Paul Jones - Towards Yesterday

Gathering what was left of his strength, Jim pulled himself to his feet and began jogging the remaining distance to his home.

The crash had spared his home — barely.

The airliner had come down a hundred yards south of the house on Keswick Street, and, as he made the final turn onto the cul-de-sac, he could see the house was still standing. It had not escaped scot-free however. The big oak that had for years stood in the front garden had toppled over, smashing into the front part of the house where the upstairs den had been, removing a portion of the roof in the process and exposing the interior of the room. The trunk of the tree lay diagonally across the front of the house blocking both the garage doors and entrance into the home.

Glowing ash floated on the currents of warmed air like deadly orange fireflies. Jim could see smoke rising from many places on the shingle roof of his home but there didn’t seem to be any fires burning from within. He offered a silent thank you to whatever God was watching over him.

His neighbors’ homes had not been so lucky and they burned fiercely, adding to the smoke hanging heavy as morning London fog in the air. The heat from the fires was incredible, the air virtually unbreathable.

He soaked the now soot caked bandana in his remaining water and tossed the empty bottle aside. Pushing the wet cloth to his mouth, he dashed toward the house.

A heat induced current of hot air wailed down the cul-de-sac. It turned the narrow street into a wind tunnel, dragging twirling eddies of smoke over the road. A bright-yellow inflatable emergency life-raft had caught on the lamppost outside his house. It danced and jittered like a hanged man as the wind whipped against it.

A first-class passenger seat from the downed aircraft had come to rest in the middle of the street. Upright and incongruous, the seat’s decapitated business-suited occupant was still strapped securely to it, but Jim barely registered the body as he jogged toward the house, swiping at the burning ash smoldering in his hair, singeing his scalp.

Standing on the concrete driveway leading up to the three-car garage Jim yelled, “Simone. Are you in there?” His voice was hoarse, brittle, and barely audible over the crackle of the flames from the blazing homes of his neighbors’ homes.

There was no reply to his call.

The trunk of the fallen oak tree completely obscured the front door to the house. He would have to either climb over it or go around the back and get into the house that way. If the backdoor was locked then he would lose time he did not have. Deciding a direct approach was the best, he pushed his arms through the thicket of branches, forcing them aside as best he could. Grabbing a thick protruding branch, Jim used it to pull himself up and onto the trunk of the tree. Trying not to poke an eye out on one of the innumerable tiny spiked twigs and branches that protruded at every conceivable angle, he tucked his chin against his chest and pushed through the remaining web of tangled branches until he could finally squeeze himself onto the porch.

The front door was ajar, knocked open by an eight-foot long tree limb that jutted into the brown marbled entranceway of the house. Easing between the doorframe and branch, he stepped over the threshold and into the house.

The thing he had always loved about California style homes was the openness. It created a spacious, airy atmosphere he had found enlightening. If it hadn’t been for the tragedy that had taken place here then he imagined he, Simone… and Lark would still have been living here, well into their old age. Don’t delude yourself , his inner voice said, but he ignored it, choosing instead the familiar deception that everything had been fine between him and Simone.

The foyer, lined by a teak banister, led into a living room that swept back toward a swing-door which in turn led into the expansive kitchen. From the kitchen you could step through into the family room. A generous stairwell curved up to the second floor and the master bedroom, den, office.

And Lark’s room.

Spacious and light in his memory, today the house seemed coffin-like and dark. The smoke filtering in through the open front door gave the house a gray, unreal feel.

“ Hello ?” Jim yelled, as he walked into the living room. “Is there anybody in here?”

Silence was his only answer.

“Simone! Are you here?” and then after a pause he added, “It’s Jim.”

Still nothing.

Moving quickly from room to room, he checked each for signs Simone had been in the house when the event had happened. The lower floor was empty except for a few magazines scattered carelessly on the glass coffee table of the living room. There was no sign of her in the backyard or in the swimming pool, so he made his way up the stairs to the top landing.

Jim checked the office first, then the master bedroom. Both were empty with no obvious signs anyone had recently occupied them.

The upstairs den was a wreck.

The felled tree had smashed away the majority of the right side of the room, opening up a gaping hole in the floor and exposing the garage below. The L-shaped sofa they had used to watch movies on the giant plasma screen on the opposite wall had tipped into the hole, one end pointing in the direction of the exposed sky through the hole in the roof and the other resting on the concrete garage floor below.

Jim warily edged near to the lip of the hole in an attempt to peer down into the garage but the fractured floorboards squeaked in protest, sagging as he stepped on them. Wary of his earlier experience on the street he hastily backed away from the edge.

That left just one final room.

He did not want to have to look in this last room. The thought of viewing his child’s bedroom was the first thing he could honestly say frightened him on this strangest of days. But he had to check, had to make sure Simone was not in there. Mentally bracing himself as best he could, Jim opened the door to his dead child’s bedroom and stepped inside.

They were arguing again. Simone had started as soon as he told her that he had to go to the lab.

“But, it’s Saturday for God’s sake. Can’t it wait until Monday?” Her voice sounded whiny to Jim, but he knew it was really pleading.

“We hardly see you as it is. Please… Just for today; can’t we be a family?” she continued, as tears began to run down her cheeks.

Jim had almost agreed… almost.

How different his life would have turned out if he had just shrugged, taken off his jacket, and said “Sure, love. You’re right” and parked his ass on the sofa for the rest of the weekend.

But of course, he hadn’t. Day late and a dollar short.

Instead, he mumbled an excuse about the lab needing him and headed towards the door. Towards his mistress — his profession.

And that’s when Simone got up in his face. Screaming at him that he was tearing their family apart, that he cared more about his precious lab than he did his own wife and child. What about Lark? She was growing up without a father. Didn’t he realize what he was doing to them both?

He had protested… weakly, his excuses melting under the intensity of her words. Finally, he yelled some dumb response back at her and stormed off into the garage.

His Ford Phoenix was sitting patiently in the garage and he angrily got behind the wheel.

What the Hell gave her the right to get on him like that? Who did she think she was? Didn’t she realize he had responsibilities for Christ’s sake?