A Portal in Time - James A. Costa Jr.

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so, but he wasn’t about to give up on that yet. He would definitely go back to the warehouse where he’d picked up his package, go during business hours. And what of his own time, was it still moving? Would Grandma be worried to death over his disappearance? And Shelley, what must she be thinking?

      Then again, how could time be progressing in the future when the future had not yet arrived? The thought comforted him. By the same logic, though, how could he be here if he hadn’t yet been born? He let out a small groan, his mind whirling with these contradictions in logic. Or paradoxes. Whatever the answer, he’d have to be alert to what he said and did. Already thinking about it all was driving him crazy. Too much at once! How could he sleep now, with these questions on his mind, his bones aching and that damned gruesome light from the ceiling fixture shining in his eyes. He eased himself up from the bed. A walk, a little walk, casual, not too strenuous, to get out and get the feel of the times, to breathe some fresh air and not think at all, at least not for a while. He grabbed his jacket and snapped off the light.

      Stepping out on the front porch, he was surprised to see a girl about his own age sitting in a wicker chair, her legs crossed and her hands folded over her lap. “Hi,” he said, pausing beside her.

      Startled, she glanced up, her brown eyes wide with surprise. “Oh, hello,” she said, pulling a blue shawl down from her chin and tugging at the hem of her skirt.

      “I’m Gary Tyler. I took a room here this afternoon.” He held out his hand.

      “I know. Mrs. Harmon told my--”

      “Don’t get up,” he said, taking her extended hand. “And you’re…?”

      “Sarah.” Her mouth formed a small smile. “Sarah Montera.” Her eyes, warm and soft as her voice, lowered to their clasped hands.

      He jerked his hand away as if from a hot stove. “Sorry. Have you lived here long… Sarah?”

      She stood up, putting a more comfortable distance between them. “Almost a year, I think. I live in the one of the back apartments with my mother.” She gazed into his eyes a moment, then lowered her own with a little-girl shyness he found oddly appealing, so different from Shelley’s, whose eyes were never anything but cool-blue and unwavering .

      “Well, it’s nice to have you for a neighbor,” he said, backing off a bit. “Maybe sometime… we can have a talk, that is, when you have nothing better to do… and if you feel like it. You can clue me in on the neighborhood.”

      “Clue you in…?”

      A mistake, he thought, answering her frown with a smile. “You know, tell me where things are around here, like the drug store, grocery store, like that.”

      “That would be nice,” she said. “My mother wouldn’t mind, I’m sure.” Again she smiled demurely. “I’m not so sure about Mrs. Harmon, though.”

      “Why should she mind, she’s only the landlady?”

      Clasping her hands together in front of her pulled her shoulders in, which made her appear even more frail than she already was. “You can’t say ‘only.’ Mrs. Harmon’s pretty strict.”

      “Still, I don’t think she’d mind two of her tenants having a conversation on the porch. I mean, she doesn’t have the right. This isn’t a POW camp.”

      “A what?”

      Damn! “It’s still a free country, isn’t it?”

      Sarah shrugged. “I guess you’re right.”

      “Good,” he said, giving a little wave and starting down the steps. “Maybe we can do it soon…if you want to. I’m taking a little stroll right now.”

      “How long will you be staying here…Gary? If I may ask.”

      “I don’t know for sure. It depends,” he said, seeing her smile as he stepped off down the street toward the intersection.

       Chapter 13

      

      Conscious of the pain that could spike at any second, he walked stiffly, his feet slapping the pavement, heading toward downtown. His mind wasn’t on any particular destination, but on the girl, on Sarah. And she remembered his name, too. The image of her standing there on the porch refused to leave his mind. Something about that girl…not so much the way she stood there like a wraith, nor the nearly black hair that waved down and seemed to secretly shield her pale face, nor the haunting-- or haunted-- brown eyes, now wide and innocent, now narrow and shrewd, eyes that seemed to take him in little pieces at a time, like quick snapshots, or pixels putting together a composite picture-- No, it was something more than all that, something compelling and alluring that seemed to invite him, to beckon him.

      At the intersection, he stood looking around, deciding on a direction. Neighborhood taverns took up three corners, one next to a shop with the words GUS’S SHOE REPAIR under a picture of a gargantuan, black boot painted on the window. The idea of a drink suddenly appealed to him. It beat walking and would give him a chance to rest the bones already beginning to ache in his chest.

      From out of bright sunshine he stepped into a gloomy bar called WINDY’S. A honky-tonk piano played under the stink of stale beer, cigar smoke and dirty cat litter that almost knocked him back out the door. The place was deserted except for the bartender, wiping big circles down the bar, a bald-headed man sleeping face down at a corner table with a half a glass of beer at his fingertips, and someone sitting at an upright piano along the wall on the far side of the bar room. Just like the old black-and-white movies, Gary thought.

      The bartender, a beefy guy about thirty years old, with thick, hairy arms and a crew cut looked up. “What can I getcha, friend?” he asked, tossing the rag under the counter.

      “I’ll have a beer,” Gary said, leaning against the bar and sliding a foot up on the brass rail.

      “Bottle or tap?”

      “Make it tap.”

      “What kind?” His husky voice complemented his husky build.

      Gary looked up at the advertisements plastered on the walls. “Iroquois.”

      “Gottcha.”

      Gary watched the foam rise in the glass and spill over the sides as the golden yellow liquid swelled up from the bottom.

      “New in this neck of the woods, or just stopping by?” the bartender asked, leaving a wet trail with the glass as he slid it over the bar.

      “I just moved in down the street this afternoon.” He sucked in some of the foam, enjoying the sweetness but not the bitter aftertaste.

      The man at the table lifted his bald head. “Hey, Nick, will you play My Buddy?”

      The old upright plinked out the notes and the old man smiled, teary-eyed.

      Gary turned around to look, then said, “I don’t see any music in front of him.”

      “Nick don’t need none. Comes right out of his head straight to his fingers. He’s here morning to night. You can’t tear him away from that piano. He don’t talk to nobody, just hears things inside his head and plays. Music’s his world.”

      “Hey, Sam, gimme another beer will ya? for chrissake.”

      “You already got one, Gordy, right in front of you.”

      “I do?” he said, looking cross-eyed at his glass before his wobbly head thunked back to the table.

      Sam turned back to Gary. “Whaja get a job around here or somethin’?”

      “I’m hoping to get a teaching job.”

      “Oh, schoolmarm, huh?” He almost sneered the words.

      “I guess,”

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