Well it's been fun. I am toying with the idea of publishing the whole thing in one post next week. Frankly, I'm not sure Blogspot is up to that, but I may give it a whirl. Thanks to my lovely wife, Lee Ann, for bearing with me always, to my brothers James Morrison and Rocky Alvey for priceless input, and to you, dear reader. I hope you can say, by the end of this read, that you have enjoyed Running with me. Stay safe and well and don't be burying anyone under new construction. It's not cool. But you are. Here is...
26—an end to it
The gas fire flickered beneath its conical chimney, adding cheerful warmth to the already pleasant environs of the London Oyster. It was a wonderful place to spend any Sunday afternoon, the little tables draped as they were with crisp white tablecloths, the wall of windows looking out over the parking lot and the backs of buildings which fronted North Santa Cruz Avenue. From where Will sat, he could see the intersection of that street and Main. Lazy traffic crawled through the drizzly afternoon, and rain dripping off the storefront eaves intensified the coziness of the dining room.
The restaurant’s Sunday brunch was long over, and a few small groups of well fed and thoroughly champagned hangers on lingered, as if unwilling to venture out of the room’s warm embrace. Glasses tinkled at the bar, and smatterings of lighthearted conversations wafted over to the window table where the three sat.
“Merle, you see, well he was a strange old bird, you know, a history nut from the word go.” George had been a distant cousin of Merle’s and the two had known one another from childhood. “That was his passion, yessir, old books, and letters, why one whole wall in his room, back when he stayed with us, it was just covered, why, literally covered with old postcards, and photographs, pictures cut out of all those old newspapers.” He leaned back in his chair, seeming to picture in his mind Merle’s room. “And I was up in that apartment where, God rest his soul, he must of died, and you know what? There were tape marks all over the walls of that bedroom, you know, like I know he’d done the same thing there, taped up all his old pictures and such, but I couldn’t find a single solitary one of them.”
George sighed and made a little clucking sound with his tongue. He took another sip of his Irish Coffee. “Guess that murdering son of his…” he stopped himself. “no, I shouldn’t say that. Merle Junior never had it in him to actually kill his father. Though he sure acted like he would of liked to. Anyway, I bet that bloated bastard threw all his father’s stuff out.”
He sighed again. “Never replace some of that stuff. Never replace it.”
There was a long silence. Everyone in the room seemed to have been cued to freeze in position. The rain outside fell straight down, in light parallel lines of droplets, and heavier drops from the buildings’ eaves fell randomly, accenting the stillness.
George shifted his frail weight in the comfortable chair and reached around to his hip pocket to bring out a weathered leather billfold. He thumbed through plastic snapshot leaves until he found the one he was looking for, then offered the wallet to Will.
“There,” he said, pointing to the snapshot of two elderly gentlemen, that’s me and Merle, took a couple of years ago at Thanksgiving.” He searched Will’s face for recognition.
Beyond amazement anymore, Will spent a few seconds in his mind running, smiling at the old man at in the old tweed touring cap and the oversized plaid greatcoat. What was it he had said? Something.
No matter. Oh. "I wish I could do that."
Will cleared his throat, “George,” he said softly, “I only have one question that I can’t seem to answer. Maybe you can help me figure it out.”
The older man looked suddenly tired, suddenly he looked every day of his eighty some odd years, as he returned the younger’s earnest gaze. “I’ll help you in any way I can, boy. You know that,” his voice broke a little, “You know, Will, I really loved that old,” he trailed off, but he maintained eye contact with Will. “Well,” George dropped his gaze to his coffee, then raised it back up to Will, “What’s your question.”
Will forged ahead, determined to find the answer, if there was one.
“All the dreams about fire, and all the stuff about lost records and the cemetery move and all that. Every bit of it can be explained, as much as any of it can be explained, by your cousin’s obsession with history. I believe he was using the only tool he could to draw me to where his body had been buried. History.”
He looked from George to Sarah and back again to assure himself his point was taken. Will had long since accepted that merle Senior had called him from beyond death, but he didn’t want to make the mistake of assuming that everyone with whom he discussed the matter agreed with that assessment.
No one at this table voiced any interest in contradicting it.
“And it worked. That much I can figure out.” He took a draft of his Guinness and let its cold fizz soother his throat. “And the three beats, that’s obvious too.”
George spoke, “That’s the part that makes my skin crawl, you know, sort of makes a fellow wonder what’s going to happen to his mortal remains.” He smiled a little nervously.
Sarah spoke up, “George, if I may, I really don’t think we can assume that anything that went on here can be applied to the normal business of life. Or death,” she added. “This is a really strange case—of abuse, maybe of murder, and definitely of some kind of spiritual bond between Merle Senior and Will. We could speculate forever about its meaning, but I think we only need to be concerned with its outcome.”
Both men regarded her with profound respect.
“Well don’t look at me like I just laid an egg. I’m perfectly capable of remarkable insight, even if I don’t make a habit of scaring myself half to death with psychic dreams and missions like Mr. Gardner here. You can have those, and with my blessings, my love.” She picked up her own cup if Irish, offered a little silent toast to the two, and took a dainty sip.
Will picked up the thread once again, “There was one other image that really stood out. I mean, it was really its introduction into the stream of my consciousness that spurred me to start doing something about this mess instead of just sort of laying back and letting it all assault me.” He took a beat or two to visualize it, then continued. “It was as clear as anything else that I dreamed, or imagined, and it recurred at least as frequently. An image of a team of horses, out of control, racing toward me, and then…through me, like as if it were the end of my life. But, aside from a kind of a tug, both sharp and gentle at the same time, it wasn’t altogether painful.” He shrugged, “Almost pleasant, in a weird way.”
He chuckled nervously. There.
George, who had been sitting still as a stone during Will’s little monologue, now shifted once again in his seat and cleared his own throat. He held aloft his cup and looked around for the waiter. After he had requested another Irish Coffee, he returned his attention back to Will.
“I guess you’ve connected with more than one side of life and death, Will.”
Will sensed an answer coming but did not see it yet. The old man continued, in a low voice, “Merle, you see, was older than me, so I never really thought much of this. His mother, who was the second cousin of my mother—we were all cousins in those days, it seems like—his mother, I now clearly recall, had died giving birth to him. Medicine back then was not all it should have been, you know, a whole lot of mothers lost their lives giving birth. A great many children were lost, too. And in Merle’s case guess you could say that it was a miracle that either of them was saved.
The tuxedo-vested waiter brought his fresh Irish with a smile, and after that little flurry of activity George completed what he had to say, “His mother, you see, Merle’s mother, was run over by runaway horses pulling a buggy down Main Street.” He inhaled deeply. “Merle was a premature baby, don’t you know? Pulled from the belly of his dying mother. Will. Will, you’ve heard, don’t you see, from the other side of death? And, don’t you see? You’ve heard from the other side of birth as well.” His eyes brightened with understanding. “The other side of birth.”
The rain seemed to patter just that much louder as the three of them gazed out into it, each lost in silent speculation. The old man whispered, half to himself, “My God in heaven,” and then he was quiet, and the rain still came.
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