Pride’s Prisonby Donald Schneider |
Table of Contents Part 3 appears in this issue. |
| conclusion |
Bobby looked to the ground and dejectedly kicked a stone. He nodded and sullenly he said once again, “Boys don’t cry.”
Schultz said, “Come on. We have one chore to do before you go home.”
Once in the van, Schultz asked the boy, “Do you remember that small clearing in Tookany Park where you guys kept the chickens, I think last year?”
The youngster nodded.
“Okay, I want you to show me the way after we get there. It’s been so long.”
“Why?”
“Because the park is still there even in my time. We need to bury something until you’re eighteen,” Schultz responded. “I’ll show you when we arrive.”
On the ride back to Bobby’s neighborhood, Schultz started to sing to try to lift his younger self’s spirits in the wake of the devastating news he had given him. He sang the first upbeat tune that he remembered the words to that popped into his head. It was “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da.”
Bobby asked, “What’s that song?”
Schultz told him and that it was by the Beatles.
The boy frowned and remarked doubtfully, “The Beatles did it? I’ve never heard it.”
Schultz thought for a moment and responded, “Neither have they yet. Wait about a year, I think.”
Bobby grinned and said, “That’s cool.”
Before long, they were both singing: “Desmond has a barrow in the marketplace. Molly is the singer in a band...” The boy seemed to know the song by heart by the time they reached the park, which was just a few blocks from Bobby’s home, and Schultz’s home of so long ago. Schultz warned Bobby not to start singing it around anyone, at least until it was released.
After the van pulled into the park’s dirt road, Schultz opened the rear doors, through which he had tossed his unsuspecting kidnap victim only hours before. Why did it seem so long ago? He pulled out a shovel and an attaché case. As requested, Bobby directed his older self to the secluded little clearing that was difficult to find except by accident, which was how his friends and he had found it originally. Once there he gave the boy the shovel and said, “You’re a lot younger than me. Start digging!” “Make it deep enough to fully cover this,” he instructed pointing to the case.
While Bobby was digging, Schultz said to him, “I hope you appreciate this, young man! I’ve been back and forth over a week converting gold and diamonds into money from your time in order to do this for you.”
Once the youth had completed the task to Schultz’s satisfaction, Schultz opened the case and revealed its contents to Bobby. It contained a great many stacks of green IBM cards. He told the youngster, “They are government bonds. I bought them here in my name and social security number, which, of course, are yours. They will mature at four times, starting with your eighteenth birthday, and ending with your twenty-fifth. At each maturity they will be worth two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, so a million in all.”
The boy looked at him stunned. “Are you serious?”
Schultz answered, “Yes, Bobby, I’m serious. I could have given you much more, but I didn’t want to make things too easy for you. After all, I know how intelligent you are and what a good worker you will be. I want you to use part of this to go to the best college you can get into; and if you start applying yourself as I told you to, that should be almost any college in the country. I want you to use the rest to have a start in life. I want you to marry a nice girl someday, if not Lisa then someone else. I want you to live to have children and grandchildren one day, because I never did. You’re a bright boy. I’ll leave it to you what to tell your folks about the money when the time comes, not to mention the IRS. But please, don’t tell them about me. And don’t tell anyone about the bonds! Okay?”
Bobby smiled and said, “Scout’s honor.”
Schultz smiled back and instructed, “Go ahead and bury it.”
Afterwards, he gave Bobby several sheets of typed paper with the serial numbers of the bonds on them and their maturity dates. He explained to the boy that they were not bearer bonds, and they could be recovered if lost. He told him just to be certain to hide the papers somewhere real clever within the house.
It was getting close to five now. Schultz told Bobby he had better be getting home. He apologized to the boy for the trauma he had caused to him earlier. He said he wished there could have been another way.
To that, Bobby responded, “I understand. You were right. I would have run away from you.” He added with a grin, “Besides, like you said, now I know there’s at least one possible career to stay away from when I grow up!”
Schultz chuckled and replied, “I bet you Houdini couldn’t have put together a radio, let alone a time machine! And while we’re on the subject, you might want to rule out being a singer.”
The boy smiled, looked up at his older self and said sardonically, “I know.”
Schultz laughed loudly and replied, “Touché!”
At that, Bobby burst out laughing, knowing that Schultz had deliberately mispronounced the word as if it were “tooch,” exactly as one of Bobby’s young friends always pronounced the word whenever he used it, which was often.
Both stood laughing out loud until the older Schultz tried to put on a semblance of a serious face. He scolded mildly, “Now, Robert, we of all people mustn’t make fun of others.”
The boy too put on a serious face for a moment, before the laughter began once again.
Looking suddenly downcast, Bobby asked hopefully, “Do you have enough time left to visit me again?”
“Bobby, that wouldn’t be good for either of us. I think you know that. This isn’t natural. I’m not even sure it’s right. We have separate timelines to live in now.”
“Then I’ll never see you again?”
“When you’re my age, every time you look in the mirror.”
The youth asked sadly, “It won’t be the same, will it? I won’t be you.”
Schultz paused a few moments and then replied, “Who knows, Bobby? This is uncharted territory we’re treading.”
“How can I ever thank you then?”
“By living your life as happily and fully as you can. It’s fine, of course, to work hard. But make time for other things too. You can, you know.”
The boy nodded and extended his hand. Schultz looked at him for a moment and asked, “I guess in 1967 men don’t hug either?”
Bobby considered for a moment and replied, “Just this one time. Who’s going to know?”
The youngster ran to the man and put his arms around him. What would have shortly before felt bizarre to Schultz — standing in a park hugging someone he had once been himself — instead felt good to him. It made him feel better than he had for a very long time.
Finally, Schultz pulled the boy away and admonished him, “Bobbi, schau niemals rückwärts und lebe nicht in der Vergangenheit!”
Bobby looked up at Schultz and replied, “Ja, ich schaue nur auf den Morgen.” He added plaintively, “But you know I’ll never forget this day or you.” The youngster reached his index finger up to Schultz’s face and wiped from just under his older self’s eye a single drop of what hadn’t been there for well over forty years. The boy held his finger straight up in the air between them, as if testing the winds, before slowly wiping it across his own cheek.
Nearly overcome by the almost unbearable sweetness of the boy’s gesture, Schultz rubbed Bobby’s head and said softly but firmly, “Go now.” He watched the child he had once been walk through the hidden path as if he were a vanishing ghost. “Boys don’t cry,” he thought once again, as he put today’s much-used handkerchief to his eyes.
* * *
Bob Schultz sat smoking a cigarette when Brad Gordon, his longtime lawyer, arrived. The lawyer looked at the smoldering cigarette questionably.
“Does this bother you, Brad?” Schultz asked holding forth his smoke.
“No. I’m used to it after all these years. It’s just that I would have thought, well.”
“What’s the point of shutting the barn door after the horse gets out?”
The lawyer just grimaced and said, “Tell me what you want done, and I’ll have the will ready by the end of the week.”
“Give it all to the Tourette’s Foundation,” Schultz answered.
“All of it, Bob? We’re talking over two hundred million after estate taxes. Your patents will pull in a lot more for years.”
Schultz gave some thought and then sighed. “You know, if there was ever a time for forgiveness, I suppose this is it. Give a million to St. Michael’s and twenty percent to Catholic Charities.”
“Okay, Bob,” Gordon responded, seeming both surprised and gratified.
“There will be a tad less than you thought in the estate, Brad,” Schultz said as he handed the lawyer an envelope. “Open it now.”
Gordon opened the white envelope and looked at its content, a single check made out to him personally. The lawyer’s mouth gaped in astonishment. “I don’t know what to say, Bob.”
“Don’t say anything. I can still stop payment,” Schultz answered with a grin. “Just use it to retire and enjoy the rest of your life. Since my brother passed away, you’ve been my only real friend.”
“Bob, please, one more time let me ask you, ‘won’t you at least consider the chemo?’”
“It’s too late, Brad.”
“You don’t know that.”
Schultz paused for a few seconds and then said, as much to himself as to his friend, “It’s been too late for me for a long time now.”
“Is there anything I can do for you, Bob?”
Schultz looked at his watch and said, “Yes, as a matter of fact. I’m feeling sort of weak today. Can you give me a lift to St. Mike’s and back?”
Gordon nodded and said, “Of course. Take as long as you need there.”
Brad was a Permanent Deacon at St. Michael’s and had long urged his friend to come back. For reasons Gordon didn’t know, Schultz had always seemed very bitter at the Church. Schultz knew that his friend would be most pleased with the request.
It had been years since Schultz had been in a church, and much longer since he had been to confession. He was relieved to see a small line of people in front of a confessional. He had heard that some parishes had stopped using them. He couldn’t have done this face to face. He entered and knelt, uncertain if they still used the same format from his childhood. He made the Sign of the Cross and then began tentatively, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” He paused and, when no correction came, he continued, “It’s been such a very long time.”
After thirty minutes, Schultz returned to his friend’s waiting car. Gordon remarked that Schultz’s spirits seemed much improved. As they were pulling out, an old Beatles’ tune was playing on the radio. To the obvious astonishment of Gordon, his longtime friend, who had always been so reserved, began to sing along. After recovering from his momentary bewilderment, Brad joined in. Like two kids, they drove down the street singing: “Desmond takes a trolley to the jeweler’s store. Buys a twenty carat golden ring....”
Two months later Bob Schultz breathed his last. He did so at home, attended by his nurse, Brad and Fr. Ryan from St. Michael’s. He whispered to the priest, “Did you take care of it, Father?”
The priest replied, “Yes, Bob. I called the Sisters of St. Andrew. She died fifteen years ago. The Masses you requested to be celebrated for her soul, your departed family and yourself will be said every day from now on. Your contribution was quite generous. You must have thought a lot of Sister Mary Peter to have remembered her all these years. I’m sure she’d be very pleased.”
Schultz gave a deep sigh. Then he tried to get up from his bed, extending his arms; beckoning to the shadowy figure through the ethereal mist. He cried, “Bobby!” and then collapsed into eternity.
* * *
At the very moment Bob Schultz expired, Bob Schultz sat holding his first grandchild within his own timeline. He beamed as he saw his infant granddaughter. Although he had no worries financially, he had never become nearly as wealthy as had his counterpart who had once so dramatically visited him all those years ago. Not nearly as wealthy, that is, if one measured wealth solely in terms of dollars and cents. He had never done much more than tinker around with electronics in his basement.
He had become a journalist instead and had been very happy with Lisa and their four children. As he held the infant girl, he contemplated what a full and rich life he had lived thus far. He had no regrets and was pleased that his beloved mother was still with his family at 81. He was as healthy as a horse, himself. Yes, he had no regrets. He had even long since forgiven in his heart Sister Mary Peter. For some reason, he just thought that that is what the other Bob would have wanted.
Just then, he suddenly felt a chill run through him. He felt inexplicably weak and empty. Alarmed, he handed his granddaughter to his wife and went into the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror. For a moment, he thought he was seeing things. He saw the same familiar face reflecting from the mirror, but somehow it looked thinner and older than his own, as if he had been ill. He wiped his eyes with his fingers and just as suddenly the strange illusion vanished, and he felt infinitely better. He felt strong again and, in some inexpressible way, more complete than he had just a few minutes before.
Although his condition had long been well under control due to medications and the techniques his alter ego had first taught him, like anyone else Bob sometimes had songs he couldn’t get out of his head. Now was one of those times. He walked back to his family singing to himself cheerfully: “Ob-la-di, ob-la-da. Life goes on, bra. La la how the life goes on.”
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Author’s note: German translations courtesy of |
Copyright © 2006 by Donald Schneider
