Authors: Geoff North
“six…seven…eight…nine…ten.” Hugh opened his
eyes and shut them immediately to block out the blinding sun. He opened them
again slowly, shielding his vision against the bright with his left hand. “I’m
back,” he said with stunned relief.
It was no longer winter. He was standing in
green grass, his shoes no longer wet and covered in sleet. They weren’t even
the same shoes. They were black ankle sneakers with white laces, about six
sizes smaller in appearance than he was used to.
I remember these.
All the kids used to wear them. The last
time he’d seen a pair was almost forty years ago…when he was ten.
“You’re supposed to say ready or not here I
come,” a voice called out, and unlike the voice in the brown, Hugh knew
instantly who it belonged to. He hadn’t seen Caroline Sterling since their high-school
graduation, nor had he any idea what had become of her since, but he recognized
the young voice as if it were yesterday. A child’s voice.
He studied the hand he was blocking the sun
out with. It was small and smooth, dirt shoved up under the fingernails. Like
Colton’s. His other hand was holding something.
“Holy shit!” He was still clutching the lottery
newsletter. Hugh buried it the front pocket of his size-seven jeans as the girl
ran toward him from around a crabapple tree. It was Caroline all right, wearing
her trademark red polyester coveralls and white tee-shirt.
“Quit swearing, Hugh,” she scolded,
standing in front of him with her hands set on her narrow hips. “You sound like
your dad.”
My dad’s dead.
“Hi Caroline, been a long time, hasn’t it?”
His voice sounded weak, smaller inside his throat. He cleared it instinctively,
but knew there was nothing wrong with it. He studied the girl. Her brown hair
was straight and ended neatly just above her shoulders. She wore thick,
brown-rimmed glasses that made her big eyes look more intense, her youthful
indignation more focused. Hugh giggled and shook his head. They would make out
when they were teenagers. She’d be a lot cuter then.
“It’s been ten seconds. Why do you have to
be such a smarty-pants? You’re wrecking the whole game.” She stomped off to the
grove of crab apple trees and called back. “Try it again!”
“Try it again,” he repeated in a whisper.
Hugh looked around and realized where it
was he’d ended up. They were behind the Braedon Elementary School playground. He
could see the chain link fence off to the east, and remembered fondly how he
and his friends would sneak over it during noon hours to play in the woods. There
was the abandoned outhouse to the south, overgrown with bushes. His parents had
used it when they attended school back in the forties, before indoor plumbing.
Was he really here? Had he actually died
and gone back in time to live his life over? Or had he fallen out of one of
these trees just moments ago and hit his head? Perhaps he’d only imagined that
other life. It could have all been brought on by his wild, ten-year-old-old imagination
suffering a mild concussion.
A boy called out. “Are you playing or not? We
gotta get back to class soon.”
It was Billy Parton. After Bob Richards,
Billy had been Hugh’s best friend growing up. Remembering back, Hugh knew the
boy was probably a better friend than Bob had ever been. They had more in
common; there had been none of that unspoken, competitive nature between them
.
Don’t think like that. You’re here to
learn from your mistakes, not repeat them.
He would have to bury those old feelings of
envy and jealousy if he was going to make a difference this time.
“I can’t play anymore,” Hugh yelled out. “I
gotta go.” He may have been a child again, but he still thought like an adult.
The last thing he wanted to do was play hide and seek.
Billy emerged from the outhouse shaking his
head. He wore glasses too, the lenses twice as thick as Caroline’s.
I wonder what Billy would’ve thought of
contacts?
The skinny, freckle-faced kid would be
crushed by the back end of a grain truck before his fifteenth birthday. Did he
get a second chance as well?
“Don’t be a suck, we still have time for
one more go,” Billy said.
“I’m not going back to school today.”
“As if you got a choice,” Billy laughed. He
pulled the blue ball cap off his head and ran his fingers through the greasy,
red curls beneath. “Maybe I should play hooky too. What’re you gonna do?”
Hugh looked at the school beyond the fence.
The brick building would be torn down in the early eighties and replaced with a
modern facility. He dreamed to this day the old one was still there, that he
was still wondering down its labyrinth of dimly lit hallways, between the empty
classrooms of second, third, and fourth grade. In the dreams he could still
smell the damp wood, the pine sol aroma masking the faint scent of mold and
urine, chalkboards and rubber boots, old text books and eraser shavings. New
buildings didn’t have those smells, and for a moment he considered going back
to class with his friends. “I’m going down town…you know-- to check things
out…then I’m going home.”
“Sounds cool,” Billy said. “If I had any
money I’d go with you, maybe buy some stuff.”
Hugh nodded. Billy didn’t have any money,
nor did Caroline. Most little kids back in seventies Braedon never had more
than fifteen cents in their pockets. He checked his own and discovered a
crumpled dollar bill beneath the newsletter. A small fortune. He wondered what
particular day in the past this might be, and how he’d ended up with so much
cash. Hugh unfolded the grimy note and studied it nostalgically. Paper dollar
bills had been out of circulation for over two decades. He should put it away;
keep it as a collector’s item. He giggled at the idea. There would be plenty of
these to spend in the coming days, just as there would be plenty of afternoons
to spend in the old school.
“You gonna share that?” Billy asked
excitedly.
“Go screw yourself.”
Aww, shit. Be nice!
“Let’s go Billy,” Caroline said. Hugh hadn’t
seen her return from her hiding place. “Let potty-mouth have his money. I’m
sure Mrs. Stimm will want to hear all about him skipping school.”
The two kids ran off toward the fence. Panic
surged through Hugh at the memory of his fourth grade teacher, and he giggled
again. The old battle-axe still scared him after all this time. “Don’t be
ass—don’t be jerks, you guys!” He called out. “I’ll buy you some chocolate bars
if you tell her I went home sick!”
Billy grinned back at him as they scaled
the fence and gave him a thumbs up.
Good old Billy.
He’d make things all right, or at least he’d
smooth the punishment out a bit.
After they’d vanished from sight, Hugh took
a closer look at himself. His arms were skinny and pale, covered with freckles
and fine peach-fuzz hair. There was a nasty, dry scab on one elbow that stung
when he bent his arm. He remembered getting that from a spill he’d taken on his
three-speed bicycle. He’d bawled like a baby when it happened, and cried even
harder when his mom cleaned all the loose gravel out of it.
The yellow tee-shirt he wore had a faded
cartoon image of an Indian on horseback with the words ‘
Braedon 100 Years
’
printed above. He’d loved the shirt as a kid. All the children had them in
various colors to celebrate the town’s centennial in 1973. No one ever
explained the significance of the Indian and Hugh had never bothered to ask. He
admired his sneakers again and ran his hands over the grass stains on the knees
of his pants. They felt as thin as tissue paper, ready to tear open after a bit
more wear.
He remembered the mangled remains of his
adult body and started to run. He followed the chain link fence to the corner
of the school yard at full speed. It was a fifty yard sprint that would’ve
killed him all over again if he was still forty-seven. He marveled at how
refreshed he was, how strong his small body felt. The lungs circulating fresh
summer air that had never once inhaled cigarette smoke. Hugh rubbed his brow
and felt warm, dry skin. Not a single bead of sweat.
Little kids don’t sweat; I’m few years
away from that.
Hugh dove forward and completed an
effortless somersault in the remaining grass just short of the cement curb
.
He’d forgotten how wonderful it was to be so young, so full of limitless energy.
He jogged across the street, past the staff parking lot and up onto Main
Street.
So many houses had been torn down and replaced
over the years. Most had been long forgotten, but one in particular came
instantly back to mind when he saw it looming ahead on the corner of Main and
Third. The big, three-storied McFarlane mansion stared down at him as he
approached. He ran his fingers along the rusted, green iron-gate and looked up
into the round, stained glass attic window that had been busted out for as long
as he could remember. He would always run by the brick monstrosity or at the
very least, cross over to the other side of the street before getting too
close. It had scared the hell out of him.
It had burned to the ground on Halloween
night of ‘78 or ‘79. Hugh recalled the relief he’d felt as the school bus
toured by it slowly the next morning. The kids gaped at the smoking remains,
and the bus driver had even stopped to take a few pictures. Now it all made him
a bit sad. The spooky old place had been a mental landmark from his childhood,
a dim spark from the past that had ignited his imagination
.
Kids need scary things like this…gives
them character.
Like the old school, he often wished it was
still there.
But it
was
here again, casting a
long shadow against the ground. Imposingly complete with attic window before
Bob Richard’s older brother had broken it in with a stone throw. Hugh recalled
breaking a few things himself; vandalism was a senseless act that seemed to
prove a point amongst teenagers, but there were some things you didn’t mess
with. The McFarlane house was one of them.
He stopped in front of the gate entrance
and toyed with the idea of going inside. It was something he’d never done, a
missed trespass always regretted. Rumor was the last owner had hung himself
back in the early fifties, and it had been enough of a deterrent to keep most
young thrill seekers away. Billy once said he’d gone in on a dare, seen the
shadow of a hanging body cast on the dirt floor of the cellar. Billy had an
overactive imagination and feeble bullshitting skills. He hadn’t even the balls
to go in the attic where the hanging was reported to have taken place.
Still, Hugh thought, all rumors and legends
had some basis in fact, didn’t they? He lifted the latch and pushed the gate
in. He checked both ways along the street and walked into the yard. The
concrete path had long since been reclaimed by wild grass and weed, just a few
patches of cracked grey could be seen as he crept closer.
This is crazy.
He placed a small hand over his thumping
chest. Why was he so goddamned afraid? He looked toward the porch, to the
shaded front door. Old boards were nailed over the small window near the top.
Probably locked.
No way could he force his way through, not
with this little body. There was an oak tree off to one side with great gnarled
branches clawing out over the second storey balcony. The tree looked as dead as
the house. It would be an easy climb, an even easier job to open one of the
bedroom windows from the outside.
What if he fell out of the tree? What if
the wood on the balcony was rotten and he crashed through? What if he broke the
window trying to get in and cut himself?
He backed out of the yard slowly and shut
the gate. The house could wait. Hugh crossed the road to the other sidewalk and
continued his walk down town.
Would he have been scared to enter the
house as an adult?
Of course not. I’m forty-seven-years
old.
The voice in his head didn’t sound very
convincing.
“Why aren’t you in school?” Mrs. Friedmont
asked. The old lady had stopped Hugh in front of Nelson’s Grocery. She held a
paper bag filled with goods beneath her massive breasts.
“Mrs. Stimm sent me downtown for
construction paper. He may have been ten again, but he hadn’t lost the ability
to tell an instant lie with a smile on his face. When she’d been alive, Mervina
Friedmont had been a friend of his grandmother’s. “We have to finish a history
project this afternoon.” He showed her the dollar bill.
She stared at him through her pointed,
steel-rimmed glasses, the arms held by a small chain. At an even younger age,
Hugh had been terrified she would wrap them around his neck and choke the life
out of him. She was a kind-hearted woman, with a high-pitched, contagious
laugh, but there was something about her beady dark eyes that concerned him,
like a rat studying cheese.
“Well, you’re not going to find any in the
food store, silly boy.” She ruffled his hair.
Hugh shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I
figured for all my hard work, maybe I deserved a chocolate bar.” Another easy
lie. He’d perfected the skill on people a lot smarter than Mrs. Friedmont. It
came naturally enough and she believed every word of it.
She laughed and her entire body shook. The
head lettuce near the top of the bag threatened to spill out, but her left boob
kept it in place. “Tell your mother I said hello, and do come down to the
senior’s home more often. Your grandmother just loves to show you kids off.”
Hugh nodded appreciatively and slipped
inside the grocery store. Mr. Nelson glared at him suspiciously, but remained
silent. The old bastard never spoke to kids; Hugh could never remember hearing
more than grunts from the man when his parents shopped there.
He turned
down the first aisle and found the candy rack.
“This is fuc--fricking incredible!” He
peered back around the corner quickly to see if Nelson had heard him. He hadn’t.
Hugh stared at row after row of familiar old brand names with long-forgotten
logos. Bubble gums squares worth half a penny. Circus Popcorn in a box, the
pink popcorn was shit but all the kids loved the little prize at the bottom.
Glass jars filled with hard ju-jubes and caramels wrapped in clear plastic.
There was no sugar-free stuff here, no ‘sucra-this’ or ‘aspar-that’. Diabetes
be damned, candy was still good back then. The chocolate bars were twice the
size of those in the twenty-first century; the most expensive one was labeled
fifteen cents. This was back in the day when prices were stamped right on the
product. No ugly barcodes, no computerized tills to scan them with. He grabbed
a Hershey half the length of his forearm and a wax-paper bag of barbeque potato
chips.
Thirty cents
,
no tax on junk food for
a few years yet. He spotted the pop cooler and grabbed a twenty cent glass
bottle of 7-Up. He placed the items on the counter and waited for Mr. Nelson to
serve him. There was a tobacco display behind the old man. Thomas Nelson couldn’t
have been much more than fifty. Did his children’s friends in the future call
him an old man behind his back?
Probably.
“I’ll take a pack of cigarettes too,” Hugh
said without thinking it through. “Player’s King Size, please--and some
matches.”
“What’s a kid your age need smokes for?” Hugh
wondered how a man could be completely bald on top and have such thick, black
eyebrows. His mouth was a thin, frowning slit, and he had a big dimpled chin that
could’ve put Kirk Douglas to shame.
“They’re for my dad.” He showed Mr. Nelson
the money and waited anxiously.
“You don’t have enough if you want that
other stuff too--smokes are seventy-five cents. Besides, your dad was in this
morning and got a couple packs already.”
“Give me a break, will you? So I’m a nickel
short.”
He might have gotten away with that kind of
talk if Gary Reynolds was behind the cash register, but the stony outrage on Nelson’s
face didn’t leave any room for bartering. He was suddenly dying for a
cigarette. If he were even a foot taller, Hugh would’ve reached across the
counter and strangled the bastard. “Uumm, I’ll just take the bar and pop then.”
Once he was outside, Hugh opened the chips
and took a few bites. He thought about his performance in the last fifteen
minutes. He’d only spoken to four people and he’d lied to all of them. He’d imagined
screwing Caroline Sterling when she was a few years older and he’d tried to
picture what Mrs. Friedmont’s big boobs looked like.
The Voice in the Brown wouldn’t be too
happy with me.
He sat on a fire hydrant and watched the
antique cars drive up and down the street. They weren’t antiques though, he
thought as a new green Ford Torino rumbled past.
What was the exact year? Mrs. Stimm was his
grade three teacher so that meant it was either the early fall of 1973, or the
summer of 1974. Probably the latter since everything was fresh and green, the
air swelteringly hot. He looked at the chocolate bar and wondered why he’d
bothered to buy it. He rarely ate chocolate anymore, his mouth found the
sweetness too sensitive. He ran his tongue along his teeth and marveled at how
small they were. It was strange to feel molars still solidly in place, where
three or four adult ones had already been pulled. He’d have to take better care
of them.
He tucked the bar in his back pocket and
started on his way again. He’d promised Billy a chocolate bar, and he would get
one. Whether it was a melted glob or not wouldn’t matter much to the boy. Hugh
had done his good deed for the day, or at least, he would make good on his first
promise.
His heart started to race when he saw the
pharmacy ahead, and he suddenly remembered what it was he
really
wanted
to spend the money on. He’d actually fantasized about this opportunity over the
years. He ran toward the door, a familiar bell chimed as he pushed it open. “I
remember that dinger! It’s been gone for years!” he exclaimed.
Mrs. McDonald looked up at him from the
pile of new paperback novels she was placing in a metal rack spinner. She
raised her eyebrows at him disapprovingly.
“You got rid of that thing so long ago,” he
said. “You know…the dinger.” She turned back to her books. Hugh stepped up onto
the antique weigh scale next to the door. His dad once said that for a single
penny you could see how overweight you were in front of everybody. No one over
the age of twelve ever used the thing. “Bob Richard’s dad put this thing on eBay
and got twelve hundred bucks for it.” He looked back at Mrs. McDonald. She was
ignoring him completely now.
She just thinks I’m a crazy kid.
He wondered if she’d pay more attention if
he told her everyone in Braedon knew she was having an affair with Mr. Nelson. Maybe
he should warn her that her husband would be murdered by the grocery store
owner in a few years…at least that’s what the rumor had been. It was never
proven he’d actually pushed him off the two hundred foot bridge west of town,
but everyone believed it to be fact.
Hugh stepped around her and went down to
the far end of the store. Along the back wall was what he’d come to see.
Row after row of brand new comic books.
There were dozens of titles, multiple
copies of each stacked neatly side by side.
He reached out with a shaky hand and saw
potato chip grease on his fingers. He wiped it clean on his shirt before
picking up the latest issue of World’s Finest. The bright, glossy cover showed
Superman flying in to rescue Batman from a pack of vampire children. The banner
at the top read ‘100 Pages for Only 60¢’. Those triple-sized editions were the
reason he’d started collecting so long ago. There were three more copies of the
same book behind that one. Hugh scooped them all up and greedily began to scan
the other titles. He recognized each and every one. Some he still owned (had
owned), most had been sold or traded off in the eighties and nineties, and
none
of them were as pristinely mint as the ones along this wall.
He grabbed every
Spider-Man, Justice
League of America, House of Mystery
, and
Fantastic Four
comic he
could see. His heart pounded when he discovered more titles underneath those.
Metal
Men, Swamp Thing, The Brave and the Bold
… he snatched them all up. Most were
standard thirty-six page size with twenty cent covers, but there were a few
more hundred page books too. His left arm began to ache under the weight. How
many did he have? Fifty? A hundred? It didn’t matter; he kept piling on issues
of
Detective Comics, Incredible Hulk, Superboy
, and
Avengers
until he had to balance the stack under the end of his chin.
They’ll be worth a fortune someday.
He estimated the armload could fetch him an
easy ten thousand. Not today, but sometime in the future he would cash in big. All
he had to do was keep them in this condition until that day came. He went over
the collector’s check-list in his mind: keep them out of the light-- keep them
away from humidity and heat--and last, but certainly not least, keep them out
of the dirty hands of all his little friends. Hugh was so excited and happy he
thought he might shit his pants as he plopped the impressive pile down on the
counter.
Mrs. McDonald met him there and shook her
head. “I don’t know what you’re doing here at this time of day, but I do know
for a fact you don’t have enough money for all those.”
Hugh wanted to choke her more than he did Nelson.
“Can I charge it until tomorrow?”
She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.
“Are you trying to be funny? Put those back this instant, and get back to
school before I call your parents.”
“Do that and maybe I’ll tell your husband
about--,” he stopped and looked guiltily down at the stack of comics. What was
wrong with him? The books could wait, but his attitude needed an immediate
adjustment. “I-I’m sorry. Can you put them back for me? I have to get back to
class.”
Mrs. McDonald had gone white. Hugh guessed
she knew exactly what he was about to say. She nodded slowly without muttering
another word. Red in the face, he nodded back and left the store. The two now
had an unspoken agreement, an agreement that guaranteed no phone calls to his
parents if he kept his own mouth shut in return.
Why would he threaten her like that? He had
a mean streak as an adult, but that had been totally uncalled for. Did it have something
to do with his present age? Ten-year-olds had a tendency to speak without
thinking, their emotions quick to flare. If that was the case, he would have to
be extra careful in the future.
The future, the past…it was all so
confusing.
What fucking life am I living?
He thought of his wife, his kids.
No, this is the present…this is now.
Dana, Julie, and Colton hadn’t even been
born yet. He wouldn’t meet Cathy until grade twelve. How long was that? Seven,
eight years?
Hugh started to blubber uncontrollably. He
missed them all so much all ready, and he’d only been separated from them for
less than a day.
No, they’re thirty-seven years away
.
He rubbed the tears and snot away from his
face with his ‘Indian on a horse’ tee-shirt. It had to be the young age making
him act this way. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d cried. Had it
been his father’s funeral?
My God, he’s still alive.
Smarten up, he told himself. Pull yourself
together. All he needed was a bit of time to get used to his situation. He
needed to get home, back to the farm. The tears stopped when he thought of the
old house again. It had been torn down and replaced with a trailer home in ‘95,
three years after his dad passed away. Hugh’s brothers and sister had already
moved away by that time, so his mother decided on a smaller place, something
that wouldn’t require as much upkeep. Cathy had agreed to move in with him
shortly after they were married to look after her. But none of that has
happened yet. He walked past the newly constructed Reynolds Liquor Mart.
The old house is still out there…my old
family is still there.
After another fifteen minutes of walking
and reminiscing, Hugh came to the end of town. Main Street joined Highway 16 at
a junction marked with a single stop sign.
This is where I died.
A single, stupid second of decision-making
had changed everything.
He crossed the grey pavement carefully,
checking both ways repeatedly. He started down the gravel road that would lead
him home. It was less than a mile ahead; he could see the shelterbelt of fir
trees lining the farmyard. He checked to see what time it was, but realized he
wouldn’t even receive his first wrist watch until that Christmas. He figured it
had been half an hour since he’d left the school grounds, so that gave him
about three hours to kill. Hugh didn’t want to explain to his parents what he
was doing home early. He planned to hide out in the trees at the end of the
lane until he saw the school bus approach, he would join up with his brother
and sister when they got off, try to explain to them what he was doing out
there.