The Unusual Second Life of Thomas Weaver

by Shawn Inmon

  “Amy, sir.”

  “You and Amy climb on in the back seat and I’ll give you a lift home.”

  Thomas’s throat grew so thick it hurt him. For a moment, he had the sickening certainty he was going to cry, and he was afraid he might not be able to stop. He swallowed hard. “That would be great. Y’see, Amy got lost tonight, and I’ve been out looking for her…”

  The cop held up his hand again. “You can tell me your story while we’re driving. What’s your address?”

  “145 Periwinkle Lane.”

  “Good enough. Hop in.”

  Settled inside the warm car, basking in dashboard's comforting glow, Thomas felt no need to tell an edited story of his evening. The officer didn’t ask.

  Jesus. If this was 2016, this would have gone down completely differently. Teenage boy, middle of the night, walking along a quiet road in a dark hoodie? It’s hard to believe a cop would have pulled over with no lights, no siren, then offer a ride. I don’t think they are nervous yet, not like they will be. Like they will have reason to be. Thomas had a sudden vision of himself as a 1970s gangster in Middle Falls, wearing a high school hoodie, having misplaced his only weapon, and leading an affectionate dachshund as his badass attack dog. He kept from laughing only with difficulty. Lamest gangster ever.

  Ten minutes of driving accomplished what would have taken Thomas close to two hours on foot. When they turned down Periwinkle Lane, Thomas craned his neck to see the lay of the land. Thank God. All quiet on the western front. I’d have a hell of a time explaining what I was doing getting a ride from a cop at five o’clock in the morning.

  The patrol car pulled up quietly in front of his house. “Thanks, officer. Thanks for the ride…and not arresting me and stuff.” There. That sounds like a teenager, right?

  “You’re welcome, son. I don’t want to see you out after curfew any more, understood?”

  “Yes sir. Understood.”

  “Good.” He pushed a button, the door unlocked, and Thomas and Amy disembarked into the chilly night air. The squad car idled at the curb in front of Thomas’s house. As Thomas opened the front door, he waved to the officer, who waved back and pulled away from the curb.

  Thomas closed the door behind him, feeling all the night's exertion and injury at last. He unleashed Amy, who trotted over to her water bowl and lapped at it for quite some time before stepping back and looking expectantly at him.

  “Seriously?” Thomas whispered. “How can you think of food after all this?” Amy waited patiently. Thomas picked up her food bowl, dished up a bowlful of Gravy Train, then added water. The gravy taste dogs can’t wait to finish. He set it down next to her water bowl. Amy tucked into it like she had been lost in the wilderness for weeks.

  He put the flashlight away, then snuck into the bathroom. His first glimpse in the mirror made him wince. There were scratches across his forehead, his cheek, and one down the side of his neck. There wasn't much blood, and what there was had dried. Damn. I look like Rocky Balboa at the end of the Apollo Creed fight. Thomas took the washcloth Zack had left on the bottom of the shower and ran it under warm water, then dabbed at his face. With the dried blood washed away, he looked more human, less horror movie refugee.

  His t-shirt was ripped. As Thomas pulled it over his head, he felt a jab of pain in his ribs. He lifted his left arm and looked in the mirror. A harsh red bruise, like an inverted map of Australia, was already forming.

  Once in his bedroom, he wadded his t-shirt up and kicked it under his bed, shucked off his filthy jeans and eased into bed. He had just laid his head on his pillow when he heard Anne’s door open and the hall light click on. Thomas turned to face the wall and was out.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THOMAS WOKE TO sunshine pouring in the window. A few weeks into this new life, there were still days he awoke disoriented. This was one of those. He looked down at the orange bedspread, the red, white, and blue walls, the empty twin bed to his left. He coughed, bringing a sharp spike of pain from his left side that helped him focus on where and when he was. The small clock read 11:15.

  It’s a Saturday morning. Mom’s at work. Zack’s off doing Zack stuff.

  He laid back down and closed his eyes.

  ***

  When he came to again, the disorientation and fatigue were gone. He glanced at the clock. 1:38. Crap. I feel like I’ve got a hangover. I’ve gotta get my shit together. He pulled a clean pair of jeans and t-shirt out of his drawer and limped to the bathroom.

  He turned the shower on hot, then located a green bottle of Bayer aspirin. Damn. Did we already have childproof caps in 1976? I guess we did. He puzzled out the cap, dropped three tablets into his palm, and began to dry-chew them. After two crunches, he leaned over the sink and spat them out. Holy shit! How did I stand to dry-chew those things?

  Fifteen minutes later, he emerged from the shower feeling rejuvenated. Yes! This is what it means to be a teenager. No matter how shitty you feel, feeling good is always just around the corner. If I’d fallen down that cliff as a fifty-four year old man, I’d be in the hospital. Instead, I feel like I could go shoot some hoops. Maybe.

  He toweled himself dry, lightly patting his most injured areas, then wiped the fog off the mirror. As he gazed again upon the multicolored Australia on his left side, he teased a sore tooth with his tongue. It hurt, but not sharply. Think I dodged a bullet, there. He drew in a deep breath, held it, then let it out; no reason to believe a rib was cracked. What to do about his face? Lemme see. I can say I got up early and was hanging out with Billy. Maybe he and I were climbing trees and I fell off?

  She won’t buy that. I’ll think of something. Man. I am starving!

  He jumped into his clean jeans and t-shirt and hurried to the kitchen. He put a can of bean with bacon soup on to heat and cut thick slabs of two-day-old meatloaf, which he smooshed between slices of Wonder bread slathered in mustard, then sat down to eat.

  As he did, he heard Anne’s car pulling in.

  A minute later, she set down her purse and took in the scene: Thomas, barefooted and wet-headed, scarfing down a meal in mid-afternoon. She took a step forward, then stopped. “Tommy! What happened to your face?”

  Thomas’s hand jumped to his face. He reddened, then half-turned and stared down into his soup. She had torpedoed his cover story amidships.

  “Nothing, Mom.”

  Anne sat down, reached across the table, turned his chin right, then left, a practiced gesture of maternal triage. “Cut the crap, Tommy. This didn't happen falling out of bed.”

  “It’s nothing, Mom. I couldn’t sleep last night, so I went back out looking for Amy. I fell down while I was looking, but hey, I found her!” He beamed, pointing at the napping dachshund in the living room. “Isn’t that all that matters?” The cover story, its watertight compartments crumpling, listed to port.

  “You know perfectly well it’s not. How in the world did you manage to fall down and get scraped up looking for Amy?”

  “I…” Before he could fully engage the lie forming in his brain, he could see it wasn’t going to fly.

  Anne’s eyes narrowed. “Where exactly did you find Amy?” A second fish exploded into the foundering hulk that might have been a successful cover story. It was about time to abandon ship.

  Thomas scrunched up his face. “In the woods behind the school.”

  “What? No. Wait a minute. The woods at the school? That’s miles away. None of this makes any sense.” Thomas looked out the window in silence. “One, what would Amy be doing clear over there? Two, even if she was, how would you know she was there?”

  Would you believe I had a GPS tracker installed in her collar? No? Haven’t heard of GPS yet, have you, Mom? I wish I could tell you, but I just can’t see how that would end well for any of us.

  “Thomas, I’m waiting.”

  Guess she’s serious. She didn’t start calling me Thomas until my late twenties.

  Her voice shifted from challenge to sympathy. “It’s obvious somethi
ng’s going on. Thomas, are you in some sort of trouble? You know you can talk to me about it. Whatever it is, I can help.”

  Sure. Okay. I’m really twenty years older than you, even though I look like a kid. I was so depressed, I tried to kill myself and woke up back here. And other than the fact Zack is alive again—and you don’t even know he was dead—everything kind of sucks. I ran into this future serial killer and now I’m all messed up with him, and I’m not sure what I’m going to do about it, but I’m going to do something.

  Can you help me with all that, Mom? Really?

  He continued to stare out the window.

  “Fine," she snapped. Thomas saw tears glittering in her eyes. "You don’t want to talk to me? Go to your room. You can come out when you’re ready to tell me what you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in.”

  Thomas pushed away his lunch and stood up. “Sorry, Mom.” He walked out of the kitchen.

  “No. No you’re not,” Anne said in an injured tone. “If you were sorry, you’d sit back down and talk to me.”

  Thomas continued on to his room, shutting the door behind him.

  Should have thought this whole thing through better. She’s not stupid. Now what in the hell am I going to tell her?

  He walked to the little bookcase and looked through what was there. Wish I had my Xbox. That would make being a grounded middle-aged man a lot more palatable. His fingers glanced across titles by Heinlein, Asimov, Clarke, and Farmer, then settled upon A Sound of Thunder and Other Stories by Ray Bradbury. Okay, sure, why not. I’ve got time to kill.

  He flopped down on the bed, adjusted the pillow, and began to read.

  A few hours later, Anne brought in a plate of dinner. “Ready to talk yet?” All Thomas could manage was a helpless stare. His mother set the plate down on his dresser.

  “Billy called. He wanted to know if you could come over and play something called B & B. What’s that?”

  “I think it was probably D & D. Dungeons and Dragons. It’s just a game.”

  Anne nodded. “I told him you were grounded.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t figure you were going to let me out of house arrest to go have a sleepover at Billy’s.”

  “Being smart with me won’t help anything.” On her way out, she shut the door with a little extra oomph. He returned to Ray Bradbury.

  Around bedtime, Zack appeared. He took off his t-shirt. “You’re in the shit now, squirt. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on and I’ll help you figure out how to talk to Mom about it.”

  “Nothing to talk about. Amy got out, I went and found her and brought her home. That’s it.”

  “Sure. Amy got out, travelled the four miles to school on her little three-inch legs, managed to get herself lost in the woods, and you happened to know exactly where to look for her? This is bullshit. Do you think we're stupid?”

  “Well, it sounds like bullshit when you say it like that.”

  Zack leaned forward. “That’s because it is bullshit, shit-for-brains. In the car last night, you said 'no more walks in the woods.' That promise didn’t last very long.”

  “Zack, if I knew what’s going on, I would tell you.”

  “That's another load of crap. You know something is going on, and you won't tell me. But, whatever. It’s your funeral.” Zack stripped down to his boxers, got into bed and clicked off the light.

  They didn’t listen to any music that night.

  Chapter Twenty

  THE NEXT MORNING, Anne made breakfast, but there was no happy meeting around the breakfast table. She brought Thomas a plate of eggs and pancakes in silence.

  By mid-morning, Thomas finally reached the title story in A Sound of Thunder. It was about a company that used time travel to send big game hunters far back into the past, where they were allowed to kill dinosaurs that had been about to die anyway. The hunter loses his nerve, blunders off the pre-selected path, and returns only when the guides have killed the T-Rex. When the group returns to their own time, they find everything is changed. The hunter looks at the bottom of his boot and sees that when he fled, he had stepped on a butterfly. Over millions of years, this had somehow changed the course of history.

  Thomas laid the book on his chest, tucked his hands behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling. Of course. When I came back, unless I did everything exactly the same as I did the first time, it would change everything. And doing it all the exact same would be impossible. I’ve done a hell of a lot more than step on a butterfly, so what does that mean? I have to at least consider that I don’t know crap about what’s going to happen from now on. I’ve probably changed everything, now. So, that would mean Zack is safe, right? At least, safe from me killing him, right?

  Thomas rolled over and put the Beach Boys on the turntable.

  But if the future is wide open, that means I can make things better, right? First, I’ve got to figure out how to get out of this situation with Mom, but I think I’ve got an idea how to handle that. Then I’ve got to find a way to stop Michael from killing people. That’s a good start, but what else can I do?

  His mind replayed the image of Seth Berman pushing him backward and calling him a "homo" while Ben Jenkins looked on. Maybe I can help Ben feel a little better, too. It’s gotta suck, having to hide who you are all the time. I’d like him to know things will get better.

  Sure. And, while I’m at it, I’ll stop Mark David Chapman from shooting John Lennon, the space shuttle from exploding, and 9/11 from happening. Why not?

  Thomas finished the book, but was too swept up by ennui to start another. He spent half an hour watching raindrops race each other down his bedroom window. He went to the bathroom, just to get out of his room, then returned. He pulled his school notebook down and made a list:

  1. Don’t Kill Zack

  2. Stop Michael from killing people

  3. Figure out what’s wrong with Carrie Copeland and help her if I can

  4. Help Ben be who he really is.

  Ha! How much will it creep Zack out if he finds a piece of notebook paper with my writing on it that says, “Don’t kill Zack?” He’ll start sleeping with one eye open.

  After dinner, Anne came in again and sat down on the end of Thomas’s bed, looking serious.

  Uh-oh.

  “Okay,” Anne said, “this isn’t working. I could keep you locked away in here until you’re an old man…”

  Too late.

  “…and it’s obvious you’re still not going to talk to me. When I went by the hospital today, I talked to Dr. Rasmussen, and he gave me this.” She laid a powder blue pamphlet on the bed, entitled Ten Signs Your Teenager Is On Drugs. Below the title was a caricature of a heavy-lidded, long-haired teen.

  I have no business laughing, nor even looking like I might laugh. This is hard. With an effort of pure will, Thomas neutralized the urge to crack up.

  “You’ve been acting so differently these past few weeks, I hardly recognize you. You speak differently, you even walk differently. Everything about you just feels a little off these days. That’s one of the ten warning signs.”

  Guess I haven’t been doing as good a job of fooling everyone as I thought.

  “Zack told me you’ve been drinking my leftover coffee in the morning and wandering off to the woods after school, too.”

  Seriously, Zack? And you called me a narc? Still, I can’t blame him. The first time around, I didn’t realize how much like a second parent he had been. I didn’t have any perspective.

  “Sneaking out in the middle of the night is on the list, too. Tommy, I need you to level with me. No matter what, I’m your mom, and I can help you, but I need to know. Are you on drugs? Did you sneak out on Friday to see your pusher?”

  Thomas had to bite his lip. Mom, I think you’ve been watching too many episodes of The Streets of San Francisco. Okay, Weaver, get it together. He took a deep breath. "No, Mom, I’m not on drugs. I’ve never even smoked a cigarette or snuck a beer.” However, if you'll be patient... “I’m not doing drugs. I pro
mise. If I’m acting different, it’s probably because I’ve been pretty worried about something.”

  Anne scooted closer, sensing a breakthrough. “What? What’s bothering you so much?”

  “I don’t want to tell you, because I know you’ll overreact. I want to try and figure this out on my own without you just fixing it.” I really do hate to be so manipulative with her, but I can’t see another way.

  Anne was quiet for a moment. Then, “Okay. I’ll make you a deal. You tell me what’s going on, and if I can, I’ll let you figure it out on your own.”

  There we go. That’s the opening I was looking for.

  “Okay. Well…” She waited out his long pause. “I’ve been having trouble with this kid Michael Hollister at school. He’s bigger than me—he’s in Zack’s grade.”

  “Is he hitting you?”

  “No, not exactly. He’s just—he scares me. I think I said something to him that made him mad at me, and now he’s doing everything he can to make me miserable.” Thomas looked down at the bedspread, picked off a little piece of fabric and rolled it between his fingers. “I…I figured he took Amy on Friday, and I knew where he took her. I just didn’t want to tell you.”

  “So, when we were driving around the neighborhood calling for her, you knew where she was? And you just didn’t tell me?”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure where she was. That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

  “What made you think he took Amy there?”

  Thomas paused. Should have anticipated that. Damn it.

  Were all my lies and half-truths, all my life, as crappy and transparent as this one?

  “He’s got like a little clubhouse out in the woods behind the school.” Yeah, sure. Clubhouse of the damned. “No big deal, but I just knew that was where he would take her.”