Live it Again

by Geoff North

  Guilt and horror consumed Hugh as he watched the man slam his friend up against the wall and begin to shake him.

  “You stupid little bastard! What the hell did you think you were doin’ up there?” Tom Parton’s face was a pink, sweaty slab of half-drunken rage. Billy tried to speak, but the hand around his throat choked back any noise he could make.

  People began pouring around the side of the building to see what the commotion was all about. Steve Nance finally showed up, his jaw dropped open in shock at what he saw, just like all the others gathered around. He saw Hugh and ran over to him. “What’s going on out here?”

  “Billy’s dad caught him spitting on cars at the top of the fuckin’ fire escape.”

  His father was about to scold him for swearing, but his attention was immediately drawn away when Tom Parton started to slap Billy across the face repeatedly with his free hand. Steve Nance stepped forward and grabbed the man’s wrist before he could land another blow. “That’s enough, Tom,” he said quietly with a resolve that chilled Hugh.

  Tom Parton stared at him, outraged. His face started to turn purple as the pressure around his wrist increased. He outweighed Steve Nance by more than fifty pounds, most of it fat settled around his stomach and back. “Let go of me…this is none of your goddamned business.” The voice was shaky, not nearly as confident as it had been when he was yelling at his son moments before.

  “Let him go, Tom...now.”

  Billy was still pinned up against the wall, his feet dangling off the ground. His plaid shirt was bunched up tightly in his father’s grip around his neck. The boy was choking, his face as purple as his father’s. “Piss off, Nance.”

  The crowd around them had grown and Hugh heard his mother call out. “Don’t Steve!”

  “Fuckin’ drill him, dad!” Gordo yelled.

  Tom Parton yelped like a dog getting its tail stepped on, and dropped his son to the ground. Hugh knew that his dad had applied even greater pressure around the other man’s wrist.

  With his other arm now free, Tom swung out wildly hoping to connect his oversized fist against the side of Steve Nance’s face. Hugh wanted to look away, but was unable to even blink as he watched his father sidestep quickly and counter with his own punch right in the center of Parton’s bulbous nose. The man didn’t make another sound as he crumpled down to his knees. His tight, white dress shirt now covered in blood.

  Hugh looked around at the crowd gathered in a semi-circle. No one said a word. This new, revised childhood memory would forever be frozen in his mind. The boys wore rented, pastel-blue and beige tuxedos, the girls in long gowns of yellow, pink, and puke-green. Clog shoes and plastic corsages everywhere. Billy Parton’s dad wheezed on the ground through a broken nose and three shattered teeth. Heather cried in her mother’s arms and yelled at her father for ruining her graduation between sobs.

  Fuckin’ drill him, Gordo had said. His brother had gotten his wish.

  ***

  Over the following weeks, Hugh thought hard about what had taken place that evening. How had things happened so differently to change history so drastically? If he’d gone to the top of the fire escape instead of Scott Harder, could the whole ugly scene with Billy’s dad been avoided? Tom Parton, the abusive, alcoholic dipshit that would become a Born Again Christian shortly after his son’s death in a few years, had already cleaned up his act considerably. He quit drinking, swearing, and beating on his son and wife. He’d found religion; become a whole new kind of tormenter to his family. Did this mean Billy would now avoid the farming accident meant to take his life? Or would his friend be killed in some other grisly fashion?

  These questions and a thousand more troubled Hugh late one evening in the fall of 1974. He sat in front of his bedroom window and puffed away at one of his dad’s stolen cigarettes. He closed his eyes and tried to hear Cathy’s soothing voice in his head. He couldn’t remember what she sounded like. He tried to picture what her final hairstyle had been but failed. What would be different tomorrow? What would change in the days and months ahead to totally screw up his life and everyone else’s?

  He looked at the lottery numbers printed on the windowsill. They’d started to fade. He reached over for the felt marker on his desk and carefully wrote over them again. He took a deep drag on the cigarette and slowly exhaled through the window screen. He no longer choked and coughed after each drag, it made him feel absurdly proud and ridiculously relieved at the same time. That one bad habit he’d so desperately tried to give up, the one that had started the chain reaction leading to his death was one of the last things he had left to remember his first life by.

  A flock of geese honked somewhere above the house in the dark, autumn sky. They were headed south. Hugh was no longer excited about the idea of winter coming.

  Chapter 10

  Hugh didn’t bother dressing up for Halloween. The idea of running from house to house in the freezing cold, covered in awkward-fitting layers of cheap plastic costume with a group of giggling children didn’t appeal to him. Demanding candy from people who obviously didn’t want you on their doorstep, or others a little too pleased to see you, was not his idea of a good time.

  Winter hit hard the first week in November with a foot of snow that refused to go away. It was unseasonably cold over the next few weeks, and the snow continued to fall during December. A few days before Christmas, the cold snap ended and there was over three feet of white stuff to contend with. As an adult, it would have meant back-breaking work for Hugh, but as a ten-year-old he found the winter months a joy to live through. No shoveling for him this time around. No responsibility at all.

  No wonder kids enjoyed the holiday season so much, Hugh thought, as he helped his sister decorate the tree the weekend before Christmas. Kids didn’t have to worry about shopping, and maintaining enough money to pay the bills.

  “Hand me the monkey,” Heather said, standing on a kitchen chair beside the artificial tree.

  Hugh dug around in one of the old decoration boxes. He pushed a few broken ornaments aside, loved statuettes of reindeer with missing legs, a stuffed Santa Claus with a crack up his backside and sawdust leaking out, a red carousel-shaped spinner that would turn over the heat of an individual tree light, the spinner in the middle long gone. They should’ve been thrown out years ago, Hugh realized, but there was still sentimental value in each of them, fond memories of holidays that could be instantly recalled at the sight of them. Their mother would never let them go. He found the wooden monkey his sister asked for. A bowler hat of green and yellow was screwed to its head at a comical slant; the white rabbit fur glued to its body was coming out in chunks.

  Not many Christmases on the tree left for this little guy.

  He handed it to Heather and watched as she hung reverently it on one of the top branches. Every ornament had its place, whether it was on the tree, displayed along the fireplace mantle, or hung from the curved arch separating the living-room from the kitchen. They called it OCD in the twenty-first century, here it was known as tradition.

  What did a dirty little monkey wearing a hat have to do with the holidays, anyway?

  Heather jumped off the chair and stood back to admire the finished product. “Best tree yet,” she said proudly.

  Hugh leaned into the tree and smelled the pine scent of artificial snow sprayed in from years past. A plastic tree needle tickled his nose and he felt the warmth of a frosted bulb against his cheek. He couldn’t help but feeling giddy and sentimental.

  “Ouch!” He stepped back quickly and almost fell over the chair his sister had been using. “For fuck’s sake!” He rubbed at his burnt cheek.

  “Well why did you stick your face in there? You retarded or something?”

  Their father yelled from the kitchen. “Who the hell’s swearing in there?”

  “Sorry about that,” Hugh said, looking up at Heather with his most innocent little boy face.

  “Gordo!” Heather hollered back without hesitation.

  Hugh h
ad become much closer to his sister over the last few months. He’d been a pain in her ass the first time round, your typically annoying little brother, but that had all changed. Hugh appreciated Heather much more now, and she cared for him in return. It was reminiscent of the relationship they shared in the twenty-first century as adults, and Hugh wanted it to continue now.

  Gordo appeared even more self-centered and chauvinistic in comparison, and that drove her even closer to Hugh.

  “Gordo’s out snowmobiling with Donald,” Steve Nance yelled back.

  “What?” Heather asked.

  “I said he’s outside!”

  “What’s outside?”

  “Not what…who!”

  “Who, what?”

  “Oh just forget it,” their father snapped.

  They could hear him muttering something to their mother in the kitchen. Heather winked at her brother and grinned. “You owe me one.”

  “Thanks,” Hugh said. He dug into another box of decorations.

  “No problem, but you have to watch that mouth of yours. How many times have you gotten in trouble with mom and dad for swearing lately?”

  “Too many.” His throat felt funny and his eyes began to water up. It seemed that every time something even slightly emotional came up, he would start to bawl. He loved this second life, this second chance, but he loved and missed his other family so much more. Every time he got in trouble reminded him of Colton, of all the times he and Cathy had yelled at the boy for the smallest of things. Whenever he looked at Heather, he couldn’t help but see Dana. They were so much alike in looks and personality. He was living two lives, the one he desperately wanted back was beginning to fade, the memories of it beginning to cloud over. It was becoming distant and dreamlike. This second life was good, really good, and the feeling filled him with shame. It was if he were letting the others go.

  “What’re you staring at?” Heather asked.

  “I-I love you.”

  She looked away, obviously embarrassed and perhaps a bit shocked but there was something else there in the rising pink of her cheeks, a small smile beginning to form on her lips. “The feeling’s mutual.”

  ***

  Gordo woke his little brother up from a deep slumber on Christmas morning.

  “What time is it?” Hugh mumbled, wiping his tired eyes.

  “I don’t know,” Gordo whispered as he pulled the boy’s blankets back off the bed. “Four or five I guess. Who cares? Let’s go downstairs and check out the presents!”

  Hugh hugged his shivering body. “Are you serious? I just went to bed a few hours ago.”

  “You’re kidding, right? You usually wake me up way before this.” Gordo looked down at the end of his brother’s bed. “You haven’t even opened your stocking yet.”

  Hugh rubbed at his eyes again and strained to see the grey work sock hung from a safety pin at the corner of his mattress. It was stuffed to the top with small, gift-wrapped presents. His heart began to thump in his throat with a joyful excitement he hadn’t felt for decades. The magic of Christmas, that greedy anticipation overwhelmed him once again.

  Why not enjoy it again?

  He scrambled across the bed and dug in. Gordo watched patiently as he tore into the gifts addressed from Santa, but written in a female hand strangely reminiscent of their mother’s.

  “What is that?” Gordo asked after the first one had been opened.

  “Spider-man.” Hugh remembered it fondly. The red and blue plastic figure came with a parachute attached to its back. The chute always struck as odd, everyone knew he used spider-webs to get around. Colonel would make short work of it in the spring, chewing it into an unrecognizable pulp. He opened another gift and then another one after that. They were packed in solidly; every square inch of space within the heavy woolen sock had been used wisely. He recalled some of the trinkets he unwrapped, most he didn’t. One special toy, a clear blue plastic car that sparked up in the dark had been his favorite gift.

  “Hey, I got one of those too,” Gordo said. “Mine’s red.”

  After a few minutes the two boys sat on the edge of the bed and admired the mess of cheap wrapping paper strewn on the floor. Hugh piled the small collection of presents to one side and reached into the bottom of the sock. He pulled out the traditional Satsuma orange he knew would be there. He closed his eyes and smelled its dimpled skin.

  Wonderful.

  Gordo shook him by the shoulder. “Okay, let’s go downstairs.”

  Hugh followed, marveling at the rare times when he and his brother made a good team, not actually friends, but partners in crime. Gordo shushed him at the stairway. The slightest creak of a floorboard could potentially waken their parents and send them back to bed for two or three more hours…an eternity of hours, especially on that morning. Their eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, but it was still too black to see one another very well. They crept down on tip toes, the steps cool beneath their bare feet.

  “Keep to the outside,” Gordo warned.

  Hugh resisted the urge to laugh. How silly they must have looked, their pajama-clad legs straddling down the stairs like bowl-legged cowboys, mindful not to step in the center where there was more give to the wood.

  Hugh knew every inch of the way. He instinctively sidestepped the laundry basket on the first landing, and made a sharp turn to the right. Two more steps down and they were on the main floor hallway. They were extra-stealthy as they crept past their parent’s bedroom. Hugh ran his fingers gently across the door, and sighed in relief when he felt it was tightly shut. It was often left open for their father’s occasional trips to the washroom.

  “We’re almost there,” Hugh whispered. The excitement had solidified into a lump in his chest and stomach. They felt their way along the tiled floor of the kitchen until Gordo came to a stop. He’d found the narrow bookshelf that marked the entrance into the living room. Hugh took another step forward and a blood-curdling yowl broke the silence. It was quickly followed by a searing pain in his left ankle.

  Fred.

  He’d stepped on the goddamned cat’s tail again.

  “For Christ’s sake,” Gordo hissed. “You’re gonna wake the whole house up!”

  “Merry Christmas,” Hugh giggled.

  A soft, multicolored glow shimmered off the west living room wall and as they turned the corner. Hugh was assailed by one of the most memorable moments of his life…again. The lights on the Christmas tree had been left on, which was unusual. The bulbs back in those days burned hotter than the sun, as the fading blister on his cheek could testify. The plastic branches were as flammable as gasoline. It wasn’t like their parents to forget. Hugh didn’t puzzle over it for more than a moment. His attention was now consumed with the stacks of presents piled beneath the lowest, tinsel-laden branches.

  “Go to bed,” a gravelly voice rumbled from the opposite side of the room.

  Gordo jumped, and Hugh suddenly remembered which Christmas morning this was. How could he have forgotten? This was the year their father had fallen asleep in the big armchair next to the fireplace. The few remaining embers in the hearth painted his face in a ruddy, orange light. He straightened up as best he could in his half-asleep state, kicking a red plaid slipper out from under him in the process.

  Gordo bolted back through the kitchen, but Hugh remained where he was, soaking it all in. Something was amiss, this wasn’t quite the way he remembered it.

  “You came, you saw, and now you’re going back upstairs,” his father said.

  Hugh couldn’t move. Cold fear swept through him as realized the problem. This was the Christmas their father had caught them sneaking into the living room, that was clear, but he distinctly remembered his cousin, Michael Cooden, being with them. Their mother’s sister’s only child occasionally stayed over during holidays. This had been one of them. Hugh was certain of it. The red-headed boy had screamed like a little girl when Steve Nance had spoken, and all three the boys had all rushed back to their rooms, terrified out of t
heir wits but laughing all the way.

  “Well? What’re you waiting for?” Steve Nance leaned forward and worked his bare foot back into the slipper. He reached for his cigarettes and found the matches a few seconds later on the floor. “You want Santa to take all that stuff back?”

  Hugh shook his head. “Where’s Michael?”

  Where’s my gay cousin that vanished in the nineties when his family found out he was HIV Positive?

  His father took a deep drag and studied his son carefully. “You sleep walking or something?”

  Hugh shook his head again. “My cousin, Michael Cooden, where is he?”

  “I imagine he’s in bed like every other sane kid.”

  “Wasn’t he supposed to here for Christmas?”

  “I don’t think so,” he answered. A steady, slow stream of blue smoke escaped his nostrils and he chuckled softly. “Go to bed, son. You need more sleep.”

  Hugh backed away from his father a few steps, unsure of what to do next. His middle-aged mind told him to march back to bed; his ten-year-old one kept him in place. He needed answers, and more importantly, he needed reassurance.

  “What is it now?” His father asked patiently.

  “Do you believe in God?”

  It took two more long drags from the cigarette before he answered. “I believe in something, I suppose.” Hugh could see in his father’s eyes that he was trying to find an answer that would satisfy a child’s curiosity without scaring too much. “I guess that’s why we have the tree in the corner…why we give each other gifts at this time of year.”

  Don’t go all religious on me, dad. We might celebrate the holiday, but you didn’t raise us to believe Jesus was the reason for the season.