IGMS Issue 22 (15 page)

It had been Henry's fault. They'd been walking along the sidewalk on Main Street, just like any other late summer evening, except on that night they'd been bouncing a worn old basketball that they'd found in the weeds at East Side Park. Henry had bounced it to Adam, but it had hit a crack and spanged off toward the road. Willy the dog had immediately jumped to chase it, scrambling out into the yellow glow of an approaching car.

Adam hadn't even called his dog's name. He had merely lunged after him, reaching to scoop him up and out of the way. He'd stumbled on the low curb, fallen forward just as the car squealed and swerved to avoid the dog. The Cutlass' front right corner had caught Adam in the hip, breaking him in mid-air and throwing him into the street. Henry had merely watched, frozen in mid-step, just as if they'd been playing Red Light-Green Light with Adam's mother.

Prentiss had refused to believe that Adam was dead. He'd knelt over him, attempted to scoop the pathetic form into his arms, and then glanced back at Adam [Henry?], his eyes hectic behind his glasses.

"Kid! Run to the fire department! Have them send an ambulance! Go!"

But Henry hadn't. He couldn't move. It had been his fault. Across the street, the old basketball was still rolling and bumping down the gutter. Willy was still chasing it, his claws clittering on the pavement.

Henry shook his head harshly as he entered the bathroom and yanked back the moldy shower curtain. Old memories had plagued him into the wee hours. When he had finally slept, they had plagued him still, but as nightmares they'd been hazy and disjointed. It was the waking memory, freshly revived, that was hauntingly, crystal clear.

Henry showered, saw that it was ten o'clock in the morning, and decided he couldn't mope around his dingy little house all day. Church bells rang out from the Calvary Baptist church a few blocks away. It was a singularly depressing sound. Henry jammed on his work shoes and stalked out the front door, not even bothering to lock it. He'd walk to Kenney's for coffee. It would help just to be around people. When he got to Kenney's, however, he didn't go in. He kept walking. It was better, he realized, to keep moving.

His footsteps wouldn't take him back in time, of course, not now. Somehow he knew that the magic, if that was what it was, only happened in the evening, in that mystical hour between day and night. Now, the walking was just a mechanism, a distraction. It calmed his thoughts, forced them into a semblance of order.

Henry walked. And slowly, like box cars shunting into place on a railway yard, his thoughts aligned.

He knew what he had to do.

That Sunday was the longest day of Henry's life. Several times, he walked the part of Beech Avenue that intersected Twenty-Third, glancing down the short road toward Steph's house. Of course, it wouldn't be her house much longer. A huge Bekins truck had been parked in front of the place for much of the day and men in gray coveralls tramped up and down the ramp that led into the back of the truck, pushing dollies of boxes and carrying furniture. By six, the truck was gone and the place appeared horribly quiet. It looked like a corpse displayed in a coffin, with all the blood sucked out of it and replaced with chemicals.

Still Henry waited. He was horribly impatient, so nervous that his fingers jiggled at his sides as he walked, but there was nothing he could do. The magic only happened at dusk. This was his last chance. Tomorrow, Jake would be gone, and then it would all be too late. After all, the magic seemed to rely on Jake. Henry couldn't know this for sure, but it made sense to him. After all, Jake
was
Adam.

He went back home, tried to watch television, eventually turning the set off and simply staring into its blank gray eye. The clock ticked in the hall. Finally, seven-thirty came.

Henry left.

As it turned out, however, Jake wasn't even home. The house not only looked empty, it
was
empty. There was a Post-it note on the front door, scribbled with Steph's back-slanted handwriting:
Went to Lexington with Jake. Will eat out, call us for where. Mwa.

The note wasn't even for him. It was for Greg. Henry could tell by the last word:
Mwa
. It was a kissy sound, Steph's funny way of saying XOXO, hugs and kisses. He remembered the days when she used to say it to him as they hung up the phone:
see you tonight, hon. Mwa.
Those days were long gone, but they still felt like yesterday.

Jake was gone. He was out with his mother, doing last-minute errands before leaving for California tomorrow. Henry considered calling Steph himself, but what would be the point? They hadn't
forgotten
about their last evening stroll together, he and his son. It just hadn't been important enough to be a priority.

His heart sank as he stared at the little yellow Post-it note. His arms hung limply at his sides. Finally, aimlessly, he turned around and walked down the porch steps. He angled to the side and passed between the house and the garage next door. The back gate was unlocked. Sig met him there, throwing his paws up onto the gate. Henry patted the big dog on the head, jingling his collar. The leash was hung over the low fence. Henry took it, opened the gate, and clasped the leash onto Sig's collar.

A moment later, Henry and Sig began their last walk together. Henry had thought it would also be his last evening stroll with his son, but apparently that had already happened.

Grinning at the end of his leash, Sig led Henry out onto Beech Avenue.

Somehow, the magic happened anyway.

This time, even part of Beech Avenue had transformed. For a hundred feet in each direction, it was State Street, Clyde, Ohio. The Western Auto stood on the corner, white as snow, its round red sign swinging faintly in the breeze. The lights were on inside, even though the closed sign was hung in the window. As Henry passed, he glanced through the glass door and saw old white-haired Mr. Davies behind the cash register, counting out his daily take.

He turned onto George Street and felt the change. He didn't shrink, exactly. It simply felt as if he'd walked through a sudden hot gust. His clothes buffeted around him subtly, and when he stepped forward again, he was closer to the ground, walking with a much shorter, ten-year-old's gait. The leash was gone from his hand. Willy the mutt ran ahead, his tail flapping behind him.

Henry walked briskly along the backs of the buildings, approaching the alley next to the Piper. Maybe he could still do what he had planned, even without Jake. He didn't know how, but there had to be a reason why the magic was still working, why he had still been able to come here, on this important, final night. It wasn't just that Jake was moving away tomorrow morning. It was that this was the night when it had all happened. Henry knew it with absolute certainty.

Thinking that, he broke into a run. His Keds scraped on the gravel as he rounded the corner of the Clyde Piper, heading toward Main Street. As he angled onto the sidewalk, he saw that most of the stores were closed. The sidewalks were nearly empty, as were the slant parking spaces that lined both sides of the street. The clock tower over the Town Hall read seven-forty and the sky was turning a deep lavender color over the trees and rooftops.

Henry stopped on the sidewalk in front of Wilson's Men's Shop. He looked around helplessly, unsure what to do. Willy stopped by his feet and plopped down for a good scratch.

It had made sense when he'd thought he would have Jake with him, wearing the guise of Adam. All he had to do was keep the other boy from bolting out into the street. He could change it all with one quick, decisive action, just as he should have done thirty years ago, when it happened for the first time. But how could he do that if Adam wasn't here?

Henry shook his head in frustration.

He started to walk again. Willy followed, his tongue hanging out happily in the late-day heat.

Without thinking about it, Henry walked to the end of the block and turned left onto Park Street. He was retracing the steps that he and Adam had taken on that horrible night. Perhaps he'd meet Adam on the way, somehow. Was it possible? Was any of this possible?

East Side Park stood at the end of Park Street. It was a flat, square field with a packed-dirt playground on one corner and a ball-field and basketball court on the other. The middle was dotted with huge old walnut trees, picnic tables and black iron barbecue grills.

Henry turned and paced along the edge of the park. Evening shadows crowded the place, filling it with blue gloom.

There was no one in sight.

Willy darted off into the grass and chased a squirrel up one of the trees. He barked at it ecstatically.

As Henry reached the weeds along the edge of the basketball court, a small round shape caught his attention. He turned toward it, approached it slowly, and kicked it. The worn old basketball bumped out of the grass and rolled across the court.

"Hey, cool," a voice said from behind him.

Henry looked back over his shoulder. Adam was approaching from the ball field with Willy trotting along next to him. This time it wasn't Jake using the persona of Adam. It was good old Adam Miles Blankenship, expert crayon artist, gonzo story teller, the boy who dreamed about growing up to be a secret agent, or a starship captain, or both. Adam watched the old basketball as it bumped along the court.

"Grab it. I bet the big kids left it here when it thunder-stormed the other day, the buncha babies. They'll never miss it."

Henry simply stared at his friend. His heart hurt physically in his chest, as if all those years of willing forgetfulness were pushing down on him, crushing him with the weight of their guilt.

"Go on, bonehead," Adam said, scowling. "Grab it before anyone else sees it. You chicken?"

"I may be chicken but you're chicken shit," Henry replied automatically. He turned and trotted toward the basketball, scooping it up into his hands. He passed it back to Adam, who caught it against his chest.

"Come on," Adam said, angling across the court. "Let's go back to my place. We can bounce this off the school walls on the way."

Henry fell into step next to his friend. "No," he said. "Let's take a different route."