Paul Jones - Towards Yesterday

His hand had raised to try one final time when he caught a hint of movement out of the corner of his right eye. The front-room window blinds had moved, he was sure of it, and he turned to face whoever might be watching, stepping a little further into the light so they would have a clearer view of him.

“Thomas? It’s Jim… Jim Baston,” he hissed, his voice rising barely above a whisper.

The slats of the blinds parted, two fingers pushing them apart. There was a pause while whoever stood on the other side of the window took a good look at him, then the fingers disappeared and Jim heard footsteps coming to the door.

“Step back from the door,” demanded a stern voice.

“Thomas, it’s Jim,” he reiterated.

“I don’t care who the Hell you say you are. Step back from the door.”

Jim did as the voice demanded, stepping off the porch and back slightly into the shadows. He heard the sound of deadbolts sliding back on the other side of the door. It opened with a slight creak of unoiled hinges.

Thomas Shane stood in the doorway — at least Jim assumed the dark silhouette was Thomas — but there was no mistaking the outline of the pistol in his hand, leveled at Jim’s chest.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” the figure demanded, the usually gentle mid-western voice now sharp and commanding.

Thomas Shane had been a big man in his prime. He stood six-two and had the build of a professional athlete. When Jim had last seen him he was in his late seventies and time had taken its toll on the man. But, as his ex-father-in-law stepped out of the shadow and into the meager light cast by the exterior lamps, Jim could see the same strangeness that had returned his own youth had also worked its bizarre magic on Simone’s Father.

Here stood a much younger Thomas than the one Jim had last seen all those years ago. All signs of decrepitness had evaporated. His bright blue eyes peered at him from beneath a full head of gray hair. He was still muscular but had a slight paunch that hung over his belt.

Thomas had been a cop in LA for most of his life; he had a quick intelligence and a sharpness of insight, honed after years of life as a street cop that allowed him to sum-up people’s character with a single glance. Jim could feel that intuitive skill at work now as Thomas’ gaze swept over him.

Jim caught sight of his own hands. They were black with soot and grime, a cut on his left hand — he couldn’t even remember where he had gotten it — had congealed into an ugly looking scab. His clothes, he realized, were in no better state, dirty and torn in multiple places, and Jim guessed his face was just as messed up. He figured he probably looked like a miner who’d just left the coalface.

“Thomas. It’s me, James Baston,” he said, then added, “Your son-in-law.”

Apart from his vehicle’s AI, Jim’s father-in-law was the only other person who called him James. Thomas was a stickler for using full names, he hated anyone calling him Tom, or Tommy or any other contraction of his own name, and he believed in affording others the same courtesy he demanded. So, from the first day they had met, no matter how often he had hinted his father-in-law should call him by his preferred moniker, he had remained James .

Thomas took a step forward and scrutinized Jim even more closely. A smile of recognition spread across the man’s face as he closed the gap between them, throwing his arms around him in a bear hug.

“Boy, you look like shit,” said the big man, stepping back to regard Jim’s disheveled appearance. “Come on into the house, let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Is Simone here?” asked Jim as he stepped into the Shane’s home.

Thomas regarded Jim with barely hidden unease before answering. “I had hoped she had been with you when…” he seemed to be searching for the right word “…the miracle happened.”

“No. I found myself in a store. I thought — hoped — that I would find her here with you.”

Jim knew his Father-in-law was not an overly religious man. He attended church on all the right holidays, had raised his daughter with a respect for religion but he had encouraged her to find her own path to God. So the use of the word ‘ miracl e’ to describe the day’s events did not jive with the horror and cataclysm he had just experienced on his bike trip.

Thousand Oaks seemed to be an oasis in a sea of destruction; perhaps Thomas had not ventured very far from the house and had not seen the awfulness of the highways or the distant pillars of smoke rising from the burning city of Los Angeles.

Thomas rested his hand reassuringly on Jim’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. Simone’s tough. If she’s caught up in all this, she will find a way to get to us.”

“I wish I had your optimism. If you had seen what I have today you might think a little differently,” he replied, unable to keep the weariness from his voice.

“Come with me. I need to show you something.” Thomas led Jim down the hallway and through the kitchen.

“Hello Jim, dear,” said a familiar female voice, as he stepped into the comfortable living room.

Smiling pensively from her favorite easy chair was Jessica Shane, pale but most definitely alive, despite the fact she had been dead for the past twelve years.

Jessica Shane was a strikingly beautiful woman.

As Jim looked disbelievingly at his resurrected mother-in-law, it struck him just how much Simone had resembled her. Same high cheek bones; an oyster-white complexion that needed no blusher or foundation; blond hair that streamed down to her shoulders, a streak of gray adding an elegant look to her already exquisitely chiseled features. Her soft blue eyes seemed able to delve deeply into the soul of those she observed.

Her hug almost crushed his vertebrae to powder. “But,” he said, “But—”

“I know. I know,” said Jessica, her voice a soothing lullaby as she led a shocked Jim over to the sofa next to her chair. Sitting on the arm of the chair, she grasped Jim’s hands in her own and looked deeply into his eyes.

“I know you must have questions for me, Jim. And I know that you are as confused as we are, so why don’t we just let Thomas explain what happened?” she said soothingly. “Okay?”

Of all the Kafkaesque events Jim had experienced during his first day in the past, this was the most bizarre, the most personal for him, overwhelming in its emotion. Afraid that if he opened his mouth his brain would simply stall and refuse ever to start again, he contented himself with a simple nod of acquiescence.

Thomas took that as his cue to begin explaining exactly what had happened.

“I was at my brother Jed’s in Miami,” Thomas began. An eddy of emotion rippled beneath the surface of his crisp accounting of the resurrection of his long dead wife, but a smile from Jessica allowed him to gather his emotions before continuing.

“He asks me over there every year, so this year I figured, what the hell, I’d take him up on the invite. The family was all there. We’d seen in the New Year and I was on my way upstairs to bed.”

Thomas paused before continuing. Jim knew he was rerunning the split-second just before the event through his mind. “Next thing I know, I’m in our back garden; it’s the middle of the damn day and I’ve got the water hose in my hand and I’m watering Jessie’s roses. I always loved to do that, ’cause of that look she’d give me when she saw me doing it. I thought I was dreaming. Thought maybe I’d had a stroke or some mental problem. Thought something might have snapped inside here,” Jim tapped his forehead with a finger.