by Shawn Inmon
The paper.
A rolled-up newspaper stuck out of the magazine rack. With growing trepidation, he walked across the living room and collected the rolled-up Oregonian.
Under the masthead, the date was displayed as Friday, April 16, 1976. The headline was about Good Friday services. Thomas sat down in the La-Z-Boy and began to read.
A metallic click broke the silence, one Thomas remembered as the latch on his mother's room door. He heard the soft shuffling of slippered feet approaching, peppered with excited canine footfalls.
Mom.
Anne’s hair was askew, and still dishwater blonde. She wore an old housecoat over her dressing gown. She walked past Thomas as if he were invisible, started coffee, then lit a Viceroy. He peered over to watch as she got a cup from the cupboard, poured some milk in it, and stood by the pot to smoke while the pot percolated.
My God. She’s so young. And pretty. I don’t remember her ever looking that way.
Hey. She walked by me like I was invisible. Maybe I am invisible. Maybe I’m not really here after all—just visiting like one of the ghosts in A Christmas Carol.
Tommy stood up from her chair and took three tentative steps toward the kitchen. “Mom?”
His voice sounded high-pitched and slightly strangled. He put his hand to his throat. She didn't look. “What?”
Can you see me?
Don’t be ridiculous. If she heard me, she can see me.
“Nothing. Just wondering…how you are?”
“I'm being talked to before my coffee. You know not to do that.” She turned to face him.
Thomas’s face fell. “Uhh, sorry. Never mind.”
She forced a bit of a smile. “Just teasing you, sweetie. I’m fine. At least I will be once the coffee is ready.”
Tommy heard gravel crunch in the driveway outside. They both looked out the kitchen window at the green ’69 Camaro that rolled into the driveway.
“I’d better start some breakfast,” his mom said.
That's Zack.
ZACK!
Jesus H. Christ!
He had an idle thought that perhaps he shouldn't swear, even mentally, in what might be the afterlife. Tommy’s palms went slick and he felt an odd tingling at the base of his neck. He was holding his breath, waiting to see if Zack, dead for nearly forty years, would climb out of the Camaro.
The car sat there. The door didn’t open. Tommy strained to see who was behind the wheel, but from this angle, he couldn’t see. Finally, after two minutes of interminable waiting, Zack emerged, unaware that he was a living miracle.
Tommy grew dizzy. He groped for a kitchen chair and sat down. He felt tears start, and hoped he would not have to talk.
Come on, Thomas. Get a grip. You’re not going to pass out.
Zack slid open the door and walked into the kitchen. “Hey, Mom. Squirt.” As if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Thomas remembered Zack as a full-grown man. Now Zack looked to him like a boy in a man’s body. His face was smooth, unlined, whiskerless. His good-humored eyes showed the sort of innocence found in very few adult eyes. 'Handsome devil' described him well.
Their mom smiled at Zack. “Hi, sweetie. How was practice?”
“Okay. Coach ran me hard this morning. I’m gonna go take a shower.”
“Hurry. Breakfast won’t take long.”
Zack turned to look at Tommy, sitting slack-mouthed and motionless. He nudged his mother. “I think maybe Tommy’s had a stroke or somethin’. He looks goofier than usual.”
She turned her attention to Tommy. “Tommy? Honey, are you all right?”
Tommy shut his mouth, tried to smile, then nodded. Zack let out a quick laugh. “You get a little weirder every day,” he said, heading in the direction of the bathroom.
“Tommy, set the table for breakfast. I’m going to make us some bacon and eggs.” She pulled a carton of eggs and a package of bacon out of the avocado-green refrigerator, and started cracking the eggs into a large bowl.
This is all too real. This is no dream. I’m really here.
Tears ran down his face, and he turned away from his mother so she wouldn't see them. He wiped his eyes, remembered he was still in his underwear, and said, “Gonna go get dressed real quick. Then I’ll come set the table.” His voice was thick, but she didn’t notice. On his way past her, he wrapped his arms around her waist, laid his head against her, and said, “I love you, Mom. I’m so glad to see you.”
She leaned her head against his for a moment, patted the top of his head, and said, “You're sweet, Tommy. I love you too. Go get dressed now.”
Tommy walked down the hall to the boys' bedroom and sat down on the bed. He turned the knob on the Kenmore stereo and watched the tone arm drop into place. The rat-a-tat-tat snare drum of Charles Mingus’s Solo Dancer came through the tiny speakers on either side of the turntable.
With the audio camouflage of ‘50s jazz, Tommy let the tide of emotions wash over him. He sat on the edge of the bed, put his head in his hands, and began to shake. Tears ran down his face. He let everything go in a cascade of wracking sobs. Solo Dancer gave way to the next song as forty years of survivor’s guilt, sorrow, regret, anger, and mourning poured out of him.
Zack walked in, wearing only a towel. Seeing his younger brother bawl in hysterics, for no apparent reason, overwhelmed even his immense reservoir of cool. Shifting from one foot to another, he stared at Tommy for a long moment. Then he walked over and laid a hand across his brother's shoulder. “See. I told you that if you listened to that godawful music long enough, you would go totally fruit loops.”
Tommy jumped, embarrassed, but Zack turned his back without waiting for a reaction. He dropped the towel, showing his bare ass.
Tommy took a deep, shuddering breath, then laughed a little. He found it difficult to sustain a cathartic breakdown while looking at his brother’s behind. Zack bent over and shoved his posterior further into Tommy’s face, moving it from side to side, daring him.
Tommy reached out, intending just to push him away, but he had never had any impulse control. He slapped Zack’s ass hard enough to leave a red imprint. Zack jumped, whirled around, and smiled, back on the more comfortable ground. “Oh, think you can take me on, big boy?”
No. First he rises from the grave, and now he will kick my ass. Tommy backed away. As Zack took one step toward him, a feminine voice called from the kitchen. “Boys! Come on! Food’s on!”
“Saved by the Mom again, Squirt.” Zack grabbed a pair of jeans draped across the end of the bed and put them on without bothering with underwear. He picked a grey t-shirt emblazoned with “Disco Sucks” off the floor and donned it. “You better hurry and get dressed, or it’ll all be gone when you get there.”
Tommy smiled at him, a silent thank you for not beating him up, for not really making fun of him for crying, but mostly for being alive.
His clothes were just where he remembered. Leaving the white t-shirt on, he pulled up an old pair of Levi's that were a little high water, then some socks and his Adidas. By the time he got to the table, Zack and his mom were sitting, waiting. His mother had set the table without waiting for him. Zack sat at the table's head to the left, where he had sat since their dad's departure five years before. Tommy's place was between Zack and his mother, with a wrapped present sitting on his plate. There was a smaller package on Zack’s plate.
“We waited for you. Mom made me.”
“Come sit down, Honey. You can open your present, then we can eat before it gets cold.”
Tommy felt a little lost. He didn’t remember starting each day off with a full breakfast and presents waiting on a plate.
“Present?” Tommy said.
“I know you two were too old for Easter baskets, but I still wanted to get you something. Yours is a little practical, I’m afraid.”
Easter. Holy crap. Today is Easter, and I am risen.
Tommy shook his head, but the surreal fog didn’t clear. He sat down and picked up the
package. It was wrapped in yellow paper with blue and gold stars, and folded slightly in his hands. The feel of it snapped a memory into place.
He tore open the wrapping and pulled out a pair of Levi's. “I noticed that your growth spurt this winter has made your school jeans a little short, so I thought this could help you get through the end of the school year.”
Tommy smiled, rubbing the jeans against his face. “That’s great, Mom. Thanks.”
“All right, Zachary David. Your turn.”
Zack’s present was wrapped in the same paper but was smaller—a hard little rectangle. He tore one end of the wrapping open, tipped it upside down and gave it a little shake. Two 8-track tapes fell out. Led Zeppelin’s double album, Physical Graffiti. His smile lit up. “You are the coolest. Most moms would have picked out Bread, or The Starland Vocal Band. This is boss.” He stood up, walked around to the other end of the table and enveloped her in a bear hug.
“Still a rock ‘n roll girl at heart, I guess,” she said, dimpling.
Tommy stared at the box. Trampled Underfoot played in his head. A deer. The Camaro spinning through the air. Color drained from his face.
“Okay, let’s eat,” Anne said. She put a mound of scrambled eggs on her plate, did the same for Tommy, then handed the bowl to Zack. Zack scooped the rest of the eggs onto his plate. She served herself two pieces of bacon, put three on Tommy’s plate, then passed it across to Zack as well. The two of them started talking about their plans for the rest of the day, oblivious to the fact that Tommy was frozen in place.
Tommy stared straight ahead for thirty seconds. He glanced at Zack, then at his mother, then smiled a little to himself. He was famished.
He dug into the bacon and eggs.
Chapter Six
Temporal Relocation Assignment Department, Earth Division
THE TALL, WHITE-CLAD figure walked the narrow aisle. On either side, identical desks extended beyond where the human eye would have expected them to disappear over the horizon. She lingered a moment at each desk, glanced at the individual's work, tapped a manicured finger lightly against the desk, then moved on.
At one desk, she stopped and spent several moments examining the scrolling information flow. She lowered her chin to gaze over the tops of her half-rim glasses. “Thomas Weaver, Middle Falls, Oregon, United States, North America?”
The worker, a round-faced, unruly-haired female, kept her eyes glued to her work. “Yes, Margenta.”
“Emillion, how many cycles are you watching over?”
“Forty-nine.”
“And how many souls?”
“Three hundred forty-three, of course.”
The tall woman nodded, as if that were the expected answer. “It is policy, is it not, to give equal attention to all clients?”
“It is.”
“Then why, pray tell, is your mind so often preoccupied with this single cycle?” Margenta tapped a whirling display, bringing up an image of a teenaged Thomas Weaver. “Why this particular client?”
“Are my reports not up to snuff, ma’am? Am I falling behind?”
“No, you are meeting your quotas. You are feeding the machine.”
“Then?”
“Then, I can’t help but wonder why you are so interested in this singularly uninteresting life? Enlighten me.”
Emillion reached out, touched the image of Thomas Weaver’s worried face. “He is so human, ma’am.”
“By definition, all your clients are human. Is there an additional metric of which I am unaware?”
“He has qualities I admire.”
Margenta reached into the scrolling words and images, pulled a section close to her. She tilted her head back to view them through the spectacles, then looked a wordless query at Emillion.
“Certain qualities cannot be quantified, don’t you agree, ma'am?”
“I do not. Everything can be quantified. That is why we are here.” Margenta continued on, pausing briefly at each desk, tapping a finger before moving on to the next.
Chapter Seven
AFTER THE DISORIENTING breakfast and Easter gifts, the rest of Easter Sunday stretched before Thomas like an unexpected vacation from a lifeless existence. He was again fifteen. Zack was alive. All outcomes were still possible.
Armed with grease rags, wrenches, chamois, Armor All, and Windex, Zack spent the day babying his Camaro. Anne cleaned the house, did laundry, and made a few casseroles they could pop in the oven and eat during the week.
Thomas spent the afternoon on a long walk through the old neighborhood, reveling in its odd familiarity. In his mind, this place and time had begun to lose its color and fade into the sepia tone of memory. Here it was, though, in living color. He unconsciously reached into his jacket pocket for his iPhone to listen to his music, then remembered.
Going to be a few things I’m going to have to get used to.
The sun occasionally broke through the clouds, and the temperatures were in the low fifties—about as pleasant as March could be in western Oregon. As he wandered, he took stock of his new surroundings. This part of town doesn’t look much different now than it will in 2016. Satellite dishes the size of an RV might come and go, but everything else looks pretty much the same.
Except for the kids.
Everywhere Thomas looked, there were kids—drawing with chalk on the sidewalk or driveway, throwing balls, riding bikes, roller skates, or skateboards. This is what we did before video games.
He walked half a dozen blocks, past rows of small single-story houses, until he reached the edge of the business district. The Pickwick Theater's marquee was advertising The Bad News Bears, but the sign and lobby were dark. No matinees on Easter Sunday in 1976, I guess. He walked past the Shell station, advertising regular gas for $0.579 a gallon. Premium was a nickel more. Just past the gas station was a rundown little bar called The Do Si Do. The dilapidated marquee in front read: “One night only—The loudest bar band in the world—Jimmy Velvet and the Black Velvets.”
At the edge of the neighborhood, Sammy’s Corner Grocery brought a new rush of memories. The worn wooden floorboards, the hanging fluorescent lights, the odd mixed scent of stale packaging and fresh food, brought him up short by its long-forgotten familiarity.
He didn’t need to ask where anything was, because the layout was suddenly in his mind. His feet carried him to a spinning metal rack of comic books. At eye level, superhero comics, then, lower, Little Lulu and Betty and Veronica. He leafed through issues of The Mighty Avengers, The Amazing Spiderman, and Marvel Team Up. He reached into his pocket, but found only two dimes; not enough to buy a comic book even in 1976, but not completely useless. He wandered over to the small candy section and saw the familiar Hershey bars and Reese’s cups, but his eye fell on the bright red packaging of a Marathon candy bar. Can’t remember the last time I had a Marathon. When did they stop making them? He went to the front counter, and Sammy rang him up on an old-fashioned register with actual push keys. Thomas put the twenty cents on the counter. Sammy swept them off in one smooth motion, caught them in his other hand and tossed them in the tray. It was all very cool and retro, but it also left him broke.
Guess it doesn’t matter how cheap something is if you have no money.
He ate the Marathon on the way home, letting the chocolate and caramel stir long-buried memories back into reality. Thomas got home just before dark and sat down to a dinner of ham, au gratin potatoes, and salad.
Between the late breakfast, the Marathon, and this, it's more than I've eaten in a single day in years. Most of my calories of late have been the liquid variety. Funny, I don’t feel the need for a beer, which is probably good. No idea how I’d get my hands on one—walk down and steal one from Sammy’s? Don’t think I could do that, either.
The conversation at the dinner table wasn’t much, but Thomas found it soothing and homey. Zack talked about track team politics, then Anne vented a bit about a horrible patient and an even more horrible doctor. At seven o’clock, they all sat
down in the living room and watched Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color and McMillan & Wife on NBC’s Sunday Night Mystery Movie. The dialogue was a little stilted, and Thomas solved the mystery before the second commercial break, but the scenes playing out in the dark on the low-definition screen were secondary to the simple comfort of being there.
Although I keep wanting to pause the DVR, or fast-forward through commercials. Not only is there no DVR, there's no remote. If we want to change the channel to one of the three others, including the one that doesn't come in too well, someone has to get up and turn the dial. Me, naturally, as the youngest. In the meantime, we either make a trip to the bathroom during commercials, or learn what corporations want us to know about Anacin and Tide.
When the Eleven O’clock News came on, Anne said, “Okay, boyos, bedtime. Off to bed with you.”
A bedtime. Haven't had one in decades. But it's fine; this day has worn me out, at least emotionally. He kissed his mom goodnight, laid his head against her shoulder, held it there a moment, told her again that he loved her, and headed to bed.
Thomas took his clothes off and climbed into bed, but his mind wouldn't stop. How long does it take to adjust to something like this? How can it be 1976 if I remember everything that comes after it? Reagan will come up short in his run for the presidency this year, but beat Carter next time around. The shuttle’s going to explode. The Berlin Wall will fall. The Trade Center’s also going to fall. Isn’t it? Is that something that already happened, or is gonna happen, or what?
Everything here could disappear when I close my damn eyes. That’s how I got here in the first place, just closed my eyes and went to sleep, but I don’t want that to happen again. Life felt completely disposable until today. Now it’s precious again.
Even so, I can't stay awake forever. I saw how that turned out in the Nightmare on Elm Street movies. “Eventually, you gotta sleep, even if Freddy is coming to get you,” he mumbled.