The Unusual Second Life of Thomas Weaver

by Shawn Inmon

  “I guess, but, man, it’s been so cool talking to you. Don’t shut me out, okay?”

  Carrie looked at him for a long moment before reaching out and touching his hand. “I won’t.” She stood up, assumed the pose of the bullied, and left for the library.

  Thomas sat where he was for a full minute, staring at the hand she had touched. It tingled.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  CARRIE WAS AS GOOD as her word. Over the next few days, they didn’t have any more in-depth conversations, but she made eye contact as they passed in the hallways. She even smiled at him a few times.

  When she's not pretending to be a pariah, she's a sweet, intelligent, saucy girl, he thought, after one such stolen smile between class periods. That's just one of my surprises. In my middle age, I was so set in my ways. Now I'm learning to roll with changes that would have knocked me off the rails in my previous life. One day, I thought I was a solitary time traveler. The next, I found the unlikeliest possible companion on this path.

  Either way, the sun rose and set, and the school bells rang, demanding at least some sort of attention. Even with that distraction, Michael Hollister often came to Thomas's mind. He had a dream that repeated several times a week, in which Michael’s victims stood in a ring, looking at Thomas, silently beseeching him to change their fate.

  Amiable Amy’s nose had scabbed over where the rubber bands had cut into her skin, but every time Thomas saw her, he thought of Michael Hollister and how close he had been to losing her. That was one thing, but the thought of the people who would lose parents, daughters and sons, brothers and sisters–that tore at him even more.

  Upon finding Amy in the cave that night, he had vowed to do something. Now, with time marching on, he had no idea what that might be. Get Billy and a few other friends to grab him and duct tape him to the goalposts? Even better, strip him naked, then duct tape him to the goalposts.

  Probably too much. Do I want to get into an arms race with a sociopath that is just as willing to kill you as look at you?

  Probably not wise, but it feels like I’ve got to do something, first for what he did to Amy, for all the people who will be killed if I don’t.

  Now if I can figure out what.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  THAT SATURDAY, THE Track and Field District Finals were scheduled in Salem. Zack’s primary competition in the 880, Ray Wilson from Pendleton with the UO track scholarship, was in a different district and wouldn’t face Zack until the State Finals in Eugene two weeks later. Without that primary competition, Zack again sailed through both the 440 and 880. Thomas and Anne were in the stands, their shouts of encouragement lost in McCulloch Stadium.

  While Zack didn’t top his fastest time of the year, both Thomas and Anne noticed him easing off the throttle a bit in the last quarter lap, when he saw that he was several seconds ahead of the field. As Zack crossed the line, he glanced left at Coach Manfred, who gave him a satisfied nod. It had all been according to plan.

  Zack rode back to Middle Falls on the team bus, so Anne and Thomas had plenty of time to talk. Anne cracked the window and blew her smoke in that general direction as she drove home.

  When did they discover that secondhand smoke was harmful, anyway? I would have thought she would know about that by now. Maybe she’s just an addict, too, and does know, but can’t do a damn thing about it.

  Happily for Thomas, Anne didn't bring up her previous suspicions about his possible drug use. "Don't know about you, but I'm getting hungry," she said, as they passed through a town. “I guess McDonalds is okay, but I miss the old Tastee Freeze that your dad and I went to when we were dating. Best ice cream I’ve ever had.”

  “Not there anymore?”

  “No, I think the chains ran them out of business.”

  “Speaking of chains, is that a Herfy’s sign I see up ahead? They may not have the world’s best ice cream, but they’ve got a build-your-own-burger bar. That’s got to be a close second, right?”

  Anne smiled. “You got it.”

  Thomas made it through their late lunch and the entire car ride home with no obvious verbal missteps that might put Anne back on high alert. He counted it a triumph.

  A little before 8:00 that night, Thomas bicycled over to Billy Steadman’s house and walked up to the front door, dodging Billy’s little sister's tricycle. His middle-aged eyes noticed the lawn needed mowing. The ’62 Dodge Dart that Billy had bought a few months earlier was up on blocks. He had dreams of glory of rolling into the school parking lot in it someday, but he hadn’t gotten it started yet. The house's three-tab roof was curling at the edges. The blue paint—what we called low-income blue at the dealership—had seen better days. Mid-century poor, but I didn’t notice it. We all were, so it didn’t matter.

  Thomas knocked and waited. Through the front window, he saw Mr. Steadman reading The Oregonian, conspicuously ignoring the knock on the door. A moment later, Helen Steadman answered the door, a dish towel in one hand and a smile on her face. “Hello, Tommy. Seems like it’s been forever since you’ve been over.”

  You think it’s been a long time for you? And, hey, when I was a kid, Mrs. Steadman was just another mom. She’s a looker, though. I don’t remember that. Perspective, perspective. Thomas smiled down at his feet. “Hi, Mrs. Steadman. Billy here?”

  “Of course. They’re waiting for you downstairs. I just took a pizza out of the freezer. I’ll bring it down to you boys in a little while.”

  Thomas looked left and right, forgetting which way to turn to get to the basement. To cover his confusion, he said, “Hi, Mr. Steadman.”

  Jim Steadman waved the top of the newspaper, but didn’t lower it. He grunted what might have been “hello.” Thomas gambled by turning down the hall and opening the first door to the right, which revealed a coat closet. Mrs. Steadman hurried toward him, saying, “Oh, would you like to hang up your coat, Tommy? Of course. Here, let me take it.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll just take it downstairs with me.” He pulled opened the first door on the left. Eureka.

  Thomas descended the narrow, curving stairs into the unmistakable smell of a poorly sealed basement, nearly banging his head on a crossbeam at the bottom. To his right was a card table where sat Billy Steadman, Ben Jenkins, and Simon Lawler. A fourth metal folding chair awaited Thomas, but the boys did not greet Thomas. Simon's gesture-rich storytelling had all their attention:

  “…so, I let all my breath out and was floating a couple of inches underwater. A little kid started yelling, ‘Help! Help! He’s drowning!' Next thing I knew, Sandy Miller dove in and pulled me out. I acted like I was maybe dead and she gave me mouth to mouth. She figured it out pretty fast when I couldn’t stop smiling, but I still ended up with her piece of Sugarless Trident.” Simon mimed drowning and kissing Sandy Miller. “Spearmint. Sandy Miller chews Spearmint gum.”

  Billy and Ben laughed, mostly at Simon’s acting ability. “I think I’m the first kid to get to second base with Sandy. She’s a very good girl. And, I mean to say, she appears to be good at everything.”

  Coming from anyone else at Middle Falls High, no one would have believed such a story. Simon Lawler was one of those people at whom no one could be angry. He stood four feet eight inches tall, and hadn't grown since sixth grade. The jocks called him Louie, as in Louie De Palma, Danny DeVito's character from Taxi, but they were assholes. It didn't matter, since nothing bothered Simon, which made him no fun to tease. He wore dark-framed glasses with the requisite tape holding them together at the bridge of the nose. His dad insisted that Simon keep his hair cut short in a military buzz cut, so he didn’t really fit in with the rest of the school in any way. It didn’t matter.

  Simon waved. “Thomasino. Welcome to the Land of Gorp, or whatever our esteemed Dungeon Master has named this world.”

  Thomas absorbed the scene: a low-ceilinged basement smelling of dryer sheets mixed with mildew, a card table that could topple over at any moment, and three losers ready to play the geekiest game ever
invented. I’m home. Feels good.

  Billy sat with his back against the wall, partially hidden behind a red book with a garish picture of an armored fighter trying to slay a dragon. “Well? Are you bringing out the big guns tonight? Will Hooka Khan be fighting, or do you want to start a new character?”

  Oh, God. Hooka Khan. Totally forgot about him. My badass alter ego. Everything I wanted to be, but wasn’t.

  Thomas bowed slightly and said, “The mighty Hooka Khan will join the adventure, slaying evil creatures and rescuing fair maidens near and far.” Thomas picked up Hooka's miniature, a pewter figurine only an inch tall, painted in loving detail: cloaked in a long green robe, belted around the middle with a rope, holding a staff that ended in a rough cross. Can’t remember where the door to the basement is, but I remember what Hooka Khan looks like. Memory is a funny thing.

  Billy smiled, making a note behind his book. “I thought you might bring him out. Here’s his sheet from where we left off.” Billy slid a piece of graph paper across the table. On it, in pencil with evidence of many erasures, were a number of statistics describing all Hooka's attributes, then a list of his equipment. At the top, Tommy had printed, “Hooka Khan, Level Eleven Cleric.“

  Thomas sat down. “Hey, Ben, glad you could come.” Ben smiled back, but it was a bit tentative, hinting at How the hell do I find myself here, exactly? “I know it seems a little different at first. No board, no obvious winners or losers, but you’ll catch on quick. Have you rolled for your character yet?”

  “Of course he did, during the several hours we waited for the great Hooka Khan to join us.”

  Thomas looked at his Timex. "I'm right on time, doofus. What level did you start him at?”

  “Seven. A little lower than you, but I figure that his natural intelligence will outweigh whatever advantage you might have in sheer abilities.”

  “Not sure how you'd be any kind of judge of intellect. So Ben is going to be a human fighter named—uh, named…”

  “Thickuz Abrick,” Ben said helpfully.

  A laugh escaped Thomas. “Thick as a brick?”

  “No,” Ben corrected. “Thickuz Abrick. Thick for short.”

  “He rolled a four for intelligence," Billy explained. "I let him roll again. He got a six. He’s never going to solve quadratic equations, so Ben thought it was an appropriate name.”

  “Rolled a seventeen for strength, though,” Ben added.

  “Can’t argue with that,” Thomas said. “So, Hooka, Thick, and…”

  Simon looked wounded. “Flanger the Flummoxed, of course.” He proudly held up a figurine representing a half-orc wizard. “Now, are we gonna sit around comparing notes, or are we going on an adventure?”

  Billy sat up straight, stared off into space above their heads, and intoned, “The three of you are walking across a meadow ringed by trees when you come upon a small hut with smoke curling up from the fireplace. What do you want to do?”

  “I would like to knock on the door and ask if they have any Venezuelan Beaver Cheese,” Simon said.

  “Really?” Ben said. “You like Monty Python?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” asked Simon.

  Ben lit up a little. “Fine, then. I fart in your general direction.”

  “Your mother is a hamster and your father smells of elderberries," retorted Simon, on cue.

  Billy cracked up, though Thomas remained a little uncertain of what had just occurred. His

  mind flashed back to the “To Do” list he had created a week earlier. I still have no idea whether I can stop Zack from dying or not, but that’s still a few months away, so that’s on the back burner.

  I want to help Ben feel more comfortable with who he is, but what can I effectively do in 1976? Be his friend, I guess. But, what else? Short of telling him that the world is going to change, there’s not much I can do. Maybe this helps. And Carrie? Am I helping Carrie now, or is she helping me?

  Forty minutes later, Helen Steadman came downstairs bearing pizza, Doritos, and a six-pack of Coke. She spread the food and drink out on top of the nearby washing machine. Billy looked up from behind his Dungeon Master's Guide. “Mom, have I told you lately that I love you?”

  “Only when I’m bringing you food. Have fun, boys.”

  Bolstered by pizza and caffeine, the adventure continued until 11:30, when Simon said: “You know what? Saturday Night Live is coming on. Do you think we could sneak upstairs and watch it?”

  “Well, we might need to,” Billy said, “if we weren’t living in a time of technological miracles. Hang on a minute.” He disappeared up the stairs, returning shortly with a portable television with a 7” screen in the front and a cord dangling from the back. He set it on the washer, plugged it in, turned it on, then extended and wiggled the rabbit ears this way and that. When the picture came into focus, Billy beamed: “Come on, move your chairs over here and we can watch it without worrying about Dad yelling at us.”

  The KGW logo appeared, followed by an image of John Belushi, Laraine Newman, Garrett Morris, and Chevy Chase, all sitting on folding chairs, holding musical instruments. They did not move as Don Pardo announced the “The Dead String Quartet,” nor for a time after, until they began to fall over. Chevy of course took the biggest pratfall. Then Gerald Ford appeared and said: “Live, from New York, it’s Saturday night!”

  “Holy Jumpin’ Jeremiah,” Simon said. “Was that the president? On Saturday Night Live? Is this a great time to be alive, or what?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  THAT MONDAY EVENING, Thomas and Zack were in the living room, eating boxed store-brand macaroni and cheese while watching The Muppet Show. Anne had pulled the late shift at the hospital, and they had run out of casseroles. After watching Kermit’s opening, Thomas eyed Zack. “Who’s your favorite Muppet?”

  “They’re just pieces of cloth with somebody’s hand up their butt. You know that, right?”

  “Wow, that’s cold, man.”

  “Just kidding. I like Animal.”

  “Figures. You’re kind of an—“

  The jangling ring of the telephone cut Thomas off in mid-insult. Zack jumped up and ran to the kitchen, then picked up the heavy receiver. “Hello, Zack’s Mortuary. You stab ‘em, we slab ‘em.” Zack was quiet for a moment, cradling the phone on his shoulder. “Thomas? You mean Tommy? Sure. Hang on.” He raised his voice. “Hey, Squirt. It’s for you.” He widened his eyes, covered the mouthpiece and mock-whispered, “It’s a girl.”

  Thomas cleared his throat, did his best to pitch his voice low, and said, “Hello?”

  “Hi. It’s Carrie. If you’re still up for it, I’d like to hang out with you.”

  “Yeah!” Too fast, stupid!

  Carrie laughed. “You’re not much of the playing-hard-to-get type, are you?”

  Thomas glanced over his shoulder and saw that Zack had retreated back to the living room. “No. So, when?”

  “How about tonight?”

  He glanced up at the kitchen clock. 7:45. “Uh, it’s a school night.”

  “What are you? Fifteen?”

  “As you know, that’s a complicated question with no easy answer. Okay. When?”

  “My dad just ran to the store. He leaves for work at five a.m. though, so he’s always in bed by nine. How about ten? Can you sneak out?”

  The thought made Thomas’s stomach drop a little. “I think so. Where?” Please don’t say the woods behind the school. I’ve had enough of that place for at least thirteen lifetimes.

  “I’ve got a place in mind. You don’t have a car, do you?”

  “No. I don’t even have a learner’s permit.”

  “I’ll come pick you up. Where do you live?”

  “On Periwinkle Lane.”

  “That’s a very manly street.” She repeated it as though tasting it on her tongue. “Periwinkle. What’s your house number?”

  “141.”

  “Okay. I’ll be by a little after ten. Sound good?”

  “Yes. Sure. Okay.
See ya.”

  Thomas set the phone down in the cradle and returned to the living room. The half-eaten bowl of macaroni and cheese did not beckon him, but he slid in behind the TV tray anyway.

  “New girlfriend?” Zack asked. “No, wait. Back up. Rephrase that. Holy shit, have you got a girlfriend?”

  “No. She’s just a friend who is also a girl.”

  Zack’s smile widened. “I remember saying that very thing to Mom, just before I lost my virginity with Cathy Spirelli. She was also a friend who was also a girl. Who is it?”

  Thomas braced himself. “Carrie Copeland.”

  “Cootie Carrie? Interesting choice.”

  And there it is. Thomas clenched both fists, and something flashed in his eyes. Who the hell is he to make judgements about me, anyway? Every single thing he’s ever wanted, he’s got. Everything he’s ever wanted to do, he’s done.

  Zack saw. “Settle down, little brother. Can’t you take a joke? I’m glad to see you’re in the game. I don’t care who you’re playing it with.”

  Thomas relaxed a little. “Can you do me a favor? She wants to hang out tonight.”

  “Sure, no problem, as long as you’re home and safely tucked into bed, oh, in about the next thirty minutes. It’s a school night, you know.”

  “Seriously?”

  Zack sighed and shook his head. “God, you're ridiculous. No, not seriously. Just make sure you’re home before Mom gets home from work. She gets off at midnight. If she does a bed check and you’re not there, there’s nothing I can do to save you.”

  At ten minutes to ten, Thomas was standing in his hooded sweatshirt, peeking from behind the heavy curtains of the sliding glass door, staring out at the endless rain. A few minutes later, a Ford Pinto rolled up the street, slowly enough for the driver to check the house numbers.

  “I’m gone,” Thomas turned to say.

  “Wait!” Zack jumped up and fished his wallet out of his back pocket. It was zippered, with a logo that said, “Keep on truckin’.”