by Dan Garmen
That didn't stop me from trying to avoid a six month posting to Ohio, though, and as I slid out of the Jeep in front of a Chula Vista convenience store called, ironically enough, since the owners were two Chaldeans from Iraq, “Pancho’s,” I tried one last gambit to avoid the trip. "Dave would be so much better for this, Gary. He's what, 28, 29?" I said, pitching our top Development Lead, Dave Shuttman. "He's young, sharp, hungry for this. Hell, he'd..."
"And they'll hire him away in about a week," Gary interjected. "We can't afford that. It'd be a mess. You'd have to end up going there anyway, and have to replace him in San Diego."
“Right," I said, raising the white flag, as I walked into Pancho’s, silently waving at Terry, one of the Iraqi-born owners who, as usual, stood working behind the counter. I made my way to the back corner of the shop, to where the energy drinks were cooled and stored.
"Okay. I'm on it," I agreed. "I'll fly out right after the New Year," I said.
"Awesome," Gary replied. Strangely enough, he didn't just sound appreciative, he sounded...Relieved. Hmm, I thought, maybe there's more to this thing than I thought. But, I put those thoughts aside and made the decision to tell Molly that night I'd have to go to Cincinnati for no more than six months. I'd checked flight schedules, and found it wasn't the easiest trip to do non-stop on a regular basis. The best connections were Delta, and I hated flying Delta.
I paid for the Rock Star energy drink, talked to Terry for a few seconds about the economy, the war in Iraq, how his remaining family was making out there, and a couple minutes later was back in my Jeep, crossing the trolly tracks, driving down Anita Street to our South Bay data center.
So, in January of 2007, after the holidays, I travelled to Cincinnati on behalf of LeftCoastX for a six-month site setup. Even though the work took me away from my home and family and barely allowed me to commute every other weekend to spend time with said family (and home, of course), the money and prestige working for this client brought our company made the sacrifice worthwhile. Also, the job was only a couple hours from where I'd grown up, and I thought checking the place out might be fun, since I hadn't been back for over 10 years. My parents had moved right after I graduated from High School, and still live on the West Coast not far from my home in San Diego.
All went well, we completed the project three weeks early so I took a couple extra days to get ready to ship my things, including a new car, purchased while in Cincinnati. With one more weekend to go before returning home to San Diego, since I had already visited my hometown a couple of times, I decided to drive a little further west and visit both the lake where my family had owned a summer home and my father's hometown, a little village about half an hour away from the lake. The spur of the moment trip, conceived of after an early Saturday morning latte at Starbucks would absolutely and profoundly change my life.
The weather perfect and the traffic light, I skirted Indianapolis to the South, and an hour later passed through Avon on Highway 36. More than 20 years had gone by since I last drove the road, and much had changed. Traffic increased, but moved at a pretty good clip, and I was surprised and delighted to see an antique police car up ahead, and after a few minutes caught up with him. I'm not a car buff by any stretch of the imagination, but this particular classic squad car really impressed me. Little did I know at the time, but this particular sighting would be a foreshadowing worthy of a bad bit of short story sci-fi. Fortunately, I had my digital camera and was able to snap a couple pictures as we drove west.
The drive to our old summer home, a cottage near a lake that US 36 crossed over was uneventful, though how little the place had changed shocked me. It had been 26 years since my family sold it, but it looked as though time had hardly passed. A tornado had taken out several big and old trees on the property, opening the view to the lake and destroying a portion of the deck that ringed the two story chalet. The owners had rebuilt the deck and added a larger sitting area on one corner.
The son and wife of the man who purchased the house and land from my father still owned the place, and were there when I drove up. They warmly welcomed me in and despite my not wanting to impose, insisted I take a look inside. We walked in and I stopped short. Not a THING had changed. Maybe the carpet and some furniture were different, but little more. The appliances in the kitchen were the same, the goofy colored glass light fixture over the dining area. Everything in the cottage was the same. None of this prepared me though, for what I saw when I reached the bottom of the stairs leading down to the walk-out basement. For the second time since starting the day, a bit of foreshadowing would intrude.
My family sold the cottage in 1979, when we moved across the country to San Diego. My parents had had enough of midwestern winters and wanted to spend the next phase of their lives in the sun, near the ocean, where they remain today, retired. For the most part, it represented a new start and except for some cherished pieces of furniture and heirlooms, we sent truckloads of stuff to auction. Halfway through my four years of college, I had decided to transfer to the University of San Diego. I’d had my fill of dorm life and decided apartment-living sounded much better, so we set aside a few pieces of furniture me, a sofa, big round oak table and to go with it, some cool (at the time) very 70s rustic chairs that looked like they were make out of barrels. My barrel chairs were actually part of a set that included a bar and bar stools, but only the chairs made the trip west, then elsewhere with me (until my wife made me give them away as a condition of marriage — they were truly hideous). The rest of the grouping stayed in Indiana. When I walked down those stairs, I learned the bar and barstools had remained in exactly the same place we had left them. Seeing them gave me a momentary, hint of vertigo.
For a second, 30 years hadn’t passed at all, but the feeling only lasted a couple seconds and just as quickly, I was back to the present. It was very odd.
A short time later, I made my goodbyes, getting assurances from my new friends, who promised to get in touch if they ever decided to sell the cottage. I’m not sure why, since there’s no way in hell my wife would ever consent to moving there with our daughter, but I asked anyway. An interesting, if slightly disturbing, experience out of the way, I continued west, next stop, Belton, Indiana.
In the years just after the Great Depression, Belton was a reasonably prosperous place to be. Home to a clay tile factory and surrounded by rich farmland, before World War II Belton had about 1,000 residents, 12 grades of public education and its own high school, Belton High School. It was every small town from the movies of the time. Depending on your perspective, a large Hickory (the town in Hoosiers) or a small Bedford Falls (the town in It’s a Wonderful Life).
I drove down the main street in Belton, and had the oddest feeling I could almost see my grandparents and great-grandparents going about their lives, walking into the post office, standing on the sidewalk talking, in this now mostly dead town. I passed the vacant lot with the remnants of a house burned down decades before I ever visited, the fireplace and a few bits of concrete still visible. I used to play with my cousins around the ruin, 35 years ago when we’d all come from Indianapolis to the old family hometown for the weekend.
One of the Harper houses slid by my passenger window, then a left turn and I drove to my great-grandmother Margaret’s home. My grandfather, Harrison “Harry” Girrard was born in another house, still standing today, still solid and sturdy looking, though no one’s lived in it for years. Remarkably, Margaret’s place is still quietly occupying the ground it has for well over a hundred years now, looking like it was built after World War II, even though the foundation was dug long before Japan even began to think about attacking Pearl Harbor. I peeked in the window, past the real estate “for sale” sign and was surprised to see a large woven rug I remember from my youth in the middle of the living room. After a few minutes and a handful of pictures, I got back into the car and drove to my father’s boyhood home.
The brick, one story house my father grew up in was one of the nicer on a block t
hat consisted of only two other residences and a restaurant that had closed long ago. A tree Dad told me they planted when he was a boy towered stately and mature in the front yard, reaching over the top of the structure.
I pulled up to the curb opposite the front door, seeing three people sitting on the porch, a man, his back to me, and two women. The three, none younger than 60, were sitting around a table, covered with a flowery outdoor cloth. They watched me as I got out of my car and crossed the street toward them. I walked up the sidewalk and as I got closer to the house, noticed one of the women, whose gaze was the most direct of the two, was much older than the other. She was at least in her 80s, and probably older than 90. I said, “Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but my father grew up in this house."
"Richard?" Asked the older woman.
"Yes."
She smiled at my puzzled expression. "I have something for you," she said, and pointed at an object I couldn’t see, that was on the table in front of her. I hesitated, but she said, "Come on up. You’re welcome here," and again waved at something on the table. I didn’t know what to say. I’d never seen these people before, and seconds out of my car, this ancient, but bright-eyed woman almost demanded I approach!
I walked up the four short steps to the porch and looked at what the woman, clearly old enough to be my Grandmother, if not Great-Grandmother, was gesturing toward, and now I could see she was referring to an envelope on the table in front of her. Smaller than a standard #10, it looked sturdy, but brittle. Yellow tinged the edges of the envelope, and there was a faint round ring about the middle as if a small cup had rested on it. I looked at the envelope, at my hostess, and then at the younger woman sitting next to her. They appeared to be at least 25 years apart in age and had exactly the same smile, so I assumed they were mother and daughter. "I’m Richard Girrard," I said, smiling through the puzzled look I’m sure I still had on my face.
"We know," the younger one said. "I’m Liz Monahan, and this is my mother, Annie Bennett. We heard you were coming." Her smile and the quick glance at her mother told me I was in the presence of an inside joke.
I looked around at the house, the street and back at my rental car, trying to make sense of the fact they knew who I was, and had apparently been expecting me. I didn’t even know I was making this trip until a few hours ago when the thought occurred to me while sipping a Vanilla Latte this morning in Cincinnati. I took a closer look at the man sitting on the porch with Annie and Liz He looked to be past 60 as well, balding and a bit distracted. He smiled, but said nothing. "I hope I’m not intruding…” I began. Liz shook her head.
"No, no, no, as I said before, we knew you were coming."
We knew you were coming. Again, I couldn’t figure this out. The only person I’d spoken to since leaving Cincinnati a few hours before, had been the drive-up window attendant at McDonalds in Avon. I hadn’t told anyone where I was going. Unless someone watched me drive into town a few minutes before, recognized me, knew my destination (my father’s old house) when even I didn’t know it, there was no way these women could have known I would be here. Yet I stood looking down at an envelope that two women, whom I had never laid eyes on until about two minutes ago, said that they had an old envelope that was mine.
"Go ahead," Annie said. "It’s from your grandfather."
The vertigo I’d experienced at the lake cottage returned in a rush, and I stepped back, shaking my head, not understanding. After a few seconds, I picked up the envelope, handling it gingerly, and saw that it had been covering a gold coin. I didn’t know if the coin was part of this, or whether the letter had simply been laid on top of it, so I only focused on the envelope. On the front, under the faded cup ring was a faint, but legible word, written in pencil. It read "Richard." I again eyed the aged Annie who still had a slight smile on her lips. Liz didn’t seem nearly as comfortable, now that the object, obviously central to this situation was in my hand. Her eyes suddenly seemed to contain discomfort and just a small bit of…I don’t know, perhaps fear? Apprehension was definitely on his face. The man, who I’d almost forgotten about, despite the fact he was sitting with his back to me, not three feet away, stood up, ducked his head in soundless communication with the ladies he had been sharing he porch with, prior to my arrival. His eyes briefly met mine as we exchanged nods, and it became clear to me that he had Down’s Syndrome. Without introducing us, Liz and Annie both said, “Bye, Johnny" almost in sync. Then he was gone, as if he’d never been there at all, and I again looked at the envelope in my hand. Taking care not to damage it, I lifted the flap, which gave easily. The glue had long since dried out, so it opened without tearing and the paper inside was as old and brittle as the envelope. Uninvited, I sat down in the chair Johnny had been occupying just a minute before, and extracted a single sheet from the envelope, now empty, that I laid back on the table. Glancing up once again at Liz then Annie, I met each of their gazes, and then carefully unfolded the letter. My eyes adjusted to the faint pencil the words were written in, and I began to read.
To say I couldn’t believe what was written, is the grossest of understatements. To this day, there are times I am convinced that there was no letter, that it has all been a dream. Other times, I admit I’ve been convinced I’m insane, because what I read couldn’t possibly be true. But when those doubts are at their strongest, I go to the floor safe in my home office, take out the letter and reread it. I’ve had my wife Molly read it. In doing so, I’m reassured I didn’t dream this whole thing, and I’m again convinced that I am not insane. Here’s what the letter said:
November 17, 1933
Dear Richard,
The purpose of this letter I am writing is twofold. First, it is to demonstrate you are in complete control of your mind and faculties and are as far as I can tell, sane. Second, to urge you to follow the signs you are seeing and know a very interesting adventure awaits you. In your shoes, I would no doubt be bewildered and unsure about what I should do, but I know you have a strength of character and constitution that will make it possible to explore this most strange situation. How do I know this? Because I have met you, and am convinced of it. I am not sure how I know this, but what you told me about how you came to be here is true.
Let me describe you. You stand a shade taller than myself and I am six feet one inch. Your eyes are brown. Your hair is brown as well, cut very short and retiring in the way the Harpers gradually lose their hair. To me, you look like a Harper, but also resemble the Girrards through your eyes. Your build is full, and I would estimate you weigh all of 200 pound.
I do not fully understand how you came to visit here, but though it is tempting to ascribe the experience to the supernatural or even evil, I must confess that I do not go in much for that idea. I believe the natural world is a strange enough place without needing faeries, demons and leprechauns to explain it. And since it is obvious to me who you are, I can only take your explanation of how you came to be here as the truth. You are claiming that through a process even you do not completely understand, for the pas several months, you have been traveling to the past, but can’t control how or when it happens. You asked me to write down that the future waiting for me is a good one, but not without difficulty, and you also insist "there are no god-damned flying cars." You laugh when you say that.
As for details of the future, you are not nearly as forthcoming, though I understand why. I am comforted when you tell me our son, Tom, will thrive and the health problems he has will not plague him as he grows. Though my wife Doris seems somewhat relieved by this, she is far more skeptical about it. Your emotion at seeing her was enough for me though, and I know you to be our grandson, as odd as it is to write those words.
To know what I write is beyond reproach, you have given me some facts to include I could not possibly know of. Here they are:
You live in San Diego, California.
George W. Bush is the President in the time you come from, and his father also named George, was President before him
&n
bsp; Your e mail address is Richard Girrard at yahoo dot com.
You love coffee from Starbucks, and though it is hard to believe, you pay over three dollars for a cup of it.
Though you told me about your life, the above facts are all you have told me about the future, but I understand why. I am happy you visited us and hope you find your way back here after you leave tonight, which you say you must. Although, you also say this journey is the longest you’ve had, you laughed when you said for all you knew, you might not be able to get back to your home. I hope you can get back, but I also think if you cannot, you would be happy to stay and see what you call your past occur.
You will read this letter on the fourth of June in 2008.
Harry H. Girrard
Underneath his neatly printed name was his signature, though to be honest, I don’t ever recall seeing anything signed by my grandfather. Most of my memories of him are of holidays — a summer fishing trip. I remember him as a larger than life, joking bear of a man, but since I was barely six when he died of a sudden stroke, a great deal of those memories are influenced by photographs. To read his words, serious and measured, seemed strange. They didn’t match any recollection I have of Harry Girrard. What the hell is this all about?