Paul Melko - The Walls of the Universe

“Yeah. It’s here.” John pointed to his chest, then unbuttoned his shirt.

Wilson looked at the device gravely. “What’s that in your hand?”

John glanced down at the diploma. “It’s… your diploma from the last universe. I sorta took it for proof.”

Wilson held out his hand, and John handed the diploma over. There was an identical one on the wall. The professor glanced from one to the other. “Uh-huh,” he said, then after a moment, “I see.”

He put the diploma down and said, “My middle name is Lawrence.”

John saw that the script of the diploma he’d stolen said “Frank B. Wilson” while the one on the wall said “Frank L. Wilson.”

“I guess it’s just a difference-”

“Who put you up to this? Was it Greene? This is just the sort of thing he’d put together.”

Anguish washed over John. “No! This is all real.”

“That device strapped to your chest. Now that’s classic. And the diploma. Nice touch.”

“Really. This is no hoax.”

“Enough already. I’m on to you. Is Greene in the hall?” Wilson called through the door, “You can come out now, Charles. I’m on to you.”

“There is no Charles. There is no Greene,” John said quietly.

“And you must be from the drama department, because you are good. Two more copies of me! As if the universe can handle one.”

John stood up and walked out of the office, his body suddenly too heavy.

“Don’t forget the shingle,” Wilson called, holding up the diploma. John shrugged and continued walking down the hall.

He sat on a bench next to the quad for a long time. The sun set and the warm summer day vanished along with the kids playing Frisbee with their shirts tied around their waists.

Finally he stood and walked toward the Student Union. He needed food. He’d skipped lunch at some point; his stomach was growling at him. He didn’t feel hungry, but his body was demanding food. He just felt tired.

There was a pizza franchise in the Student Union called Papa Bob’s. He ordered a small pizza and a Coke, ate it mechanically. It tasted like cardboard, chewy cardboard.

The Union was desolate as well, all the students driving home or heading to the dorms for studying and TV. John spotted a pay phone as he sat pondering what he would do next, whether he should confront Wilson again. John realized that he should have taken a picture of the man or demanded he write himself a note. But he would have told John that it was computer generated or forged.

John walked over to the phone and dialed his number. The phone demanded seventy-five cents. He inserted the coins and the phone began to ring.

“Hello?” his mother answered.

“Hello,” he replied.

“Johnny?” she asked, surprised.

“No. Could I talk to John please?”

She laughed. “You sound just like him. Gave me a fright, hearing that, but he’s standing right here. Here he is.”

“Hello?” It was his voice.

“Hi, this is Karl Smith from your English class,” John said, making up a name and a class.

“Yeah?”

“I missed class today, and I was wondering if we had an assignment.”

“Yeah, we did. We had an essay on the poem we read, Tennyson’s ‘Maud.’ Identify the poetic components, like the last one.”

“Oh, yeah,” John said. The poem was in the same unit as the Hopkins one. He remembered seeing it. “Thanks.” He hung up the phone.

This universe seemed just like his own. He could fit right in here. The thought startled him, and then he asked himself what was stopping him.

He walked to the bus station and bought a ticket back to Findlay.

In the early hours of the morning, John slipped across Gurney, through the Walders’ field, and found a place to watch the farm from the copse of maple trees. He knelt on the soft ground, wondering if this was where John Prime had waited for him.

John’s arms tingled as he anticipated his course of action. He was owed a life, he figured. His had been stolen and he was owed another. He’d wanted his own back, and he’d tried to get it. He’d researched and questioned and figured, but he couldn’t see any way back.

So he was ready to settle for second best.

He’d trick the John Rayburn here, just like he’d been tricked. Tease him with the possibilities. Tickle his curiosity. And if he wasn’t interested, John would force him. Knock him out and strap the device on his chest and send him on.

Let him figure it out like John had. Let him find another universe to be a part of. John deserved his life back. He’d played by the rules all his life. He’d been a good kid; he’d loved his parents. He’d gone to church every Sunday.

Prime had pushed him around, Professor Wilson, the cat-dogs. John had been running and running and with no purpose. And enough of that. It was time to take back what had been stolen from him.

Dawn cast a slow red upon the woods. His mother opened the back door and stepped out into the yard with a basket. He watched her open the henhouse and collect eggs. She was far away, but he recognized her as his mother instantly. Logically he knew she wasn’t his mother, but to his eyes she was. That was all that mattered.

His father pecked her lightly on the cheek as he headed for the barn. He wore heavy boots, thick ones, coveralls, and a John Deere cap. He entered the barn, started the tractor, and drove toward the fields. He’d be back for breakfast in an hour, bacon, eggs, toast, and, of course, coffee.

They were John’s parents. It was his farm. Everything was as he remembered it. It was what he wanted.

The light in John’s room turned on. John Rayburn was awake. He’d be coming out soon to do his chores. John waited until this John went into the barn; then he dashed across the empty pumpkin field for the barn’s rear door. The rear door was locked, but if you jiggled it, John knew, it came loose.

John grabbed the handle, listening for sounds from within the barn, then shook it once for a few seconds. The door held. He paused, then shook it again, and it came open suddenly, loudly. He slipped into the barn and hid between two rows of stacked bales.

“Hey, Stan-Man. How are you this morning?”

The voice came from near the stalls. This John-he started thinking of him as John Subprime-was feeding his horse.

“Here’s an apple. How about some oats?”

John crept along the row of bales, then stopped when he could see the side of John Subprime’s face from across the barn. John was safe in the shadows, but he needed to get closer to him.

Stan nickered and nuzzled John Subprime’s head, drawing his tongue across his forehead.

“Stop that,” he said, with a smile.

John Subprime turned his attention to the sheep, and when he did so John slipped around the bales and behind the corn picker.

How could he trick himself? John wondered. He couldn’t. He couldn’t do to another John what Prime had done to him. There was no duplicity in him. John wasn’t a liar. He wasn’t a smooth talker. He couldn’t do what Prime had done to him, that is, talk him into using the device. John would have to do it some other way. And the only way he could think to do it was the hard way.

John lifted a shovel off a pole next to the corn picker. It was a short shovel with a flat blade. He figured one blow to the head and John Subprime would be out cold. Then John would strap the device to his chest, toggle the universe counter up one, and hit the lever with the end of the shovel. It’d take half the shovel with him, but that was okay. Then John would finish feeding the animals and go in for breakfast. No one would ever know.

John ignored the queasy feeling in his stomach. Gripping the shovel in two hands, he advanced on John Subprime.