Tales of Mystery and Truth Read online

  “We used to sit out and shoot at squirrels,” said James.

  “We used to sit in the car and get drunk,” said Cara.

  “Well,” continued Peter, “he said as soon as he got settled, the signal faded. He figured it was just some momentary interference, maybe a plane or something. But the signal didn’t come back. He got tired of the static and tried to tune it in better. So he’s just nudging the dial this way and that, when he picks up this old hollow voice that sounds vaguely familiar. He listens for a minute to this man describing the musical career of someone who again sounds familiar. He said it was like a presentation,”—and Peter dipped into his best imitation of his father’s stern voice to quote—“‘not that mindless chatter you hear these days.’”

  “Laudator temporis acti,” said James.

  “Which is?” prompted Cara.

  “A praiser of times past.”

  “I thought he must be going senile,” said Peter. “He said he suddenly realized they were talking about Arnold Dale, a bandleader from the Fifties. I told him it was probably one of those old radio programs.”

  “Saturday night?” asked Cara.

  Peter nodded.

  Cara smiled. “There’s a couple stations that replay those programs.”

  “Did the baseball game ever come back?” asked James.

  Peter shook his head. “He lost all signal after that. He said there isn’t even a station at that spot on the dial.”

  “Maybe he was picking up a bounce from New Amsterdam, or something,” said Cara. “I’ve had that happen before, when conditions were right.”

  “Or maybe,” said James, “he was picking up the real show—sort of a delayed live broadcast.” He looked at the others, giving them a moment to contemplate the possibility. “I mean, what is radio but waves? If a radio wave can go out from New Amsterdam and bounce off a cloud or something and then end up here, why couldn’t a signal originally broadcast in the Fifties go out to space and just finally be bouncing back down now?”

  * * *

  The next time Francine returned to the bookstore, she asked Peter to walk her home. Though at first he had considered this almost his right, it now seemed to him an honor.

  Peter put all his senses on alert. He wanted to make sure he would recall exactly where they went, every sight and smell along the way.

  They departed through the rear of the bookstore into a scene that appeared to Peter like a film set from the past. Awnings drooped like great eyelids over the front of buildings. Wooden shingles advertised a barber, a cobbler, a druggist, and a butcher. Along the roadway, which was paved with bricks, an old horse pulled an empty wagon. Peter did not know if he was noticing things for the first time, or if the way he saw the world around him had changed.

  The unreality of their surroundings surprised him. But Francine’s arm, linked with his, kept him calm and grounded. Life felt serene, and he felt safe.

  As they turned into her street, the wind picked up. The moon peeked from behind wispy clouds that glided quick as ghosts. A perfect random pattern of tumbling leaves accompanied them along the sidewalk, and others began to leap down to join the procession. A sustained whirlwind raised the leaves aloft, swirling through the evening like oversized snowflakes. By the time they arrived at her house, they were enveloped in a snowstorm of red, gold, brown, and yellow.

  With a sudden tug on Peter’s arm, Francine ran up the walk to the cover of the porch, her laughter dancing among the leaves. She leaned against him breathless, as they stared out at the dry deluge.

  “I have never seen anything like it,” she said.

  It looked to Peter as if time had again slipped its gears and was accelerating forward.

  They smiled at one another. The night had been full of comfort and joy, but Peter felt awkward. He saw them in a scene from a film, a medium distance shot that showed them standing close on the dimly lit porch, the leaves floating around them to represent the perfect harmony of nature with this romantic moment. The script would next have him declare his love and kiss her passionately. But he knew this was his mother, in the flesh, and so his one and only desire was for her time.

  “I had a beautiful evening, Peter.”

  He nodded. “I did, too.”

  “I am not sure,” she said, indecisively. “I mean, I enjoy being with you. Is that wrong?”

  He shook his head. “I know precisely what you’re trying to say.”

  The door opened behind them and Peter turned around to face a man who appeared of a similar age as his father. The man smiled and held out his hand, but Peter could not move. He was frozen by what seemed to be a future image of himself.

  “You must be Peter,” the man said. “I am Francine’s father, Earl Winfield.”

  And my grandfather, thought Peter.

  He desperately wanted to hug the man, to tell him how much he missed him. He wanted to say so many things, things he had not had time to say, things he had been too young to articulate before his grandfather had died. But of course such actions would have made him seem crazy, and elicit suspicion. He could only take the man’s hand and shake it with due respect.

  His grandfather glanced at his mother. Peter smiled at her. She returned the smile, her eyelid drooping seductively, tugging at his heart.

  “You look magnificent, Francine” her father complimented.

  “Breathtaking,” whispered Peter.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “But I am afraid it is time for me to give up all this admiration and go to bed.”

  “I’ll never forget this night,” said Peter.

  “You mentioned you spend a good deal of time at the bookstore?” she asked.

  “I do,” he replied.

  “Well, Father, I foresee I will be spending more time at the bookstore,” and addressing Peter, she added, “and I do hope I will see you there.”

  Before either man could respond, she leaned forward and pecked Peter’s cheek. Then, bowing her head, she grabbed her skirt and scurried into the house. Both men watched her fly away up the stairs.

  “I am glad to have met you, Peter. Francine has spoken of you a lot. She considers you a good friend.”

  Cool drops of relief splashed Peter’s face. “I’m glad.”

  “She is a very special girl,” said her father.

  “Impossible to believe.”

  Her father smiled. “What?”

  Peter shook his head. “Oh, just her. I mean, she is very special.”

  Her father nodded. “You know, I have no doubt she is growing into an amazing woman, that she is on her way to a glorious life that is really just beginning. But when I saw her just now, looking so alive, I could not help wishing I could stop time, freeze the moment so it would last forever. I guess that is the curse of seeing your children grow up.”

  * * *

  Despite Francine’s declared intention of spending more time at The Beggars of Azure, she did not return for several days. They were cool damp days, and Peter wondered if she was simply trying to avoid the elements. But he also began to wonder if she was trying to avoid him. Perhaps she sensed some deeper emotion in Peter, something inappropriate. He assured himself his motives were pure; but he wondered if it was possible for a man to meet his mother as a young woman and not fall in love with her.

  His will told him to go to her house, to find her. But he did not want to give her the wrong impression. He did not want to seem to be pressuring her. He was frozen by the fear of losing a living miracle.

  On the third day, Peter resolved to unburden himself. He decided a healthy dose of perspective would be good for him.

  When he was alone with his friend James, Peter asked, “Are you familiar with the antinomies of time?”

  James stroked his beard in contemplation. “Is it science fiction?”

  Peter shook his head and waved his hand. “Come on. I need to show you something.”

  They walked down the long rows of books, deep into the mysteries of the store. At the back doo
r, Peter held the latch for a moment, and without a word, opened the door and stepped out the bookstore.

  The day was beautiful, crystal clear with a breeze that had the slightest chill.

  Peter looked around in confusion, then took two quick steps into the paved street. A car honked, and he jumped back on the curb. The scene looked nothing like it had the last time he had escorted his mother out the back door. Everything seemed faded and dirty with modernity.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “What?” asked James.

  The corner building was occupied by a franchise coffeehouse, not a druggist. The ramshackle newsstand that he remembered at the edge of the roadway had been replaced by a row of telephones. A bold bank of marble lined the street where he remembered seeing a butcher. A pedestrian bumped his shoulder, responding to an urgent beeping at his waist. Peter worried he was going crazy, losing his mind, hallucinating.

  “What did you want me to see?” asked James.

  Peter kicked a discarded soda can into the street. There was not one hint of a past or alternate reality he thought he had found out the back door of The Beggars of Azure. He wondered if the things he had seen and experienced had been nothing more than his creative imagination, or a waking dream.

  “I don’t know,” said Peter in defeat. “I don’t know.”

  He had failed twice in trying to return to whatever time or place it was in which his mother existed. He came to realize that, in some way he did not understand, he was prevented from going to her; she could only come to him.

  Then, as miraculous as a leafstorm, she reappeared. Peter left James in the café without a word. In place of his mother’s normal radiance, he found her head hung in dejection as she remained just inside the back door.

  “I was beginning to worry—” He stopped midsentence.

  “It is not you.” Her mouth formed a polite smile. “I have not left my room for days.”

  “What happened?”

  He stared at her, searching for some indication of her distress. She would not meet his gaze.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “I should not have come.”

  She turned to leave, but he grabbed her hand and she stopped. He wished he could tell her that he was her son. But he knew she would not understand, and she would reject him—or perhaps have him arrested—and he would end up losing her once more. He was determined not to lose her again.

  “Please,” he said. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  She turned back and threw her arms around him, sobbing uncontrollably. He held her and whispered in her ear as if he were comforting his child. After a minute, she sniffed, wiped her eyes on his sleeve, and drew back.

  “Oh, Peter,” she said, “it is horrible.”

  He took her hand and led her to a secluded table where they could sit and talk.

  “What happened?”

  “My boyfriend dumped me.”

  “Your boyfriend?”

  “Stupid Bradley Lippert.”

  Peter had not even realized she had a boyfriend. He felt a twinge of jealousy and wondered if he had fancied himself in that role. Then he realized his feelings were in defense of his father.

  “I know it sounds silly,” she said.

  How it broke his heart to see his mother’s heart broken. He wished he could tell her all the good things that would happen to her, the wonderful life ahead of her, the joys she would experience—without this boyfriend.

  “I wish there was something I could do,” he said.

  “He let me look forward to such wonderful things, all the happiness in the world. He made me believe in forever. Why would he do such a cruel thing?”

  Peter wanted to tell her it was probably for the best. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “I would bet you never stood up your girl.”

  “No,” he said.

  “Oh, why must bad things always happen to me?”

  “You shouldn’t think that way.”

  “But it is true,” she said, as tears began to return. “You just do not understand.”

  Again, he did not know the right words to say. To her, it was the end of the world, and she could see no other reason to live. But he knew there was so much more to come.

  “I must go home now,” she said, standing. “Thank you for listening to me.”

  She turned and faltered toward the back door, as if she carried an immense burden on her back. He rose and followed. There was only one way he could help her, ease her burden, soothe her pain. He wanted to save her, but feared his action would somehow condemn himself.

  On one side of the door was the past. On the other side was the future. For Peter and Francine, the present was but the door that swung between them. Such definitions of time were, after all, merely matters of perspective. He could not know for certain whether the times and places he had recently inhabited with his mother, which he thought of as the past, were not truly the present, and what he had already experienced in his life was the future.

  She reached for the door. He opened his mouth and said her name again, and again she stopped.

  “Will you come back tomorrow?” he asked.

  “I do not know.”

  “I want to see you again.”

  She turned to him, her face wet with tears. “I know.”

  “Would you,” he said, “I mean, I don’t know if—”

  Her right eye closed slowly, seductively. He felt the roots of his heart tremble.

  “There’s an art show this weekend, some friend of Cara’s.” He realized she did not know who Cara was. “Anyway, would you come with me?”

  She smiled. “Peter, you are very kind—”

  “No,” he said. He did not want her to think that he pitied her. And yet it was true he hated to see her this way. But he also knew there was a small part of him that wanted just a little more time with her.

  “Then what?” she asked.

  “We could make a day of it. A picnic?”

  She did not respond.

  “I just…”

  The story of his mother’s life, it had always seemed, began when she married. But now Peter had learned of an unpublished prologue. He knew how the story would end, so he was not interested in plot. He cared only to know about the heroine, her motivations, her dreams and desires, her triumphs and failures, the themes of her life, the key to her character.

  “…Yes?”

  He wondered what she expected him to say.

  She let go the door and crossed the three steps separating them. “Well?”

  “I think we would have a very nice time together.”

  She smiled again, and her eyelid drooped. “I think we will.”

  * * *

  “How did you meet Mom?” asked Peter.

  “I met her at a dance.” His father, usually so closed and uninterested in the past, smiled. “Me and some friends went there on the batter, to cause trouble, you know. I didn’t even know how to dance. Who knows why we do the things we do as kids.”

  “I probably did some goofy things.”

  “Goofy is right,” said his father. “Anyway, your mother caught my eye right away, dressed like the Christmas beef. She was looking all around the place, so I strolled over and said ‘Can I help you?’ And she said, ‘I’m looking for someone.’”

  “Who was she looking for?” asked Peter, though he feared what the answer might be.

  “It didn’t matter. I told her that maybe she shouldn’t look so hard for something that wasn’t there, because maybe then she would see what was right in front of her. So then she stopped looking around and looked directly at me.” He looked directly at Peter without saying a word, as if trying to convey the feeling of that moment. “I had never been more scared in my entire life.”

  “Scared of what?”

  “Scared of what?” He waved a dismissive hand at Peter. “Here was this vivacious woman giving me her complete attention, and I had no idea what to say or do. I only told her that to be cocky, you
know, never thinking about what if she actually listened to me instead of just telling me to bugger off like I expected.”

  Peter chuckled at the unusual image of his father as a devious little instigator.

  He shook his head. “Somehow her look, her response a complete surprise—somehow it changed me right then and there. I was different. I could feel it. At that moment I stopped being a boy and became a man.” His smile returned. “A gentleman, in fact. Because I knew right away just from looking in her eyes that she was a real woman.”

  Peter wondered if that was the unidentifiable characteristic that had attracted him to his mother: pure womanhood.

  “Somehow I knew she was challenging me to be serious, she was saying, ‘OK, I see you, now show me you can be what I’m looking for.’ I didn’t know it at the time, but she was hurt right then. She expected nothing more than for me to back down, crawl back into a corner, run away at the most crucial moment and live up to her belief that all men were worthless. And I would have done just that. But, like I said, I changed in that very moment when I looked in her eyes. And so without even really knowing what I was doing, only thinking to myself, this is it, I held out my hand and asked her if she would dance.”

  “But you said you didn’t dance.”

  “Son, when you have to dance for your life, you dance.”

  * * *

  The day was picnic-perfect, a fantasy of spring misplaced in the middle of fall. Peter met Francine at the bookstore and they strolled to the park to eat and read to each other. He imagined they had done similar things together when he was a child, but he had not remembered. Only as an adult had such an event become for him a memorable occasion.

  The sun rounded into afternoon. An old man ran by with his dog trotting alongside. A young woman in a bright green scarf skirted the park carrying a basket of groceries. A boy and a girl sat together on a park bench, and the girl leaned over, kissed the boy.

  They spent over an hour watching people and inventing fantastic pasts and futures for them. At every available moment, Peter forced himself to behold and appreciate his mother in her flowered sundress, the way the light glowed off her cheek, the wisps of hair floating around her face in the breeze.

  He went home with her so she could change her clothes before heading back toward the bookstore where they planned to meet his friends and go together to the art exhibit. As they walked, she again took his arm, as in the old days, as if he were a gentleman and she a lady. It made him feel like a gentleman. It made him feel proud. He had often experienced the same feelings with Violine. But somehow this was different. She was, as his father suggested, pure womanhood.