Max

by Izzy James

  “Yay!” Grams’d been struggling with the machine since she got it two days ago.

  The needles stopped clicking. She spun around holding a tube of sparkly blue yarn. “It’s going to be a Christmas ball.” She dropped the tube when she glanced up at Olivia. “What happened to you?”

  “Slipped in the snow. I’ll be alright. I probably won’t move much from my chair though.”

  “What do you think?” She held up the scrunchy blue ball.

  “Cute. Before Garret comes I need to ask you a question.”

  Grams threaded a large-eyed needle with blue yarn. “What about?”

  Olivia got two sentences into her account of Max Ballard when Grams set aside her needle and the tube.

  “You didn’t bring him here.” At once serious, her big eyes owled by the lens of her glasses.

  Olivia raised her hands palms out. “No, of course not. I needed to talk with you first.”

  “I’ll get you some tea and something for that foot.” Spiky silver hair sparkled in the light cast by the chandelier glowing in the dining room behind her. Olivia rested her foot on the out stretched foot rest of her recliner. If she stayed off it and kept it up she’d be much better tomorrow. Thank God for Grams. Olivia didn’t know what she’d have done with out her since the accident that took both her parents and shattered her ankle. She knew her grandmother would be in the kitchen praying before offering her advice.

  Sure enough Grams returned with a cup of steaming tea loaded with honey, a pair of non-steroidals perched on top of her leather bound bible.

  “You could touch him.”

  “Yes, we shook hands and he helped me when I fell.”

  “Other people could see him.”

  “Yep, Nate stopped by and shook his hand.”

  “There’s only one thing left then, you have to ask him to confess Jesus as Lord. The spirits of anti-Christ can’t or won’t do that.”

  “Just how am I supposed to do that? Not that I didn’t know you were going to say that. I had come to the same conclusion.” Embarrassment warmed her cheeks. “How do I walk up to a gorgeous man from out of no where and ask him to confess Jesus?”

  “The same way you ask strangers what their favorite song is before you sing it with them and bring them back to reality for a little while.”

  “It’s hardly the same. Helping my patients communicate through music is not anything like this.” It seemed simple enough, but her patients needed her. Max. She wasn’t sure Max needed anything.

  A knock sent her grandmother to the door.

  “I bring pizza and beer!” Garret swooped into the room, pizza in one hand, six pack of root beer hanging from a finger. He pecked Grams on the cheek. “What movie we watching tonight?”

  Her friend from high school had grafted into her family as her makeshift brother when they’d both landed at William and Mary.

  “I thought we’d agreed on Narnia” Grandma searched the shelves for the DVD.

  Garrett retrieved paper plates, Grandma got a serving spatula, Olivia organized the remotes. It wasn’t long before conversation ceased and the click of Grandma’s circular knitter began in earnest. Garrett sat on the floor cross-legged leaning against the couch. If all of Narnia could be trapped in a curse and Aslan could release it, wasn’t the same true of Max?

  “Grams, who did the book on curses?”

  “Derek Prince. There’s a video.”

  Olivia pulled her phone from her pocket and thumbed the blank screen. Nothing.

  “Dead battery?”

  “It doesn’t last a full eight hours anymore. I’m gonna have to get a new one.”

  “Try this.” Garrett reached deep into his cargo pocket pulled out a gray credit-card with a wire attached.

  “What—”

  “It’s a solar panel. I made it for you. You can slide the credit card into that holder you have on the back. It will give you a charge as long as there’s sun.”

  Olivia sat up strait. “This is great!”

  “Why did you ask about curses?”

  She didn’t want to lie, but she wasn’t ready to share Max with anyone not even a brother. “Because I have a question and I think I read the answer in that book.”

  “I thought that once we were cleansed from the curses, we were clean. Are you saying we get more as we go along?”

  Grams’ machine silenced. “Fighting against curses is not a one-time thing.”

  “Remember him and his wife repeating the prayer of renewal?” Olivia chimed in.

  Garrett flopped back against the couch a frustrated move she’d seen in him before. He stretched out long thin legs. “No.”

  “You need to rewatch it.”

  Arms crossed, wheels spinning behind intelligent eyes. “You want to watch it now?” he challenged.

  Olivia shot across the room. Grandma nodded. “Okay.” Olivia navigated to the internet video channel.

  Max paced the conservatory.

  Two hundred and fifty years.

  In truth it did not feel like such a long time.

  Until today he hadn’t realized he’d not been permitted to see beyond the glass. The view outside his windows hadn’t changed from the day he’d walked into his wretched conservatory and been cursed by Rebecka Stiles.

  And it was cold out there. He was cold. Gloriously, shivering-blue cold. He could’ve stayed outside forever, feeling the snow land on his hair, the wind ruffling the folds of his shirt.

  He grabbed his coat and hat from its peg and once more stepped across the threshold into a new world. He took long strides to stretch his cramped legs.

  The warehouses were gone; he could see straight to the river. No tall-masted ships waited in berthings. No stevedores beckoned to one another. No villagers scurried from shop to shop, hollering greetings as they went. Even the thunder had quieted. Snow drifted from the sky in a slow steady pace. If it kept up there would be inches by tomorrow.

  He walked down Pearl Street toward Main. Tom Nelson would be well pleased his house survived the years. The garden had lost its glory as though time had scraped the canvas clean down to the dirt. Shame it was empty he wouldn’t mind seeing how Tom’s eleven children faired. Surely it wasn’t too optimistic to find the same open friendship in Tom’s descendants that he’d known in Tom.

  Max’s shop was gone, the curving path to the waterfront remained though obscured by snow.

  He stopped before a wooden sign erected near the entrance of the The Swan. He glanced around to find that several of these wooden signs graced the street. It showed drawings and told a brief history of the building. A Civil War? Had George the Third been removed by parliament as the Tudors before him? Who had Virginia championed?

  The replica of the The Swan that stood quiet and empty before him wasn’t a bad rendition of his old haunt. Too bad it was just a replica, he could use a draft and something to eat. He inhaled deeply. He’d told Miss Woods the truth. He had everything he needed. He wasn’t hungry, he craved the fellowship of those old friends. Had Rebecka cursed them all? Was it possible he’d soon encounter a bewildered Sam Rogers or Jabez Jones stumbling out of their houses much as Max had done? He scanned the street once more. Alone.

  Alone without even rich wood-scented air. The aroma of supper at The Swan wafting down, mixing with a hundred other smells both sweet and earthy. His heart ached, chest hollow. What had he done?

  Familiar mixed with strange. A new building replaced the old courthouse across from The Swan all brick, glass, and metal. He couldn’t like its impersonal facade. Instead of horses, conveyances similar to the one Miss Woods utilized for her journey stood awaiting their owners. The street was cleaner, but absent the snuffles and shuffles of a village awake with life, he wasn’t sure it was good trade.

  He let his hands fall to his sides. He could do nothing. He raised his head to heaven, palms open at his sides. I bow my will to Yours.

  Through swirling snow he thought he saw an idol with hands raised. Had they come to this?
He shook off his lethargy and moved quickly toward the thing. It had to be over a hundred feet high. Awe hit his spirit. No wonder people bowed to idols. He stepped closer to read the words adorning the base.

  Independence? The colonies were independent. Pride swelled inside his chest. The winds of discontent had been blowing when he’d last walked these streets. They’d done it! He raised his face to the snow-covered heavens and laughed. They’d done it! We’re a free nation. He hurried around the base of the large statue. Commissioned in 1781. He had much to learn about the time he’d been away.

  He knelt and traced the names of the fallen with fingers growing stiff in the cold. If only he’d been there to help. He’d have—

  There was no sense indulging thoughts of what he could not alter. More than he could fathom must have changed in two-hundred and fifty years. He’d spent the last chunk of years studying and reading the Bible. He still didn’t understand why God would allow Rebecka’s curse to keep him trapped for so very long.

  His footsteps were no longer visible in the accumulating snow, light was fading, but he needed no map to find his next stop. He headed back down Main Street then down Church Street toward the river. Grace Church. It was still here. He skirted the main walk and made his way over snow-covered grass. After dusting more than a few stones, he found it. “John Ballard 1745” and next to his father “Elizabeth Ballard 1789.” Mama.

  Mama with her knitting sitting by the fire in the evening. Mama singing a hymn as she worked in her kitchen. How had she faired the Christmas he’d disappeared? He wiped the watery obstruction from his eyes.

  Would he be able to go back or was he stuck here? How could he make amends to Adelaide from two-hundred and fifty years away?

  3

  Saturday morning Olivia’s ankle was sore but still walkable. As long as she moved carefully she should make it through the day and still be able to see Max at the end of it. Assuming he was still there. She dressed in jeans and a soft, rose, cabled sweater. Stiff boots lent stability to her ankle.

  She grabbed an extra bag to bring a few things for Max. He must have dozens of questions. He still thought Virginia was a colony. She retrieved from her shelves a short history of the United States, and a rather heavy almanac of the War for Independence. A compact disc tour of the battlefield. Her worn copy of The Ballard House by the National Park Service. What else?

  “I have everything I need.” The echo of his voice stopped her. He didn’t need food or clothing. He wasn’t sick.

  Enough.

  She’d laid in the dark wondering what to do about his clothes. She’d never seen a more attractive man, and she’d seen many a docent decked out for service in Williamsburg and Yorktown. None of them compared the sight of Max dressed for everyday in his eighteenth century garb. He wouldn’t garner stares as long as he kept to Yorktown and Williamsburg. He might be asked an embarrassing question or two about the locations of bathrooms; other than that he should be fine. But there was so much more for him to see. So many things she would like to show him. These questions kept her up a solid chunk of the night and thrummed her nerves with anxious anticipation for the end of the day.

  Assuming, of course, he was who he said he was and not some creep out to take advantage of her.

  The incident in the conservatory was evidence in his favor, but the world was a supernatural place. And that didn’t include the possibility of faulty human senses. Plenty of things can cloud the senses and the brain as her patients reminded her daily.

  She added a cane and her music. She might as well get in some practice if he wasn’t there, but first she must see Mr. Johnson.

  He waited to see her everyday. She wouldn’t fail Mr. Johnson.

  Olivia moved quietly toward the door. Grandma never got up before ten and she deserved every wink. In typical Virginia fashion, the remaining snow covered the grass as a thin crust. Slush rimmed the roads; the centers appeared clear and wet.

  “Good morning, Dr. Woods.” Jane smiled as she pushed a stack of charts toward her. “Mrs. Johnson is waiting in Mr. Johnson’s room for you.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Olivia dropped the charts on her desk, picked up her guitar and headed down the hall.

  “How are you today, Mr. Johnson?”

  He turned a shaky head toward the sound of her voice and a little smile turned the corners of his mouth. Mrs. Johnson stood. “Not much change since yesterday. He looks forward to you coming.”

  “Would you like to sing with me today, Mr. Johnson?” He inclined his head.

  Olivia sat on an armless chair. Checked the tuning on her guitar and strummed an open chord. “Amazing Grace?” Mrs. Johnson suggested.

  By the time Olivia and Mrs. Johnson sang all five verses a light returned to Mr. Johnson. She’d transitioned into “There is Power in the Blood” when Mr. Johnson started to sing along. Tears filled Mrs. Johnson’s eyes everyday when he began to sing. Olivia’s nearly filled everyday with Mrs. Johnson’s, but today her mind took a different turn toward the restlessness she’d been feeling lately. Would there ever be a Mr. Johnson in her future? He’d better come along soon if they were to have time for children. She wasn’t past it at twenty-nine, but she didn’t want to have children so late that she never got to retire either.

  The roads were dry when she parked in front of the Ballard House. There was no sign of Max when she opened the door. She walked through to the back of the hall. She unlocked the door that should lead to his conservatory. She couldn’t see it, but would it appear as it had the last time when she crossed the threshold? She stepped right out into the back yard as she always had before. He was real, of that she was sure. It wasn’t possible to share one’s hallucinations with others. And if she was going to share one it wouldn’t be with a down-to-earth person like Nate. Maybe Max was out walking. If she’d been cooped up for two hundred and fifty years you wouldn’t catch her inside anymore than absolutely necessary.

  Music.

  Concentrate on music.

  She went back to the parlor and arranged her music on the piano. The Christmas Open-Town was open to a small group of rotating visitors. Olivia selected several pieces that were thought to be popular in the colonies and a couple from colonial composers. She also thought to play an incomplete piece by an unknown composer. Light and cheerful, it recalled long walks on a quiet beach. It was her favorite piece. It would be the first time she performed it in public. It ought to make a good transition piece as she waited for guests to gather.

  Olivia removed her coat and laid it on a nearby chair. The room was a bit chilly, but she wouldn’t be here long. Her heart skipped a beat when she heard a bump in the next room. She moved slowly toward the sound while she glanced around for a weapon. She had no desire to encounter a rat or any other critter that might have sought shelter from the cold. Holding her cane in two hands she stepped into the room.

  The wardrobe burst open and Max fell out.

  Olivia screamed.

  “Miss Woods!”

  She gripped the wall heaving for breath. “You nearly scared me to death!”

  “I am so sorry, my dear Miss Woods.” He bowed before her.

  “What were you doing in there?”

  “I didn’t know who came in. I thought it wise not to be seen by too many people just yet.”

  Olivia retreated to the parlor and dropped onto the bench.

  “Couldn’t you have just gone back to your conservatory?”

  “It was blocked by the intruder, who I now know is ye.” He grinned. A boyish twinkle lit his eyes.

  Her heart skipped a beat once more, but this time she was able to conceal its effects. “I have to ask you a question.”

  He took a seat across from her. “Ye may ask me anything.”

  Olivia felt her cheeks flush.

  “What is your relationship with Jesus Christ?”

  His brows wrinkled into a single line again. “Whatever do ye mean?”

  “I mean who do you say that He is?”
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  “Why?”

  “Because I know you are not a ghost—”

  “What else could I be but a man?”

  “You have to agree that a man trapped in time is not a common occurrence. I need to make sure you are not some type of devil spirit. And—”

  “And there is only one way to do that. 1John 4:2.” He cleared his throat. “I believe that Jesus of Nazareth, the only son of Yahweh, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, came in the flesh and died for all mankind. He died for me.”

  Relief uncoiled a worried spring deep in her heart. A smile spread from her heart to her face.

  “Is that all ye wish to ask me?”

  “For now, yes. I suspect you have a lot of questions for me.”

  He inhaled deeply. Looked down at his hands. Then he smiled at her. A real smile intended for friends. “I took a walk yesterday.”

  She swallowed her questions and let him speak. So much he didn’t know. So much he did.

  “I’ve brought you these. It’s a beginning.”

  He peered into the bag. “What kind of process made these books?” He fingered the almanac. “Naught but paper and glue. Cheap to print and cover. I could sell these for a good profit.” He glanced up. “What kind of paintings are these? I’ve not seen their like.”

  Oh boy. Pictures.

  “It’s a technology called photography. It was invented about—hold on let me see.” She pulled out her cell phone and conducted a quick search. “About 1839 if Wiki is to be believed.”

  “What is that?” He pointed to her phone.

  “Many things. First let’s start with photography, then we can get to the telegraph.” She opened her camera. “Hold still.” And there he was in her phone. She navigated to the picture. “Here you are.”

  His puzzled look remained as he studied her phone.

  “Wait. This will probably make more sense.” She retrieved her phone and took a selfie. “There I am.”

  “I want one of those.”

  “There’s time.” She raised her phone again and took a picture of them both. No one would ever believe she’d actually met a man from the past. Now she had proof.