The Tesla Gate (11 page)

“Why do you get hungry? It's not like you have a … I stopped short before I put my foot too far in my mouth.

“A body?” Charles finished for me. “Medically-speaking, I'm not sure. I could make a guess that it is psychological, but I just don't know.” He stroked his chin and frowned. “Maybe now that we are back in this existence, it is necessary.” He shook his head as if warding off a pesky fly, then continued with an uneasy chuckle. “Spiritually-speaking, maybe food for the soul has a literal meaning.”

“It's obvious that we really don't need it,” Ester said, pointing to the children who were now surrounded by a flock of 20 to 30 birds. “At least not in the same sense as we did before.”

It was an incredible sight to behold. Creatures that normally have a natural fear of man darted about in unafraid fervor, relishing what in bird terms would be considered a gourmet lunch. Seth giggled excitedly as a mockingbird snatched a squenched French fry from the palm of his hand. In just a short while, it looked like he had the basics of squenching mastered.

I smiled when he turned and looked at me proudly, like the time he had just mastered the technique of diving into the pool. Actually it had been more of a belly flop, but he had made progress and that was something to be proud of. Seth had made progress today … no, actually I made progress. After meeting the Fiddlers, I didn't feel quite so alone in my ordeal; it was comforting to know that there were others out there. Others like Seth who could help take up the slack in the areas where my inexperience and intelligence are lacking – and those areas are great.

We left the park with me feeling a new invigoration for our father and son expedition. I was giddy with excited anticipation as I cried, “Blast off to the Air and Space Museum!” as we pulled out of the parking lot. Seth laughed and bounced excitedly. We were happy, and why shouldn't we be? We were together. There was no inkling in our minds of the tribulation that was about to be visited upon not just us, but the entire world, a tribulation that we were unknowingly headed straight into the heart of.

CHAPTER 13

Vacancy

“Until we meet again, may God bless you as he has blessed me.”

—Elvis Presley

The state of Tennessee would normally take about eight hours to travel from east to west, but we spent almost a week in the Volunteer state. It all started right after our lunch with the Fiddlers. They were nice folks. We offered them a ride somewhere, but they declined, saying they were going to go to the courthouse a couple of blocks away and see if they could track down where their son, Nathan, had lived in his latter days and where he had been buried. Their hope was to reunite with him if he had chosen to stay like they had done.

After that, they would go to a homeless shelter until they could figure out what to do. I felt a stab of guilt and remorse at that prospect. I wasn't sure they needed a place to stay as shelter from the elements. I suspected it was more a matter of dignity, a proud and once successful man like Dr. Charles Fiddler wouldn't want his family living in a park regardless of the fact that their home once stood there.

It is a strange thing when your lifelong beliefs, which in my case are 30-odd years old, are taken and turned on end in just a few days. I never even considered the existence of ghosts before this event occurred, let alone their feelings and sensibilities that still make them human.

Still?

If there was one thing I was beginning to learn, it's that a flesh-and-blood existence isn't required to be human; in fact, that decrepit, meaty shell is probably much more of a hindrance than a qualifier.

When I considered the Fiddler family, a thought came to mind, one that I would never in my wildest imagination considered before.
Maybe that's why ghosts haunt houses typically.
The thought brought a waggish grin to my face, but don't they always say that humor is based on a modicum of truth? Indeed it is in most cases, but in the case of the new truth – no, that's really not accurate either; let's say new reality – the new reality was a former absurdity. This seemed to add to the amusement.

In this new reality, I actually only knew one truth – I loved Seth more than anything and I had him back, even though it may be on borrowed time. That truth would motivate me and that would keep me focused as we faced the reality that lay ahead of us.

As I said, a straight drive border to border across the great state of Tennessee usually takes about eight hours, give or take a half-hour or so for potty breaks – or squenching. I knew it was going to take longer when we hit the bridge going into Memphis, a bridge that was so choked with traffic it took two hours just to cross the Mississippi River.

My first thought was that there had been some terrible accident that was tying traffic up. My stomach knotted when I thought of the family in the minivan. I didn't want to see a scene like that again. We remained at a complete standstill on the bridge for over 30 minutes at one point and this allowed for an opportunity to converse with our fellow drivers. When I found out the real reason for the traffic jam, I was filled with a weird mixture of amusement, anger, and relief.

I was relieved of course to discover that there was no terrible accident impeding our progress, but the real reason made me angry because so many people seemed to have their priorities so far out of whack, considering what was happening in the world. At the same time I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. I guess it shouldn't have surprised me, considering that the pilgrimage every August 16th seems to get larger year after year and his record sales continue to outrank current living stars. I guess the thing that surprised me most was how close he was to his momma, and yet he was still here; he didn't move on to be with her. I guess, for all I know, she could still be here as well. Yes, Elvis Presley had been spotted near Graceland, and the word had spread on the radio. Between people looking for their long-gone relatives and celebrity hunters, it seemed like the whole world had descended on Memphis, Tennessee, to catch a glimpse of the King of Rock & Roll.

“Are they sure it's really him?” I asked an elderly man and his wife driving a silver Cadillac just outside Seth's window. “I mean, there are so many imitators and it has been rumored for years that he is not really dead.”

I got out and walked around the vehicle to talk to the couple so I wouldn't have to shout across Seth, who was sleepily nodding his head while he fingered his Hot Wheels car in the palm of his hand. I got out partly to visit, partly to stretch my legs, and partly to tear my gaze away from Seth as the tiny vehicle looked like it was slowly sinking in a flesh-colored bog each time he pushed it across his hand.

“According to the radio, it was him all right,” the man replied with a nasally, New England accent.

I would soon learn after they pulled forward and I got a view of his license plate that he was from Vermont.

“Heard he was spotted leaving a little deli not too far from Graceland. Said he was leaving a partially-chewed trail of fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches all the way back to the gates of his gaudy house,” the man said with a shrill cackle and slap of the steering wheel.

Guess he doesn't know how to squench
, I thought.

His wife smiled pleasantly but seemed to look right through me with an expression of astonishment.

“They said he had that peculiar shimmery glow about him, too,” she muttered.

That was when I realized that she wasn't looking through me but rather past me, at Seth. I discreetly stepped to one side to shield him from her view. I knew she didn't mean any harm, but I still didn't like people staring, whether it was a stranger in a park or a sweet old lady. She blushed and turned her head. We made small talk for another ten minutes, but neither of them asked me about Seth. I guess it was apprehension or embarrassment, maybe a combination of the two. From my experience, northerners—or Yankees, as we call them in the South—have always been rather blunt and to the point. Tact can so often be an afterthought in a conversation. Maybe that was just my own narrow-minded view of things coming through. God knows my mind had been opened in the last few days.

Once we got around the downtown area of Memphis, it was smooth sailing. The sun was starting to set behind us, casting an odd, bruise-like color over the sky as the orange rays mixed with the lavender sky that now prevailed over the planet. When night fell, the surreal illumination returned. It was an even stranger experience driving in it than it had been walking outside in it the last couple of nights. It was like being on some high-speed funhouse ride as we streaked down the interstate at 70 miles per hour.

Jackson was about 90 miles east of Memphis, and I decided that seemed like as good a place as any to stop for the evening. Even though we hadn't made much progress mileage-wise, it had been a long and exhausting day. Unfortunately, I wouldn't be getting much sleep that evening.

The hotels in Jackson were packed. Actually, it was worse than that: the town was saturated with travelers. Possibly it was due to curious folks out and about, maximizing their experience of this historic and miraculous event, or panicked folks taking to the roadways to try and out run this anomaly, not that it was even possible to. During the daytime, aside from a lavender-colored sky, it was easy to forget what was going on, unless you ran into someone like Seth. Night was a different matter. It gave me the same feeling I had a couple of years ago when I went to Las Vegas for the first time on a business trip. I arrived in the middle of the afternoon and was mildly impressed with the mammoth hotels of the strip, but when I went back out that evening …
wow
. Yes, those were all possible contributing factors to the vacancy problems in this small Tennessee city, but I think another plausible explanation was the excuse a tired old woman gave me working behind the desk at Motel 6.

“It's overflow from Memphis,” she said, sounding like a character in a Jeff Foxworthy joke. “Isn't it funny how much attention an old dead rock star gets? There's been lots of reports on the radio, but no TV; the darn thing still won't work. Dadgum internet is out, too. Sounds kinda fishy, don't it?” she said, stifling a yawn while tapping fruitlessly on her keyboard. I had to suppress a grin as her enormous belly jiggled in unison with her hair rollers.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean that they're telling us all this mess about ghosts being visible, but the TV and internet conveniently goes out? I think the military screwed up some experiment and then cooked up this cockamamie story about a cosmic storm and spooks.”

She raised one eyebrow with an exaggerated display of skepticism and gave a short bark of a laugh.

“You haven't seen any?” I asked.

“No ghosts here … although we have had a few sheets disappear from the laundry,” she snorted with a smug expression on her face. In an instant, her smugness washed from her features and was quickly replaced by confusion and then terror.

I had told Seth to remain in the vehicle, but he had gotten bored and decided to follow me inside. The silvery glow about him, like the surreal glow of the storm, was much more prevalent at night time. At night he looked much more like a … well, like a ghost.

Her mouth gaped open comically as she pointed at Seth. He happily skipped to my side and reached out and tugged at my hand.

“Daddy, I'm tired.”

“He's your … he's your…” the woman stammered, still pointing a trembling finger at Seth.

“My son,” I finished for her. “We are tired and just want a clean place to sleep.”

“He sleeps??” she blurted.

I understood the woman's reaction, I truly did, but the long day coupled with the fact that it was three hours past my normal bedtime pushed my patience to the limits. Actually it was more than that. However unintentional her reaction was, she referred to Seth like he was a thing, some creature, some freak … like some abomination of nature. Maybe this cosmic storm was an abomination, but Seth? Never. That was the proverbial straw that tripped the parental fuse in my brain. I exploded.

“Of course he does!” I snapped, grabbing Seth's frigidly cold hand and squeezing until I felt the warmth of his hand passing into mine. “He's no different than anyone else … if anything, he's better!”

I looked down to see Seth gazing at me sleepily, confusion etched on his small face. I looked up to see the woman looking at me with a mixture of wide-eyed terror and embarrassment.

“I-I'm sorry,” she stammered, barely above a whisper.

“Obviously you don't have a place for us, so we will be on our way!” I snapped as I turned toward the door. I tried to lead Seth behind me but to no avail. His hand passed through mine as he stood in place by the counter, staring at what I originally thought was the insensitive motel clerk until Seth spoke.

“Is that yours?” he said pointing at the computer monitor beside the woman.

She blinked like she had just awakened from a dream and slowly turned her head toward the area to which Seth was pointing. She stared uncomprehendingly at the computer monitor.

“Do you like
Star Wars
?” Seth asked.

Realization started to wash over the woman's features as she focused her attention on the small Darth Vader action figure sitting atop the monitor. Someone had arranged him to where he appeared to be sitting casually, dangling his black booted legs over the side.

“It belongs to the little boy I babysit” she said, her voice hoarse. “D-do you want it?”

The woman was obviously confused and terrified. I mean, it's not every day you have a conversation with someone who is like Seth. Yes, he was special, special in more ways than one, as the frightened motel clerk would soon discover.

Seth shook his head. “No, he would be sad if someone took his Darf. Here…” Seth said as he held out his hand and produced his prized Anakin Skywalker figure. “This is Darf Vader before he got his helmet and got all bad. He needs him for his collection.”

My heart filled with loving pride at what happened next. Seth, with great care, set his figure on the counter next to a rack of Smoky Mountains and Grand Ole Opry travel brochures. He gave it one last loving smile, then slowly turned and walked toward the door.

My thoughts flashed instantly to an incident only last fall. Seth had just started first grade and we were about a month into the school year. For a solid week, every day after school Seth came home ravenously hungry. Upon arriving home each day, he would make a beeline to the refrigerator.

The first couple of days we thought he was just getting a harmless after-school snack, until Ann entered the kitchen on the third day to find Seth sitting cross legged in the floor and going to town on the Tupperware dish containing last night's macaroni and cheese. He had eaten half the contents when she walked in and scolded him then sent him to his room to wait for supper.

Observing this presumably gluttonous tendency over the next few days, we became worried … worried something was either physically or mentally wrong. It wasn't until I set him down a couple of days later and questioned him that we learned the true reason for his behavior.

There was a little boy in Seth's class whose name was Chad. According to Seth, Chad always came to school dirty and hungry. The church allowed him to attend school at no charge since his family had been members there for years, but that was where it seemed their charity ended.

“He said his mommy couldn't afford groceries yet this month,” Seth told me with tears in his eyes. “We gots plenty of groceries so I give Chad my lunch every day. I can always eat when I get home,” he implored, like he was trying to convince me that he hadn't done anything bad. I hugged him and praised him. We also made sure he had enough lunch for two every day afterwards.

Seth has always been a thoughtful child, never forgetting a birthday or Christmas gift. They were usually homemade presents because a six-year-old's allowance will only stretch so far. But aren't those the best kind? Those considerate offerings always require the most care-filled thought and, after all, it's the thought that counts.