Live it Again (5 page)

“You’re acting awfully queer today,” his
mother said as she poured a steaming cup of tea.

Hugh raised his eyebrows, a little
surprised at the comment. “It’s good to be home again,” he said wiping tart
crumbs from his face.

“You make it sound as if you’ve been gone
forever.”

You have no idea.

He reached across the kitchen table and
grabbed a copy of the Braedon Weekly Times. The date at the top read
June
17, 1974
. The headline and accompanying picture were just as boring as any
crap they printed in the future. It showed a teenage girl he didn’t recognize
holding the reins of a horse in one hand and a trophy in the other.
‘Braedon
Resident Places 1
^st
at Summer Fair”.

“What’s the date, mom?” He asked
innocently.

“The twenty-first, dear. Your sister
graduates next Thursday.”

He watched her drink the tea. It steamed
about her rosy cheeks as she gulped it down.

She must have a throat lined with steel.

He nodded his head and helped himself to a
second butter tart. “Where’s dad working this week?”

She placed the half-emptied cup in its saucer
and looked at him quizzically. “He’s been working on the new veterinary clinic
in Ashern all month. How could you have forgotten that?”

He couldn’t have asked a simpler question. Perhaps
it would be best to keep his mouth shut for a few days, just go with the flow. “I
just miss him. Is he coming home this weekend?”

“I’d hoped he’d be back tonight, but there’s
been a bit of trouble with a few sick workers. He’ll be home Wednesday by the
latest.” She finished her tea and went back to the sink. “If he knows what’s
good for him, he won’t be back any later.”

Hugh remembered Heather’s graduation all
too well. His father was there along with the rest of the family. He’d gotten
in trouble for spitting on cars from the fire escape balcony at the community
center with Billy Parton. It had been one of the most embarrassing moments of
his young life when Steve Nance had marched up those stairs and dragged him
down by the ear. He could still picture them all lined up at the bottom of the
fire escape; could still see the expressions on their faces. Donald rolling his
eyes contemptuously---Gordo, grinning from ear to ear, elated at his brother’s
humiliation---and of course there was Heather, bawling her eyes out into mom’s
shoulder, screaming at the top of her lungs how her
special day
was ruined.
Hugh imagined over the following decades that the entirety of Braedon’s
thirteen hundred residents had also been present to watch the event, but he was
pretty sure that was just his mind making a bad situation seem a whole lot
worse. At least that’s what he hoped.

“He’ll be here,” Hugh said.

His mother nodded. “I’m sure he will. Now
why don’t you go upstairs and clean your room, it’s a terrible mess.”

My room, he thought. He excused himself and
raced up the stairs, pausing to look at the giant mule-deer head mounted on the
wall in the upper hallway. His dad’s father had been a hunter; he’d presented
the trophy kill to his parents as a wedding gift. His mom had been infuriated
and demanded the atrocity be put out of sight. His dad argued but finally had
to give in. They’d compromised and instead of being stored away into the attic,
the head was mounted on the second floor where company wouldn’t have to see it.

My room.

He went to the furthest door on the right.

My wonderful, messy childhood room.

There were clothes half-hanging from the
dresser and strewn about the floor. He plopped down on his unmade bed and
listened to the familiar old squeaks the box spring made. Across from him sat
the bookshelf his dad had made for him. It was stuffed with books he’d managed
to lose over the years. Most were well read and tattered, hand-me-downs from
Donald, Heather, and Gordo, but he hadn’t loved them any less. Jules Verne’s
Journey
to the Center of the Earth, the Time Machine
, and Bram Stoker’s
Dracula
were some of his favorites. He pulled out an especially beaten copy of H.G.
Well’s
War of the Worlds
and flipped through the yellowing pages
nostalgically. He should’ve made Colton read these instead of letting him grow
up on video games and television.

The walls were covered with posters cut out
from magazines and comic books. Batman, his favorite, was pasted all over along
with a few of Superman and the characters from Star Trek. The biggest picture
was of Farah Fawcett in her legendary red bathing suit. His mom had insisted it
come down, but she’d relented after a long talk with dad, and Farah continued
to grin down at him with her wavy bangs until the early eighties.

There were model airplanes and spaceships
from half a dozen science fiction movies displayed on their plastic stands,
some hanging from nearly invisible strands of fishing line. Another bookshelf,
made to specific measurements by his dad, held his growing comic book
collection. Most of the older comics had been donated by Donald. These were the
war and western books from the sixties, a few issues of Donald Duck with ten
cent covers. There were about two hundred more that he and Gordo had bought
during the early seventies. These were the titles he loved; the superheroes and
the horror books. He would have to find a good supply of cash soon if he wanted
to buy the gems he’d seen that afternoon in the pharmacy. It would have to be a
steady supply too, if he wanted to build a truly impressive collection.

Hugh sat down at the small writing desk Heather
had given to him when she’d moved into the bigger bedroom down the hallway. It
was meant to do homework on, but all he recalled were the countless hours spent
creating his own superhero comic books and attempting to write adventure stories
that would put Verne and Wells to shame. Hugh had loved writing at a young age-
it was a pity he’d given it up. He looked through the drawers littered with
worn down pencil crayons and bent trading cards. There were sharpeners,
half-used erasers, pieces of plastic model molding, a pair of dull scissors,
green army men with most of their arms and legs broken off, candy bar and
bubble gum wrappers, and piles upon piles of paper with both sides completely
drawn on and written in.

Hugh leafed through a few of his forgotten
creations and came across a copy of
the Human Volt
. Six pieces of type
writer paper folded in half with a dozen crooked staples running down the spine
to hold it together. He laughed at the sight of it. This had been his greatest
hero, the one he’d always come back to, a being composed solely of electricity.
It had also been the easiest to draw. A few squiggly lines for the body, and a
head covered with a purple mask. Why a being made of pure electricity needed a
mask to conceal his true identity was never explained in any subsequent issues.
And there had been a lot of them.

He bent down to open the bottom drawer and
felt something stab softly into his groin. He pulled out the folded lottery
newsletter from his pocket and studied the rows of winning numbers that would
affect a handful of strangers in the future.

One of those lives could be mine.
He ran his small finger down the first row, then down the second. He
stopped at the fourth set on the third line. Thirty-five million dollars on May
19, 2010 would go without a winner. The following draw three days later for
forty-two million would be split three ways.

Or would it?

He stared at the numbers drawn on May 19.

8, 12, 20, 23, 34, 36

There was a Smokey the Bear calendar taped
to the wall above his desk. Today was Friday, June 21, 1974. He did the math
quickly in his head. In just under thirty-six years he could buy a ticket with
those numbers on it. That was an awfully long time to wait for a life of luxury
and carefree comfort. Surely he had enough knowledge about the future that
could pay off sooner than that. In less than a decade he could start buying
stock in the little software companies that would become giants, and not long
after that, in the early nineties, he could invest in the online companies.

Still too far away. He needed something
that could produce cash right away. Those comic books only had a month or so of
shelf life in the store before new titles took their place.

I’ve been given this opportunity to live
my life again…to make countless billions, and all I’m worried about is comic
books?

Why not? He was only ten years old after
all. It wasn’t like his parents were going to lend him a few grand to play with
on the stock market. The only other thing he had any extensive knowledge about
was hockey. He could list off every Stanley Cup Champion back to the early
forties, who they had defeated, and in how many games. He would have to wait a
few more years before wagering in professional sports.

Maybe he could become a forecaster of future
events like that Nostradamus guy. Bad idea, he thought. If he told the world
who would be president in 1980, or warned them of future terrorist attacks, he
would probably find himself thrown in prison, or worse, have his brain picked
apart by scientists to see what made him tick.

If he tried to change history too much, he
was likely to screw his own future up. He might never meet Cathy; never have
the kids he loved.

Maybe I could do better? Perhaps meet
some rich super model, or a famous movie star… I could travel the world a hundred
times over. Why have children at all?

He groaned and threw the newsletter on top
of the desk with the rest of the clutter. He flopped down on the bed and shut
his eyes.

I’m an evil, uncaring bastard.

How could he for even one second consider
denying them their future? It was his family, sometimes dysfunctional, but
whose family wasn’t? It was his…and he was theirs. He was a husband and a
father. It should be--
would be
his only goal in this second life.

Get them back.

The sound of a dog barking outside brought
him out of his deep, troubled thoughts. He peered out the bedroom window and
saw a big, scruffy collie at the base of a fir tree in the back yard. Hugh
opened the window excitedly and yelled. “Colonel! Up here boy!”

The dog stopped woofing and looked around
to see who’d called his name, one floppy ear perked up.

“Up here, Colonel! I’m up here!” Hugh
pounded on the windowsill with both hands. Colonel finally spotted him and his
pink tongue lolled out to one side affectionately.

“You remember me, hey fella?”

The collie turned his long snout back to
the tree and his frantic barking resumed. He could sit there for hours yelping
at squirrels and birds. Hugh pushed away from the window and bounded down the
stairs. He had known the old dog for as long as he could remember. His parents
told him he was the same age as Gordo. Colonel had been a much better sibling
in Hugh’s opinion than Gordo had ever been.

He rushed by Heather near the bottom of the
steps. “Excuse me,” he said giddily.

“You’re going to break your neck if you don’t
slow down.”

In his mind, Hugh saw a fleeting image of
Benjamin, his little body curled up at the base of the stairs on the cellar
floor in 1992.

Not today.

He pushed the thought out of his mind, ran
through to the back porch and rushed outside.

“Colonel!” He yelled still running. “Come
here boy!” The dog’s long head bobbed back and forth in time with his wagging
tail. He woofed one final time and half-ran to meet the boy. He was old and
stiff, the result of living a long, active life on the farm. Hugh slid on his
knees, finally blowing the thin jean fabric clean through, and wrapped his arms
around Colonel’s warm neck. The dog gave his face a lick and offered him a paw.
Hugh laughed and buried his face in the matted fur. He smelled of hay and
dandelions. He kissed his long snout and traced his fingers along the multiple
grey scars above his black nose. “Remember the raccoon that gave you these?” Hugh
was crying again. “Or maybe it was that porcupine you tangled with down in the
old grain bin.” Colonel looked at him with contented disinterest, his pink
tongue hung out one side like a slice of ham.

“I came back boy,” he whispered. “I can
tell you everything and it won’t affect a thing. I came back from the
future…well it’s sort of the future…I got a second chance.” Hugh sat back and
crossed his legs. Colonel sat patiently in front of him, his wet raisin eyes
full of warm, summer adventure and life.

“I can stop you from dying next spring.”

Hugh recalled the fateful spring morning
when they heard the dog’s mournful wails from half a mile away. He’d been
missing for almost a week and his family had already given up on the idea of
him miraculously returning. Old Colonel was famous for getting in trouble, he’d
scrapped with raccoons and porcupines, been sprayed by skunks, and chased the
occasional fox, but he rarely failed to return home after his supper dish was
put outside every evening. They followed the sad sounds of his weakening yelps
to a marshy runoff between fields. He was stuck in three feet of cold water and
mud with only his shivering head showing above. Hugh’s dad had tried wading in
to rescue him, but the dog was so anchored in it required a chain attached to
the back end of a half-ton truck to pull him out.