Take Two

Part 1 of 2.

"You get one shot at this, junior," the old man said. He shook a crooked finger at my nose. "One."

I crossed my arms and angled an eyebrow, fixing him with an indignant glare. "Why? I mean, technically, you could give me as many as I needed, couldn't you?"

His shoulders sank a little then, and he brought his fingers up to massage the bridge of his nose. "Always with this. Yeah, I could, but I'm not going to. I'll give you one. More than most people get."

"I'm not most people," I said. "You do remember that I'm paying you quite a lot of money?"

He laughed. "Oh, yeah. Your money. Yeah, sonny, I remember."

"That doesn't change anything, I take it."

"Not a damn thing." He reached over and picked up his cane -- it was a thin little stick, dark wood finish, a simple black ball on the top. "Let's get this over with. It's close to supper time."

"Um...okay." I uncrossed my arms. My hands twitched nervously. "So...should I sit down, or what? What do you need me to do?"

"Just shut up and don't move." He closed his eyes and took several long, deep breaths. His lungs rattled like they were filled with lead pellets. I heard him suppress a cough. He just kept breathing, though -- in, out. In, out.

This went on for about fifteen minutes.

"Is something supposed to be happening?" I said, and the old man's eyes snapped open.

"Goddammit. What did I tell you to do? I said shut up. Really shouldn't be that hard, 'specially for a smart guy like you."

"Hey, look, old man--"

"Yeah yeah yeah." He waved a hand at me. "You ready?"

"Of course I'm ready, I've been standing here for--"

"You remember it?"

My eyebrow arched again. "Remember what?"

He sighed. "That day. Jeez."

"Oh. Yeah. Course I do." I could recall it perfectly in every detail. I remembered the weather. I remembered the clothes I wore. I remembered the smell of fresh paint wafting down the hallway from the new kitchen. And I remembered the look on the kid's face. That I remembered especially.

"You thinking about it?" He had his eyes closed again, and his left hand was working on the black ball on his cane.

"Yeah." Honestly, I hadn't thought of much else over the last few weeks.

"Good -- close your eyes." I did so. "Keep your mind focused. Remember. Just remember..."

Feeling somewhat silly, I kept my eyes shut. He was sucking back long pulls of air again; his phlegmy exhales sounded like helicopter blades underwater.

I tried to keep my mind focused, like he said. It wasn't hard to do -- I could see that old house with eidetic recollection. Every inch. Every piece of furniture.

And every person.

"You'll have about forty-five minutes to do your thing," he said. "If you don't pull it off, you'll come back here."

"What if I do?"

I heard the rustle of his clothes, and even my eyes closed, I knew he'd shrugged. "Beats me. Nobody's ever succeeded before."

"What?" I snapped, and my eyelids flew open.

But he wasn't there.

Neither was I.

I was back then.

"Holy shit."

It was my parents' old house -- the one they bought after my brothers and I left home. A cozy little place for just the two of them, rather than the cavernous barn we needed to house our rambunctious family.

I was standing in the living room. My bare feet sank into the white carpet -- a deep, soft plush carpet, kept pure as snow by my mother's fanatical care. It stretched out across the room, the coffee table and sofa mere islands in its ivory sea.

Of course, none of this was here anymore -- it was all swallowed up in flames four years ago; an electrical fire swept through the house and turned it all to cinders while firemen uselessly slashed it with water. My mother got lost in the smoke and never found her way out. The wreckage was torn down and a playground for the neighborhood children erected in its place.

And yet there I stood. Not in a sandbox, but in my parents' living room, and my mother's perfect carpet.

"Holy shit."

I heard the sound of gravel under tires, and I turned to the window in time to see my father's car pulling into the driveway.

The movies -- my mother had taken my sons to the movies. I had been sick that morning, and she volunteered to keep the kids out of my hair while I recovered. Now they'd come back.

The old clock on the wall -- the one next to the soft-focus photo of my father, who had passed a few years earlier -- chimed its musical number. Six o'clock. I had until six forty-five.

And all I had to do was not screw up.

My family was stomping up to the front door.

"This time," I whispered, "no mistakes. Not again."

The door opened.

Here we go.


To be continued...