stall horse barn to the north and the two old grain bins next to them. None of these buildings had made into the next century. There were more trees on the 1974 Nance homestead as well. More spruce and poplar, every inch between seemingly filled with flowering caragana and lilac bush.

  He heard his mother call from the house. “Get back in here and clean your room! No supper until you do!”

  He headed for the back porch and remembered something the voice in the brown had said.

  You can try again.

  Colonel, Billy, Ben…and even Mr. McDonald.

  I’ll do a lot more than try.

  Chapter 7

  Supper was wonderful, just as he knew it would be. Nothing beat his mom’s overdone meatloaf and under-steamed garden fresh vegetables. Hugh washed it down with two glasses of milk and watched his family. Donald no longer lived at home, but he showed up for meals anyway, just like Colonel. He spouted off about the inferior class of people that lived in Braedon and the surrounding municipalities. To Donald, if you weren’t of English-Scottish descent, you were automatically in a lower class. Hugh never understood where his oldest brother had picked up the racism. Their parents were the most tolerant people he’d ever known. Heather argued with Donald while their mom served lemon meringue pie. Gordo flicked chunks of macaroni off his spoon into Hugh’s face from across the table.

  Just another family meal at the Nance house.

  Hugh loved it. “Hey mom, are you going to make coffee?” It seemed like a reasonable request.

  “Yeah, and I’ll have a shot of vodka,” Gordo added.

  Mom rolled her eyes. Donald laughed and pushed away from the table. It was a good time for him to leave. He was losing his argument with Heather. “What’s a little fart like you need coffee for?” Donald was unusually fat for a Nance, two-hundred-fifty pounds, six-foot-tall kind of fat. He referred to it as ‘burly big’. His younger brothers called him Humpty-Dumpty-Donald behind his back, wide and round in the middle, bald on top with a bit of red hair still clinging to the back and sides. He looked forty-five instead of twenty-five, a sweaty, pink-faced heart attack waiting to happen.

  He looks exactly the same in the future. What’s his secret?

  Hugh shrugged his shoulders and grinned sheepishly. “It was worth a try.” He’d slipped again, but it hadn’t been too bad.

  The other kids cleared out after Donald, Heather helped her mother clean up, and Gordo bolted for the living room to watch television. Hugh followed and watched him switch between the three stations they received on the twenty inch set. The wood cabinet surrounding the glass screen was about the size of the kitchen stove. He settled for channel eleven, a repeat of the Brady Bunch. “Why don’t we go back in the kitchen and help mom out?” Hugh asked, sitting at the far end of the couch Gordo had already stretched out on.

  “Go and help them yourself, fag.”

  Fag was a popular insult back in those days. If you wanted to wash dishes or take figure skating lessons, you were considered a fag. If you wanted to chop wood or feed livestock, you were still a fag according to Gordo. If your name was Hugh, you were definitely a fag.

  “Well you’re an asshole.” He started back for the kitchen, but Gordo wrestled him to the floor and started to slap his face repeatedly. Hugh tried swatting back, but found it difficult just deflecting the stronger boys hits.

  I should be able to throw this little shit through the wall.

  If he still had his adult body it wouldn’t have been a problem. Instead, he resorted to the only other option available to him, the one he’d used a million times growing up.

  “MOM!”

  Gordo jumped off and flung himself back on the couch before she got to the living room. She gave them both a warning look and left.

  Gordo glared at him. “Call me that again and I’ll tell her you skipped school today.”

  Hugh was tempted to call him something worse, but decided to keep his mouth shut. He went to the bathroom and splashed his red face with water. Whenever he got this pissed off he would have a cigarette. He needed a cigarette now.

  You don’t need a cigarette, he told the dripping-wet face in the mirror. You won’t even start smoking for another four or five years.

  But he wanted a cigarette now, and he was going to have a cigarette now. He went to his parent’s bedroom and started digging through his dad’s top dresser drawer. The old man smoked like a chimney. He had tobacco stashes all over the place.

  Hugh found a half pack of menthols in the second drawer.

  If his dad discovered them missing he would undoubtedly blame Gordo. That would be just fine with Hugh. He tucked them under the front of his pants, sucked in his little gut, and left the house. Halfway across the backyard he remembered he didn’t have anything to light them with.

  �
��Shit.” He started for the work shed. There was bound to be a supply of matches near the woodstove. It was funny what you could remember after so long.

  I can’t even remember if I said goodbye to my kids on the morning of the day I died, but I can recall where my old man’s smokes and matches were hidden decades earlier.

  He caught sight of his mother looking at him through the kitchen window. Hugh was sure she knew what he was setting out to do. He hesitated, ready to go back to the house and return the cigarettes. Colonel barked from around the house. His mother smiled from behind the glass and waved. He waved back and continued on for the shed, Colonel caught sight of him and followed.

  The dark little shop held no appeal for him, even after all this time. It smelled of tractor grease mixed with damp sawdust, and unless the little pot-bellied woodstove was burning it was always uncomfortably chilly. It was cluttered with tools, and workhorses, and table saws. It reminded him too much of hard work. He found a book of matches in a drawer filled with bolts and tape measures and left the little building behind, calling for Colonel to follow. They headed west down a narrow path through the shelterbelt of trees toward the dugout. Hugh found a good spot to sit among a pile of field-picked stones at the edge of the water. He pulled the cigarettes out and smiled at his old friend. “Don’t you go telling me I’m too young to smoke, boy.”

  He struck a match and a piece of igniting sulfur jumped onto the back of his hand.

  “For fuck’s sake!” He dropped the match into the rocks beneath his feet. He swatted the burning ember from his skin and struck another one. “Is someone trying to tell me something?”

  He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. Colonel jumped up as he began to cough. His tail wagged with concern as Hugh tried to catch his breath. “I’m okay,” he gasped and started to hack again. It felt as if he’d swallowed a sock. That’s exactly how it was the first time he’d tried.