The Unusual Second Life of Thomas Weaver

by Shawn Inmon

The light faded from Michael Hollister’s eyes.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Temporal Relocation High Council

  EMILLION STOOD FACING nine floating desks. Each was occupied by a tall figure wearing long robes that seemed made out of pure light. Each was a different swirl of colors.

  “Makes it awfully hard to see their faces, doesn’t it?” Emillion muttered.

  Margenta stood with her back to Emillion. She offered no reply.

  “Margenta? Why have you called this meeting of the council?” Thus spoke the being in the very middle, her robe made up of swirls of blue and white. Her face was obscured, but her musical voice emanated from a world far away.

  Margenta remained ramrod-straight. “Thank you, Blessed One. One of my Watchers, Emillion Askanzi, has repeatedly interfered in the outcomes of the lives we are charged to watch. I have counseled her repeatedly. I have paired her with Veruna, one of my very best. Despite all, she acts irresponsibly. She flouts our laws of non-interference. In this most recent case, she has interfered in the orbiting lives of a number of the souls she is charged to watch. The repercussions have been widespread, and the ripples are still spreading. I am petitioning to have her permanently removed from my division.”

  “Show me.”

  “Of course.” A column rose in front of Magenta. An image appeared above her head: Emillion, at her desk, spinning her own column. Margenta moved her hands and the image inside Emillion’s column came into focus. A young man in an automobile, speaking to a small dog, then snapping its neck in one swift motion. The image panned back. Emillion grabbed the image of the boy and the dog, twisted it until it snapped free, then dropped it into a receptacle at her feet. The image began to move again. The man drove on, ignoring the dog. The image went dark.

  “I see. Show me the result.”

  “There were a number of ongoing echoes from the interference. I cannot know the extent of the damage. Here is one of them.” Margenta spun the column, then slowed it. Now the same man was standing in a church, facing a young woman. They were speaking, but the image was silent. No sound was necessary. He stepped toward her. They fell together. Margenta spun the scene ahead to show the man dragging the woman out of the building.

  “This was a direct result of our interference?”

  “It was.”

  One more image appeared. Emillion herself, recognizable even in human form, sitting in the same church with another young man. A small rustle moved across the council.

  “Emillion?” Blue/White Robe’s voice was still soft.

  Emillion cleared her throat. “Yes?”

  “Is there anything else we need to know?”

  “I suppose not. Wait. Yes, there is. My job is to watch, to observe, to project. I understand. But, I am given free will as well. I have a heart and soul just as surely as those I watch over. Do you want automatons watching over our charges? Surely, if you did, you could build a machine to do what I do. Is there no room for choice?”

  Margenta’s lips tightened. “No," replied Blue/White Robe. "No, Emillion, there is no room for that type of choice. What is your proposed solution to this?”

  Emillion lifted her chin, squared her shoulders. “The young woman that you saw murdered. I want to bring her back. Her soul is in limbo. There are souls on Earth who have completed their assigned tasks. Instead of allowing them to die, she could walk into their life and finish her own.”

  “I see.” Blue/White Robe’s voice grew softer. She looked to her left, where the rest of the council nodded in answer. To her right, they did the same. “Margenta, there is no benefit to removing Emillion from your division.”

  “But…!”

  Blue/White Robe held up a long-fingered hand. “Removing Emillion simply moves the problem from one area to another, solving nothing. She is unrepentant. Her “solution” will only wreak more havoc, cause more ripples. We cannot have it.”

  Margenta stood frozen, holding her breath.

  “It is the decision of the Council that Emillion Askanzi must earn a new perspective. She is not fit to fulfill the rigors of her position at this time. She will be immediately reborn.”

  A small gasp escaped Margenta. Sudden fear in her eyes, she turned to say something to Emillion.

  Emillion was gone.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  A HEALTHY, LUSTY-LUNGED baby girl was born to Harvey and Louise Esterhaus at St. Nicholas Hospital in Sheboygan, Wisconsin. Since the second trimester of her pregnancy, they had planned to name her Lisa, but when Louise held her for the first time, she said: “Hello, Emily.”

  And Emily she was.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  THOMAS WEAVER SLUMPED forward in the chair opposite the principal's desk, arms dangling, knuckles sore. His head rested on the desk. His arms were too fatigued to bother pushing the hair out of his eyes.

  I never realized. Strangling someone really takes it out of you.

  In strode the principal of Middle Falls High School, Mr. Vincent, carrying a manila folder and taking a seat at his desk. With an effort, Thomas lifted his head and leaned back. Mr. Vincent? Where the hell are the cops? How long does it take for them to get here after you’ve killed someone? Are there a lot of murders that need investigating in Middle Falls on this particular day?

  Mr. Vincent leaned forward, dropping his meaty forearms on the desktop. He was in his early sixties, heading for a dance with a widowmaker heart attack if he didn’t get his weight, blood pressure, and cholesterol under control. His nearly-bald head came to a slight point. It reminded Thomas of Humpty Dumpty.

  “Well, we’ve got a mess on our hands here, don’t we? You want to tell me about it?”

  Thomas managed a slight shake of his head. “Not particularly.”

  Mr. Vincent scowled. It was not the first time he had heard such a response, nor the hundredth. “That attitude will not do you any favors, uh...” He glanced down at the folder in front of him. “...Thomas. Look. Here’s where we are. Your mother has been called. I understand that she is on her way down here.”

  Thomas did his best to repress a flinch. Oh, my God. What is this going to do to Mom?

  Wait. What? Mom is on her way down here?

  Where the hell are the cops?

  “Mr. Vincent? I’m not sure I understand. Have the police been called?”

  The principal leaned back a little, pulled out a pack of Camels, lit one. He inhaled, blew a line of smoke toward the yellow-blotched ceiling tiles. “We don’t call the police over every school fight. If we did, they’d be here most days, and that wouldn’t do. This is a high school, not a war zone.”

  Thomas took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly. “School fight? Is that all this was?”

  “Yes, it was.” Understanding lit Vincent’s face. “Wait. Just how badly do you think you hurt the Hollister boy?”

  “Pretty badly, didn’t I?”

  “Well, you certainly got the best of it. He’s at the nurse’s office right now. Looks like he’s going to have a shiner, probably two, his nose is broken, and the nurse is checking him for a concussion. Other than that, and the bruising around his neck, I believe he is fine. I was just talking to him, trying to get to the bottom of this. Fortunately for him and you, strangulation is more difficult than one might imagine. The assault victim, I am told, tends to pass out long before passing away.”

  Shit. I can’t even kill somebody right.

  “Were you trying to really hurt him, son?”

  I sure as hell was. “No. I guess I wasn’t. Things just got a little out of control.”

  Mr. Vincent nodded. “That’s what I thought. That’s usually the way these things are. One boy pushes another, neither one wants to back down, then it escalates.” He pulled a piece of paper from the folder, then spent much of a minute reading. “Looks like it’s a good thing Mr. Burns walked in when he did. According to him, you had both hands around the Hollister boy’s neck and were vigorously applying pressure.”

  Not vigorou
sly enough.

  The door opened again: Miss Mullins, the office secretary. “Mr. Vincent, Mrs. Weaver is here.”

  “Send her in.”

  A moment later, Anne Weaver walked in, still dressed in her white nurse’s scrubs. She looks pissed. Go figure. “Please, sit down, Mrs. Weaver.”

  Anne sat beside Thomas without looking at him. “How is the other boy?”

  “Definitely worse for wear, but according to our nurse, he’s going to be all right.”

  “Good. Thank God for small favors. What’s going to happen next?”

  “This is a grave situation, as I’m sure you understand, Mrs. Weaver.” Mr. Vincent took a long drag on his Camel, blew smoke skyward. “This is too serious to let pass. I am going to suspend Thomas for the remainder of the school year." The judge let his sentence sink in. "It’s less than two weeks. I’ll arrange for his schoolwork to be delivered to him, and you’ll need to bring him in one Saturday to take his final tests.”

  “Of course. If I’m working, I can have his brother Zack bring him to school.”

  “Zack? Zack Weaver? Of course. I should have made the connection!” Mr. Vincent gave Thomas another once-over. “Are you an athlete, too, Thomas?”

  Thomas narrowed his eyes. Screw you, too, dude.

  The principal looked at Anne. "Well. I don’t think there’s any reason I need to keep you here any longer, Mrs. Weaver. I’ll have someone in the office get in touch with you about—”

  There came a knock, then the office door swung open. Miss Mullins looked flustered. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Vincent. Mr. and Mrs. Hollister and their lawyer are here and insisting on seeing you immediately.”

  He sighed. “That’s fine. I’ll see them in just a moment. Please ask them to wait.”

  They did not wait. Three people walked in: two men in nearly identical dark blue suits and a thin blonde woman dressed in a tan skirt and matching jacket. They all looked as though headed to a fundraiser for the less fortunate. The elder man, whose hair was silvering up nicely at the temples, opened the festivities. “Clayton Hollister, Vincent. I want to know why the police aren’t here.”

  Mr. Vincent cleared his throat. “Mr. Hollister, if you’ll wait outside, I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

  “If I walk out of this room right now, it will be so my attorney, Mr. Radishaw–” he nodded at the other blue-suited man–“can file a lawsuit against your school for falling below a normal standard of care in protecting its students.”

  Mr. Vincent opened a desk drawer and fished around until he produced a card. He handed it to Mr. Hollister. “This is the School District’s legal counsel. Please direct all legal matters to their office.”

  “I just saw my son. He has been beaten with an inch of his life by this young thug.”

  Thomas did his best to make his posture reflect the insignificance of his 5’6”, 153 lb. frame.

  “Bruises already showing, blood coming out of his nose, unable to focus his eyes. We think he might have permanent neurological damage.”

  Hey, score one for the good guys.

  “Mr. Hollister, our nurse gave uh…” He glanced down at the report on his desk again, “Michael, a thorough exam. She doesn’t believe it was that serious.”

  “Are you willing to bet your job on that?”

  Mr. Vincent flushed, then looked down and spent a full thirty seconds reading the report in front of him. When he looked up, his face was calm. “Mr. Hollister. I’m sorry that this incident happened. Our students’ safety is our primary concern. Unfortunately, where teenagers congregate in large numbers, this type of thing is inevitable. And while I am always concerned with the safety of every student, I do not allow anyone to come into my office and threaten me. That includes you. I'm no more receptive to such threats than I am to condoning violence on school campus.”

  Clayton Hollister's face paled as his lips tightened.

  I'll be damned, Vincent, you're worth something after all. I think I'll help you. It's about time to take this snob down a peg. “Before you sic your attorneys on the school, Mr. Hollister, there’s something you might want to be aware of."

  Hollister looked amused, like a batter just realizing that the incoming knuckleball had too much spin to begin floating around. "Might I? Very well, young man, please enlighten your elders."

  Before Anne could step in, Thomas plunged forward. "Hollister, your son is sick. There’s a cave in the woods where he tortured animals. And it’s a good thing I knew that, because he took our little dog right out of our yard and hid her there. If I hadn’t known where that place was, he would have killed her, just like he killed all the other animals in there. I’m sure you’re going to deny it, but before you do, you should know that I have some proof. He cleaned out most of the cave when I found it, but he left some evidence behind that I have, and I’ll bet it would be pretty easy to match to him. You’re going to want to get your lawyers on speed dial, because you’re going to be needing them a lot to keep Michael out of jail. The best thing you could do is get him into therapy, because most people who start out tormenting animals usually escalate."

  Everyone present seemed too flabbergasted to speak. Shit. Speed Dial. There is no speed dial in 1976. Ah, screw it. That’s why everybody’s staring at me like I’ve got two heads. Whatever, I don’t give a shit.

  Radishaw leaned forward, whispered into Mr. Hollister’s ear. Hollister pulled away, glared at him, then to Mr. Vincent and Thomas. “You haven’t heard the last of us, young man. A price will be paid.”

  “Don’t threaten my son.” Anne, her voice, flat, emotionless.

  "I see where Michael gets it. All of it," added Thomas.

  Clayton Hollister's outrage seemed near to boiling over at Anne, Mr. Vincent, and Thomas. He opened his mouth, then closed it, turned and strode out, leaving Margaret and Radishaw trying to catch up.

  Thomas glanced at Anne, who looked as if she felt seventy years old. “Mr. Vincent," she said, "my son Zack is graduating next week. I would like Tommy to be able to come to the ceremony. Will that be allowed?”

  Mr. Vincent leaned back in his desk chair. It squeaked ominously. He templed his fingers together and stared at the ceiling. Then he moved forward, scanned through a file, and made a pronouncement. “This Hollister boy will also be graduating that night. Thomas is not allowed on school grounds, but the graduation will take place downtown. There’s nothing that will stop him from attending. But, Thomas.” He waited until Thomas met his eyes. “Do I have your word that you will not bother Michael Hollister again?”

  Thomas glanced at Anne, then met the principal's eyes. "Yes, sir."

  “Very well. I think that’s all, then, Mrs. Weaver. Miss Mullins will be in touch to arrange for Thomas’s final homework and tests.”

  “Thank you for being so understanding, Mr. Vincent. I will take care of things from here.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  THOMAS OPENED THE door to his mom’s station wagon, which she had not parked in the shade. The resulting blast of heat made getting into the car feel like crawling into Hansel and Gretel’s oven, turned on low for a nice slow baking. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes, curl up, and drift away.

  It was not to be.

  Anne turned the key, cranked her window down, then turned to Thomas. “I hope you don’t think you’re going to be sitting around for the next few weeks watching Split Second and The Price is Right.”

  Thomas opened his eyes a slit. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  Anne pursed her lips tight. “I’ve just about given up on understanding what is going on with you, Tommy. I’ve done my best, but it doesn’t seem to matter. You just keep getting into more and more trouble. This is the worst yet.” She trailed off, lit a cigarette, and didn't put the car in gear. “We need to make some changes. I’ll start with me, but believe me, it’s going to include you and Zack as well.” She stubbed the freshly-lit cigarette into the ashtray, took the pack out of her purse, and crumpled it up.


  Thomas stared at her, uncertain what to say, lacking the energy to express it if he did.

  “Here’s how this is going to go. Every morning before I leave for work, I will leave you a list of work to do. By the time I get home, every darned thing on that list had best be done, and I mean done right. Are we clear?”

  Thomas nodded, then managed to roll down his own window. Sweat stung his eyes. He remained quiet until they pulled into their driveway. “For today, can I just go to bed?”

  “As soon as you clean the bathroom and do the dishes from last night, you can go to bed. In the meantime, I’ll make a list for tomorrow. We will do this every day, seven days a week. If we get everything done around here, I’ll see if Mrs. Arkofski needs help around her place.”

  “You really know how to hurt a guy.”

  “That’s the idea, all right.”

  Thomas got out of the car and went inside the house. Anne backed out of the driveway, let out a long sigh, and returned to her shift.

  Thomas got to work. When it was all done, he went to bed.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  WHEN THOMAS OPENED his eyes the next morning, it was a virtual replay of the first morning of his return to 1976. Sun poured through the window, over his head, all over Zack’s messy and empty bed. Thomas swung his feet onto the floor, reached up to rub his eyes. His arms ached from the previous day's fight.

  Shit. Why does it feel like I can never do anything right? Even when I try to do something bad, I manage to screw that up too. Carrie’s gone, Michael is still here, and I am lost.

  A long, hot shower, triggering the miraculous recuperative powers of a teenage body, solved at least the physical component of the pain. Magneted to the refrigerator was a brief note from Anne:

  Tommy—

  Clean Gutters

  Weed flower beds

  Mow lawn

  Wash windows inside and out

  —Mom