Falling Through Time (oil on board, 8×6″), cover image for “Regrets and Regressions”.
Judy and I have been working on a sequel to “A Narrow Slice of Time” over the past year. This new novel is another time travel adventure, but has a modern noir atmosphere. It features characters from the first book, mainly employees of GURUTECH.
GURUTECH is a time travel company founded by physicists and monks from Kerala, India. It’s stated mission is: “Changing the past to make a better future.”
One of the protagonists, a dive bar singer, takes a trip to a moment in his past to make one small change. Vincent Garber succeeds in radically altering the course of his personal history, but his new life brings him confusion and even greater difficulties. His troubles spread to GURUTECH, and it becomes apparent to everyone involved that the survival of the company rests on answering one question: what kind of man is Vincent Garber?
I’ve just completed the third round of edits and rewrites and am ready to upload it, per Judy’s final approval, to Amazon. We’ll get a dummy book printed for one final editing run, and then we’ll put it up for sale.
Now that’s it’s nearly finished, I get an odd feeling akin to the emotion of sending a child off to college. Freedom looms, but I’m not quite sure what to do with myself now that this responsibility is over.
The tentative title is, “Regrets and Regressions”. Below is a sample from the third chapter.
Then there was blackness. A sliver of light appeared in the far distance and he began to rush toward it. The sliver grew larger and brighter as he approached. He shot through its center and began to spiral down to a green and blue planet, to America, to Pennsylvania, and his feet touched the earth in a small wood. He could see the back of Granny Florence’s house in a clearing directly ahead of him.
He skirted her yard and trotted to the country road that ran in front of her house. There was a filling station with a phone booth on the opposite side. He crossed over and pulled the doors shut on the booth, fished a quarter out of his pocket and called the fire department in Reading.
“Yeah, I saw a leak in a pipe coming out of a storage tank at the BrassTech foundry, the one south of town along the Schuylkill River. Yeah. I called them, but they told me to mind my own business. There’s a pool forming—it’s yellowish orange—Yeah. It’s gonna run down into the Schuylkill if the leak isn’t plugged. My name? Hey, I’m an employee there. I need the job. Yeah, well, if you need a name for your form, call me Chuck Bupkis. That’s right. Don’t get mad at me. Do something about that spill before it’s too late. Gotta go. It’s been swell.”
Vincent hung up and stood by the road. The house looked deserted, but he knew his granny was inside. He crossed back over, but no one answered when he lightly rapped on the aluminum frame of the screen door. He heard snoring inside.
Granny lay on a couch in the back parlor, a scarf wrapped around her silver hair. She wore a summer shift printed with yellow daisies, saddle shoes and white socks. A rivulet of drool eased from the corner of her mouth, and Vincent was shocked by the plainness of her face, the lumpiness of her body, the fragility of her bony arms and birdy legs. And he realized that his sweet memories of her were based on her warm smile and the tenderness of her hugs.
He had told the monks that he was going back to warn her that her young grandson would grow up to become a brat, a little punk who needed careful supervision. Vincent would quote Bible passages and pretend to be a preacher who had the gift of spiritual insight. He would prove his abilities by predicting that she would break her ankle going down the icy front steps of her porch the coming February, and that young Lester would stop stuttering once he entered the third grade. When those events transpired she would believe his prophecies and take care to keep her charge close at hand when he turned fourteen.
But he had no intention of doing that. He wasn’t sure if that would work, or if the old woman would be capable of remaining vigilant long enough to prevent him from running off to Philly. No, he’d have to go to the source.
He found seven year old Lester Fenstermacher playing in a creek near the hen house. The chickens clucked as Vincent passed by, and the scrawny little boy turned to look at him. He had a frog in one hand and a stick in the other, and his calves and feet were smeared with mud. He looked like a hick.
“Whatcha doin’ there, young fella?” Vincent asked the boy.
“G-got me a frog. I’m g-gonna roast it on this stick and eat f-frog legs.”
“D’ya think that Mr. Frog is gonna like that?”
“Tough luck for h-him, good luck for m-me. Who are you? Are you a stra-stra-stranger? I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“I’m a ghost. I used to be your Great Uncle Jimmy.”
“You are not. You’re not a ghost. You’re s-solid as a rock.”
“We’ll see about that…I got something important to tell you.”
“You gotta stay in school, grow up smart and work hard, and you must never, ever run away from home—especially from your Granny.”
“W-why would I do that? I like Granny.”
“When you turn fourteen you’re gonna be a little fool. Watch yourself. Don’t run away.”
“You’re crazy, mister, and I don’t think that you’re a g-ghost, and you’re not my Great Uncle Jimmy.”
“I look just like Jimmy. Look me up in the family album. You’ll see.”
“No, I won’t!”
A warning buzzer went off at the base of his skull, and Vincent knew he had just a few seconds left. He took a step toward Lester, and Lester backed away. The little boy was getting frightened.
Vincent said, “I’m going to go soon, but there’s one more thing I’m gonna tell you.”
“Being a singer sucks.”
“Show biz is no kind of life,” Vincent said.
“But Granny says she likes my singing. I’m good at it-tit.”
Vincent knelt so that his eyes were level with Lester’s. He said, “Being good at something doesn’t always make you happy. And if you do become a singer, I’m gonna come back and haunt you. You won’t like that.”
Little Lester opened his mouth to argue, but his words caught at the back of his throat. The strange man who claimed to be his dead Uncle Jimmy vanished, but not all at once. At first he shimmered: his skin, hair and clothes became shiny and flexible like clear plastic wrap. Then he became a spectral image that slowly faded in the bright sunlight.
Lester stared at the spot where the ghost had just knelt before him. He was rigid with fright. He dropped frog and stick and walked slowly forward in a daze. He placed his foot inside the shoe print that dead Uncle Jimmy had made in the mud bank, and he began to cry. The frog hopped away.
His Granny Florence called from the house: “Lester? Lester! Where are you boy? It’s time you came in and had your bath. Lester!”
Lester wiped his nose on his sleeve and ran to her.