Live it Again (8 page)

He’d barely spoken to his parents as he moved
the monstrously large tank closer to the bed. Steve Nance had tried thanking
him once again. Hugh hated the sound of that voice. He spoke in short sentences
and swallowed repeatedly. The machine clicked and released more air between
words. Hugh wanted to be anywhere but near his father that night. The last
words he had spoken were an unintelligible string of gasping sounds. He’d
probably offered more thanks, but Hugh would never know for certain.

He did, however, remember the last thing he’d
said to his father.

“Whatever.”

Then he’d gone back home, back to Cathy and
a half-finished episode of the X-Files.

His mother called early the following
morning and told him his father had passed away during the night. Hugh was out
there before the doctor and undertakers. Steve Nance had looked peaceful enough
in his bed. No signs of agony or writhing. His hands were still clutched to the
blankets under his chin for warmth. His head was arched back against the
pillow, his mouth slightly open. It looked to Hugh as if he’d finally gotten
that last full breath of air in the end. He almost appeared regal, like some
ancient mummy set to rest for all eternity.

To this day it still reminded Hugh guiltily
of the great pharaoh, Ramses. He should’ve treated his father better that last
night of his life. He sometimes suffered terrible dreams, shame-driven
nightmares where the corpse-like remains of his father shambled after him,
hell-bent on revenge. The dry hands would wrap around his throat, he would feel
the cold, labored gasps puffing against his ear and cheek. It would begin to
speak, breathless rasps from the grave, unintelligible sounds. Clicks and
hisses. Hugh would always wake up then.

Cathy had always told him it was natural to
feel guilty, that his father’s death had never been his fault. Eventually the
guilt would fade, she’d said, the nightmares would be replaced with cherished
dreams of the man he used to be.

She was wrong. The guilt remained. He began
to slink away from the phone.

His mother held the receiver out to him. “It’s
your dad, sweetheart. He wants to say hello.”

“No!” Hugh shouted. The voice on the other
end didn’t want to say hello. It just wanted to know where the self-centered little
asshole was that had abandoned him to a breathless, lonely death.

Click, hiss, click, hiss.

She gave him a puzzled look and tried
again. “He’ll be home in the morning and wants to know if he can bring you
anything.”

Hugh stumbled back into the kitchen table
and fell over. The palm of his hand landed on Fred’s bushy, grey tail and the
cat let out a screech, swatting at his face. He didn’t feel a thing. He was too
busy running for his bedroom; certain old Ramses was fast on his heels.

When he finally saw his father the next day,
Hugh felt more than a little foolish. The man that pulled up in the dusty
half-ton truck wasn’t Ramses, and he certainly didn’t resemble the breathless
old man he’d last seen in the winter of 1992.

Steve Nance was big, not a physical giant,
but in his early fifties he was still powerfully built, lean and straight at
six feet tall. He weighed two hundred pounds, all of it hard-worked and
weathered muscle. He hugged Hugh’s mom and gave her a quick peck on the cheek
before almost being bowled over by Heather. He spun her around twice in his arms.
“How’s my little girl? Is it true you’ve finished elementary? Are you going to
Junior High in the fall?”

“Don’t be silly,” Heather answered in her
for-daddy-only
voice. “You know I’m graduating this week.”

Hugh was tempted to ask if she’d travelled
back in time as well. She sounded more eight than eighteen.

Gordo stood behind his sister, his hands
planted coolly in his jeans. “How are you doing, bud?” His father asked
ruffling the young teen’s hair. “Did you win all the trophies at the track
meet?”

“All but one,” Gordo answered. “I twisted
my ankle during warm-up, so I couldn’t run the four hundred.”

Hugh wanted to punch him in the back of the
neck. Secretly he always felt that Gordo was their father’s favorite son. Donald,
who only cared about Donald, didn’t give a shit about fatherly love, so he wasn’t
even in the running.

After the jock-talk was done, Steve Nance’s
eyes settled on Hugh. The resentment for his brother and the fear of seeing a
living ghost melted away in that single moment. This was the father he’d known,
and these were the cherished memories Cathy had spoken of. This was the dad
that introduced Hugh to reading and art. This was the man he should’ve
remembered. The guilt would probably remain, but for now he let the love and
admiration consume him.

“And what about you, little man? Why didn’t
you want to talk last night?” He stepped toward him, and Hugh stepped back. He
paused a second longer, then ran into his father’s arms. It was like diving
into a cold pool on a hot summer day. You want to do it, but the anticipated shock
always makes you hesitate. You test it first with a single toe, and then the
entire foot. This wasn’t like that, Hugh thought. It was more like one of those
exceptionally hot days when you just wanted to dive in, cannonball style.

Hugh buried his face into his dad’s stomach
and hugged him with all his might. It always felt great when you plunged right
in. He could smell tobacco smoke on his faded work shirt, the scent of Irish
Spring soap underneath. He felt the protective, strong arms hug him back. “Whoa
pal, you’re gonna squeeze the life out of me if you’re not careful. I’ve only
been gone a couple of weeks.”

“I-I’ve missed you so much,” Hugh sobbed. “I’ve
missed you so goddamn much.”

“Well that’s all fine and dandy,” his
father said quietly. He pulled Hugh away and looked down into the boy’s wet,
red face. “But there’s no need for cussing like that, is there?”

“No sir,” Hugh answered. He hugged him
again, never wanting to let go.

“Let go of him, nimrod,” Gordo cut in. “He
can’t even breathe!”

Hugh gave him a dirty look and pulled away.
Their father reached into the backseat of the truck and rummaged through tool
boxes and luggage. After a few seconds he found what he was looking for. “Since
you didn’t tell me what you wanted for a gift, I had to use my imagination a
little bit.” He handed Hugh a shopping bag with a square package inside. Their
dad always bought them a little something after finishing a big job away from
home. He handed gifts out to Gordo and Heather and winked at his wife.

Hugh knew what his gift was before he even
opened the bag. He took it out and tore into the box with more excitement than
he actually felt. He wanted to make it look good.

“What is it, dear?” His mother asked.

“A replica John Deere tractor,” Steve Nance
said.

Hugh remembered opening it the first time
in the living room. A brief surge of panic rushed through him. What had changed
in history to make his dad give it to him out here? The toy was made of high
quality die cast metal, painted in glossy green and yellow, complete with real
rubber tires. He didn’t like it then, and he didn’t care much for it now
.

 I should’ve spoken to him on the phone
last night
.

Hugh loved living on a farm, but he didn’t
like farming. Combines, grain trucks, and tractors bored the hell out of him.

He looked at his dad and shrugged his
shoulders. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You could say thank you for starters.” He
rubbed the back of Hugh’s neck with one rough, calloused carpenter’s hand and
laughed. “Next time I’ll bring a space ship, okay?”

“Thanks dad…It’s really cool.” It was a bad
lie, but Steve Nance didn’t seem to mind. He returned to the truck and unloaded
the rest of his belongings.

Marion Nance headed back to the house. “I’ll
put some coffee on.” Heather followed, showing off her new necklace. Hugh
stared at the tractor guiltily. He should’ve acted happier; his dad had spent a
lot of money on it.

Gordo stopped briefly beside him, his arms
straining with the weight of his father’s big red, metal tool box. “Is the
little fag going to play with his new toy in the dirt?”

“It’s a display model…not a toy.”

Hugh recalled his brother teasing him the
first time he got it. He was a little old for it then, and Gordo’s comment made
him feel like a little baby. Not this time. He could care less what anyone else
thought. He would bring the tractor out every now and then to prove it had been
a great gift for his father’s benefit.

Hugh watched his mom and dad interact for
the rest of the day. He didn’t even have to hide. There was a natural cloak of
invisibility surrounding him that most kids under the age of twelve seemed to
have. As long as children didn’t make too much noise, or get directly in their
parents faces, they were almost unseen. He studied them into the evening,
sometimes closing his eyes and just listening to their voices.

Why not tell them what happened?

It wasn’t such a bad idea. They were his
parents after all. Who else in this whole world would believe he’d travelled
back in time to live his life over? He remembered another time in his life,
shortly after entering puberty when he’d almost approached them about the
strange changes his body was going through. The dreams he was having at nights
that were making such a mess of his bed sheets. He’d almost told them about
that.
Almost.
For weeks Hugh had thought he was dying, suffering from
some demented sickness that made him feel so guilty, but felt so good.

Hugh took a few steps towards them.

He’d never told them about the wet dreams. Gordo
finally explained to him the function of a boner before he had the chance. Had
Hugh sought out his help? He couldn’t recall, but he remembered the afternoon
his brother told him all about sex. It was crude and ill-informed, but he’d
covered the basics well enough. Hugh wasn’t dying, and that was all he needed
to know, the rest he would discover on his own.

He took another step toward the kitchen
table.

Thank heavens he’d never talked to his
parents about that.

How embarrassing would that have been?

 
Cathy made
sure their own girls knew all about sex before they entered Junior High, and
Hugh had a nice long talk with Colton when he turned eleven.

No kid should ever have to think they’re
dying just because their parents are too uncomfortable to talk about it.

He stopped in front of the table and ran
his fingers along its surface.

His father looked up at him from the
scrabble board. He was losing badly. “What is it?”

Hugh opened his mouth, but no sound came
out.

His mother was looking up a word in the
dictionary. Anything beginning with ‘Z’ or ‘K’ would do, and if she could get
rid of her three ‘I’s and two ‘U’s, that would be just perfect. “He’s been
acting strangely for almost a week now. He keeps telling me everything is fine,
but he’s always got that troubled look on his face.”

Steve Nance nodded and tossed his letters
back in the little bag. “What is it son? Has some pretty girl caught your eye
in school?” He shook the bag up and picked out seven new tiles. “Having trouble
with your classes?”

“No, it’s n-nothing like that.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake!” His dad snapped. “What
the hell am I supposed to do with all these goddamned vowels?”

“Well you still miss your turn whether you
have good letters or not,” his mom pointed out.

This wasn’t a good idea, Hugh realized.

“So what’s wrong with you?” Steve Nance
asked leaning back into his chair.

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Good to hear
it, now go play with your tractor.”

***

The next evening Hugh decided to change a
little history. It was nothing major, only a small footnote in the grand scheme
of things, but it was a big deal to him. During the graduation ceremonies, Hugh
convinced Scott Harder to take his place with Billy Parton up on the fire
escape of the Community Hall.

Scott shouted down when the two boys
reached the top. “You’re a chicken-shit, Nance!” His head tilted back and he
made a noise that sounded like tearing cloth in the back of his throat. A
thick, three-inch string of spit and snot flew out into the air. Hugh watched
it spin end over end. Its thirty foot journey ended against a car windshield. There
was another horking sound, this one from Billy, and moments later a second wad
of green phlegm splattered against the passenger-side rearview mirror of the
same car. Hugh watched as the slimy stuff slowly ran down the curved metal
surface and dripped to the pavement.

From the corner of his eye Hugh saw a group
of small children pointing up to the top of the fire escape. Three girls and a
boy, kids he recognized but couldn’t place names to. One of the girls ran for
the entrance of the Hall, the other three followed a second later. From their
point directly above, Billy and Scott couldn’t see the children.

So that’s how we got caught.

Half a minute later, Billy’s dad came
around the corner and began pounding up the stairs. He was a big bastard; the
entire metal structure shuddered with each step. Hugh started to laugh. Billy
and Scott’s loogie supply dried up at the sight of him. Those four kids had
obviously told Hugh’s father originally what was happening on top of the fire
escape, but since Hugh wasn’t up there this time they had went to Billy’s dad
instead.

Scott Harder recoiled in terror and almost
flipped backwards over the rail as Tom Parton reached the top. He cuffed his
son viciously across the side of his head, the bottom half of his meaty palm
caught the boy’s eye. Hugh stopped laughing. He’d forgotten what a mean son of
a bitch Billy’s dad had been. He’d only had one sleep-over at his friend’s
place when he was eight, and vowed never to return again. Scott slipped by the
two and rushed down the stairs, almost falling more than once in his haste. Tom
Parton dragged Billy down after him; his thick, sausage fingers wrapped around
his son’s scrawny neck.

Guilt and horror consumed Hugh as he
watched the man slam his friend up against the wall and begin to shake him.

“You stupid little bastard! What the hell
did you think you were doin’ up there?” Tom Parton’s face was a pink, sweaty
slab of half-drunken rage. Billy tried to speak, but the hand around his throat
choked back any noise he could make.

People began pouring around the side of the
building to see what the commotion was all about. Steve Nance finally showed up,
his jaw dropped open in shock at what he saw, just like all the others gathered
around. He saw Hugh and ran over to him. “What’s going on out here?”

“Billy’s dad caught him spitting on cars at
the top of the fuckin’ fire escape.”

His father was about to scold him for
swearing, but his attention was immediately drawn away when Tom Parton started
to slap Billy across the face repeatedly with his free hand. Steve Nance
stepped forward and grabbed the man’s wrist before he could land another blow. “That’s
enough, Tom,” he said quietly with a resolve that chilled Hugh.

Tom Parton stared at him, outraged. His
face started to turn purple as the pressure around his wrist increased. He
outweighed Steve Nance by more than fifty pounds, most of it fat settled around
his stomach and back. “Let go of me…this is none of your goddamned business.” The
voice was shaky, not nearly as confident as it had been when he was yelling at
his son moments before.

“Let him go, Tom...now.”

Billy was still pinned up against the wall,
his feet dangling off the ground. His plaid shirt was bunched up tightly in his
father’s grip around his neck. The boy was choking, his face as purple as his
father’s. “Piss off, Nance.”