Live it Again (10 page)

Don’t go all religious on me, dad. We
might celebrate the holiday, but you didn’t raise us to believe Jesus was the
reason for the season.

“No, that’s not what I was getting at.” Hugh
was done with the half-truths and excuses that had been getting him by in this
second life. He wanted to tell his dad
everything.
“Have you ever heard
voices from like…from somewhere else?”

His father tossed the cigarette into the
hearth’s smoldering coals. “Like a ghost, or do you literally mean the voice of
God?”

Hugh could feel cold sweat on his palms. When
he spoke again, the words came out in hitching gasps, a boy on the verge of
bursting into tears. “I-I’m not sure what I mean. I just don’t know.” How could
he explain to this simple carpenter and part-time farmer that he’d lived
another life? That he’d died in the twenty-first century?

“I think my father came back to me once in
a dream,” Steve Nance said. “At least I tell myself it was a dream, nowadays.”

Hugh felt hopeful. Perhaps he wouldn’t
think he was a lunatic. “Really? So was it a dream, or wasn’t it?”

“It was shortly after he died in 1966. Do
you remember Grandpa Nance?” Hugh shook his head. “No, of course you wouldn’t. Anyway,
like I was saying, it was maybe two or three months after he’d passed away that
the strangest thing happened. I was in bed trying to get some sleep. Your
mother’s snoring was as loud as a jumbo jet.”

Hugh grinned and sat down on the arm of the
chair. His father leaned forward and wrapped an arm around his waist. “So you
weren’t sleeping.”

“Obviously,” he answered, and rolled his
eyes. “I was just kind of lying there, thinking about things like you are right
now, when all of a sudden the room got really cold. Not an uncomfortable,
creepy cold, but a numbing chill. You know what I mean?” Hugh didn’t know, but
he nodded in agreement to keep the story going. “Then the voice of my dad
starts talking in my head as plain as day.”

“What did he say?”

“He asked how I was holding up, how your
mom was doing…he asked how you kids were, even asked after you by name.”

Hugh figured that should’ve scared him, but
it didn’t. It made him feel special. “So did he just want to have a chat?”

“Knowing my father, yeah, that’s probably
all the old windbag wanted.” He laughed quietly and Hugh sensed his sadness. “He
never told me why he came to me that night. I never gave him the chance.”

“What happened?”

“Well I gotta tell you, I felt really uneasy
about the whole thing, damned scared actually. I guess he picked up on that
because he asked me if I felt uncomfortable.” He laughed again. “Sounded like a
dentist talking to his patient right after he pulls out the drill. I told him
the whole thing was damned unusual, and that if he didn’t mind, I’d rather not
have him visit me anymore like that.”

“Did he leave then?”

“Not right away…I had a few questions.” He
ran a hand down the stubble on his chin. “You probably know what I mean. He
told me my mom was with him and doing fine. Even old Charlie, my terrier dog
from when I was a kid was with them.”

Hugh thought of Colonel and his heart
soared. “So where was he? Where were they?”

“That was my next question. All of a sudden
he appears not three feet in front of the bed, all greenie-blue and glowing,
fit and strong like I remembered him being when I was just a kid.”

Hugh recalled how it had been seeing his
dad again for the first time in decades. It made him feel good and warm all
over, a spiritual confirmation of what he’d gone through.

“You okay?” His dad asked. The concern on
his face was plain enough to see in the dim light. “I’m not scaring you too
much?”

“No, keep going.”

“He told me there was no way to put into
words where they were…said there was no way I could wrap my head around it. So
then I asked what it was like.”

He paused for a long time. Hugh shook him
by the leg. “So what did he say?”

“He held his hand toward me and spread out
his fingers. He said these were the senses that I was aware of.”

“What did he mean by that?”

Hugh’s father sighed, trying to put a
complex idea into a few simple sentences his son, or even he himself, could
comprehend. “The senses, you know? Like taste, touch, smell, and so on. A
finger for each one. Then all of a sudden a hundred more fingers pop up all
around them, maybe a thousand, who knows for sure…he tells me that’s what they
feel where they are. A million more sensations than we could possibly imagine. And
all those fingers were different colors…colors I’d never seen before, and never
saw again after that night.”

The story made Hugh tingle all over. It
made sense, unlike most dreams. They sat together in silence for a few more minutes
and watched the glow of the embers die down even further. His father gave him a
light shake. “So which is it? You seen a ghost, or have you talked to God?”

He shrugged his shoulders and stood up. “Neither
one…just wondering…you know, what with the season and all.”

“Good night son. Merry Christmas.”

Hugh leaned over and kissed him on the
cheek. “Merry Christmas, dad.”

He crept quietly toward the kitchen and
looked back one final time. His father was lighting another cigarette. Hugh
soaked in the warmth of light the tree cast about the room and headed upstairs.
His deepest, most troubling questions had gone unanswered, but it hardly
mattered at that moment. He was just beginning to understand the nature of life
and death, his own and others. There was a lot more to learn. But he would
sleep well that night, and for many more nights to come. Sometimes all a kid
needed was their dad, whether he was ten or forty-seven hardly mattered.

1977

Hugh was reintroduced to the wonderful
world of masturbation around the same time ABBA was becoming a worldwide
sensation. He’d managed on his own this time and skipped the boner-lecture from
Gordo. He’d grown half a foot in the last year and his voice had deepened in a
considerably less amount of time. Girls were no longer cute, they were hot, and
that troubled him.

My daughters are older than some of the
girls I want to have sex with. What would they think of their old dad now?

He had no right to think of thirteen and
fourteen year-old girls that way. It was sick. His virginity wasn’t meant to be
lost for another four years. Why the big rush?

Because unlike most kids, I’m not scared
of fucking for the first time. I could care less if a girl says no the first,
second, or third time. Someone will say yes sooner or later.

Rejection was a joke at his age. His ego
wasn’t as tender as it once was.

May as well be sooner…No! Quit being
such a pig.

He tried to focus his mind on something
else.

8, 12, 20, 23, 34, 36.

Hugh repeated the numbers over and over in
his head like a soothing mantra. Somewhere between the third and fourth repetition,
he was back to thinking of a way into Caroline Sterling’s pants.

Girls like talking, they like it when a
guy listens…

“Would you let Major in the house?” His
mother asked.

“Huh? Oh yeah, sure.” He could hear the
young dog woofing at the front door as he got up off the couch. Hugh had seen
to it that Colonel never got stuck in the spring runoff two years earlier. Unfortunately
the old dog died after eating rotten road kill later on in the summer. They’d
buried him at the edge of the old raspberry patch in the field east of the
house. Gordo, in a rare sentimental moment, placed a handmade wooden cross at
the head of the stony grave. Heather laid wildflowers, and Hugh left behind the
chewed, plastic Spider-Man figurine, minus its parachute. Colonel had a lot
more use for it than Hugh ever did.

He let Major in, and watched the Nance’s
second collie circle around him anxiously, his long nose sniffing feverishly at
the floor.

Gordo had suggested the name General, but
Hugh would never allow another pet to outrank his first and best friend. Major
sounded better their father had said, easier to pronounce. Hugh won the naming debate
and received a private beating as his prize afterward.

“There’s a good boy,” his mother said
stroking the big, dumb mutt’s head. She placed a dish of dry food next to the
door. Hugh watched him eat for a minute and recalled the line of pets that
would succeed him. Major would be the last collie. A big white Cadillac driven
by a ninety-year-old woman, half-blind and barely able to see over the steering
wheel would do him in next year. He would be followed by a black lab, Max, a
loveable big brute, and then a loud-mouthed chiwawa named Chico. Fortunately,
he would have a massive little heart attack during a thunderstorm and drop
dead.

It was kind of sad thinking about all those
dead dogs. There wasn’t much he could do to save them. Colonel had proved that.
Would it be that way with Ben when the time came? Was it worth trying to
prevent?

Of course it will be.

He would be at home this time. Even if
there was a Little City Food Store, Hugh had no intention of ever working
there. Maybe he would buy the entire block before the store could be built.

I’ll put up a big mansion in the center
of town. Shit, I’ll buy the whole town!

He laughed out loud, the best ‘World-Conquering
Super-Villain’ imitation he could muster.

“What’s so funny dear?” His mother asked
from the kitchen.

“Just thinking about the house I’m going to
build in the center of town when I grow up. It’ll be so big they’ll need to
build an overpass just to get by it.”

“That’s nice, dear.”

Hugh wandered up to his room, sat in front
of the open window and lit a cigarette. At least he wasn’t stealing them
anymore. Gordo had caught him down at the dugout last fall, and instead of
telling on him, had decided to join him. It was more of the partners in crime
stuff. Gordo would buy the smokes as long as his brother supplied the cash to
buy for
both
of them. Hugh had no choice. It was the only way he could
continue the filthy habit without eventually getting caught by his dad. Besides,
he made a lot more money than Gordo. Hugh had become quite the little handy man
in Braedon over the past three years. He mowed lawns, raked leaves, shoveled
out driveways, and occasionally fixed leaky sinks and toilets. His father wondered
where and when his least mechanically-inclined son had acquired such knowledge,
but he never stopped him from helping the little old ladies when they called.

Cigarettes were cheap, and what money Hugh
didn’t save, went into comic books. He looked over to the shelves that held his
growing collection. He would need his dad to build him a new one soon. A much
larger one.

Hugh placed his half-smoked cigarette down in
the ashtray on the window ledge and went over to look at a few of the books.
There were over a thousand now. What would they be worth in the twenty-first
century, he wondered? It was a question he knew the answer to; he just loved
asking it because the answer was such a pleasure to hear. He picked up a shiny
new
Batman
and smelled the pages. A pristine mint collection like this
would fetch over a hundred thousand. The amount would continue to grow with
every weekend trip to the pharmacy.

He would be able to buy Cathy a nice house
as soon as they were married.

No goddamned mortgages.

Maybe the mansion in the center of town
wasn’t such a far-fetched idea.

He placed the book back and pulled out a
copy of
Swamp Thing.

Ben would get a new bicycle; all the kids
would have their own bikes, no more hand-me-downs. No more nine to five dead-end
jobs. He would be there for his kids; he would be there for his wife. He would
provide, and he would be happy.

Swamp Thing
went back in, and he pulled out the latest issue of
Green Lantern
. His
mouth went dry and his jaw dropped open at the sight on the cover. An obscenely
large, cartoon penis had been drawn onto the hero with a thick, black felt
marker. That month’s villain stood off to one side, his dialogue balloon had
been scribbled over, and new words had been printed in.

“YOUR A FAG GREEN LANTERN!”

Hugh opened the book, his hands shaking, he
found page after page of crude felt-marker dialogue. It was ‘FAG’ this and ‘GAY’
that, there was even one reference to a super-villain being a ‘GAY-FAG’ on page
seven. There were more penises of course, and big boobs drawn onto the comic’s
female characters. A poorly rendered vagina had been attempted in one panel, so
badly drawn that it hadn’t been attempted again.

The book was worthless, would always be
worthless, unless some future historian found value in the homophobic rants of
Hugh Nance’s older brother. He sat back on his bed in utter dejection and let
the book fall to the floor.

Why would Gordo do this?

His eyes began to tear up and he looked
back to the neatly stacked piles of comics. A few were sticking out at odd angles,
page edges and spines a half inch out of order here and there.

“No,” he whimpered. “Oh please God, no.”

Hugh looked through the first slightly
askew pile. The ‘A’ titles.
Action, Adventure, Avengers.
There were
penises and boobs on every cover, more ‘FAG, GAY, HOMO, LOSER, DICK-WAD
comments strewn throughout the insides. He could see where the black marker had
begun to dry up and been substituted with red, green, and bright orange pencil
crayon. No doubt borrowed from his own drawing desk.

He’s ruined them all. All that great
art, all those great stories…all that money.

Hugh didn’t waste another second. He could
have a good bawl later. Now it was time to act. Gordo didn’t realize he was
messing with more than a helpless thirteen-year-old. He’d screwed with a
thirteen-year-old going on forty-nine who know what bitter, vindictive
vengeance was all about. He stormed into Gordo’s room with fearless
determination. His brother was at a soccer tournament in Whendel, wouldn’t be
home until later that night.

I’d like to see that prick try and stop
me now. I’d just love it.

There was a trophy shelf above the bed
filled with track and field awards. Hugh swept them all off onto the floor with
a crash. He stomped a few of the ones that hadn’t broken with the heel of his
runner, satisfied to hear the cheap, gold plastic crack and snap into bits and
shards.

He stood back after he was done and surveyed
the damage.

Not good enough.

He wiped beads of sweat from his brow and
bent over to pick up a broken trophy stand. He read the words inscribed on it.

“Gordon Dudley Nance: 1
^st
Place
100 Meter Sprint 1975”

One plastic leg snapped off at the knee was
all that remained above.

“Fucking asshole!”

He hammered the sharp end into the glass
surface of another athletic achievement award hanging from the wall. He scraped
it along the paper inside and watched it tear away with hateful satisfaction.
There were other awards hanging to either side. He repeated the process on all
of them, cursing between clenched teeth with each savage slash.

Breathing heavily, his energy and rage
nearly spent, Hugh sat down on the edge of his brother’s bed. He wiped a few
thin lines of blood off his cheek where pieces of shattered glass had cut him.
He looked at his shaking hands and a wave of emotional exhaustion washed over
his entire body.

“Oh boy,” he said, looking at the mess
around him. He started to chuckle, but within moments it turned into a hard
cry. After a few minutes he wiped his eyes on the sleeves of his shirt and
stood up. His legs that felt like rubber as he undid the zipper to his pants
and began to urinate all over Gordo’s bed. He forced the stream to stop halfway
through and opened the top drawer of his brother’s dresser. He pissed on the
socks and underwear and pushed one final squirt onto a neatly folded pile of
white tee-shirts.

He zipped up and placed his hands
triumphantly on his hips. Not bad, he thought, maybe a bit of overkill, but
overall, a job well done.

Had Gordo destroyed his comic books in his
first life? He didn’t think so. What had he done back then to make them grow so
far apart?

Had to have been something bad. Wasn’t
anything I did.

The room smelled of urine and blood mixed
with something else--smoke?

“Oh Christ, my cigarette!”

He rushed out into a hallway heavy with
grey smoke. Orange flames were licking through the frame of his bedroom door.