Chapter 8

I don't believe I ever looked forward to a simple lunch session in the school cafeteria as much as I did that Tuesday afternoon. I hardly slept at all that night, tossing and turning restlessly as my mind kept screaming at me: Nina is back! Nina is talking to me again! Bleary eyed I drug myself off to school and experienced a near crawl of the time continuum through first period. When the bell rang I nearly sprinted to my second class, feeling like the teenager I was charading as for perhaps the first time since returning.

I took my seat and waited nervously while other students filed in, my eyes drawn to the seat next to mine, the seat that had been so recently occupied by a silent and reproachful Nina. That would be different today, wouldn't it? She hadn't changed her mind, had she? She was talking to me again, wasn't she?

When she entered the room her face was blank, expressionless. She walked to her chair and methodically removed her book and notepaper from her backpack before stowing it in under her seat. She arranged her supplies on her desk and sat down.

"Good morning, Nina," I told her nervously.

For a horrible instant I thought that she was going to simply ignore me as she had in the past. Just keep her eyes facing forward, her psyche radiating a stern signal that communication was not desired. Had she changed her mind? Had she decided to wash her hands of me after all?

Finally she looked over at me, her expression remaining blank. "Good morning."

"Are we still on for lunch?" I asked her, dreading her answer but needing to hear it all the same.

A slight smile gave me hope. "Sure," she said with nod. "If you still want to."

Relief and renewed hope washed over me. I returned her smile. "More than anything."

Her smile widened, warming her face and making me feel giddy. She was smiling! At me no less! In that instant I blessed that idiot Brett and his carelessness at leaving the scalpel blade up in the tray. In fact I wanted to buy him a beer for doing that.

The entrance of the instructor and the initiation of that day's lecture brought our conversation to an abrupt end. I hardly heard a word that was said.

Third period offered us little chance to talk. By the time we found our seats in the classroom it was time for class to start. I barely heard that lecture too, so intent was I on the agonizingly slow ticking of the clock as it marched its way towards lunch.

Finally, lunchtime came. We walked in silence together to the cafeteria, unsure of what to say to each other, unsure how to begin. We got our food and then found seats at an empty table. I wasn't sure what I'd expected from this reconciliation but the awkward silence we were experiencing was certainly not it. We picked at our food, neither one of us able to make the first statement, both of us secreting nervousness as we secreted perspiration when hot. What was happening here? I'd never had trouble talking to Nina before. Why couldn't I say anything now? Was it because, for the first time, we were both aware of our naked feelings for each other? Because we'd both used the word love in conversation? Because we both knew that our relationship depended absolutely on what transpired? Were we both deathly afraid of saying the wrong thing?

I wanted to reassure her that I loved her. I wanted to promise once more that I'd never hurt her again. I wanted to hear her say she loved me, only this time not in a break-up conversation or in anger. But none of that seemed right. I'd said my piece the day before and she knew how I felt. I knew I was on probation here, an extremely rigid probation. If I said or did one wrong thing, Nina would possibly disappear from my life, moving back to the fate that was still trying to claim her.

I looked at her, at the features of her plain face that were so beautiful to me now. I knew that something needed to be said. She looked back at me, probably thinking the same, probably wondering what was going to come out of my mouth, probably wondering if she'd made a mistake in giving me a second chance. What had brought us together in the first place? What had made us love each other before? Could that be recaptured?

"What was the book?" I finally asked, speaking softly.

She continued to stare at me for a moment, her face taking on the expression of one that doesn't believe she's heard correctly. "The book?" she asked.

I nodded. "You said you read a book you were dying to discuss. What was the book?"

Her face warmed almost imperceptively and I knew I'd said exactly the right thing.

"It was called The Cider House Rules," she said.

"By John Irving," I said, thanking whatever gods there may be that it was a book I was familiar with. This was not entirely a coincidence. Nina and I, we'd discovered earlier in our relationship, shared the same tastes in literature.

"You've read it?"

"Yes I have," I said. "A very astute analysis on the issue of abortion. Very good book, one of Irving's best I think. I particularly liked how well the characterization was done."

She sat up straighter. "So did I. My favorite character was Candy. I really liked the way she..."

We discussed the book together, hitting upon our favorite parts and characters and then opinionating on what the meaning of the story was. This then led to a discussion about abortion in general. Though we were talking together as we used to it was clear to both of us that there was a strain that had never existed before. Nina was very guarded, her smiles not as broad or genuine as they'd once been. It was as if she did not want to enjoy our conversation, did not want to allow herself to get too close to me too quickly.

By the end of the lunch period it was plain what the rules were going to be. We would be moving slow and I was going to have to regain the trust I had lost. It wasn't going to be awarded to me by default. Those were my terms, firm though unspoken, and I was going to have to accept them.

I had put considerable thought into the problem of Anita. Though I had ended my relationship with her and though my second talk with her seemed to have brought this fact home to her, I still felt a considerable amount of guilt. Things were not right with Anita. She had been pulled from her destiny because of me. And because she had been pulled from her destiny, her children had been pulled from theirs. They were growing up without a father figure in the house, something they were not meant to do. The ramifications of this could only be guessed at. Maybe there would be no change in their future. But maybe there would be a catastrophic one. Anita, for many reasons, needed to be steered back to her destiny. The responsibility for doing this was mine alone.

My talk with Tracy and the run of my own thoughts had convinced me that putting Anita back on her track was not only possible but should be reasonably easy at this point in time. Fate was, for once, on my side, my ally in this endeavor. All she needed, I theorized, was a little nudge. But the more time that went by, the harder that nudge would have to be. Since I was under a doctor's orders not to return to either ROP or my normal job, I took it upon myself to fill this idle time giving that nudge. Her and her intended needed to be put together. The question was how to do it?

I knew from my long relationship with her that Anita was a real estate agent specializing in single-family houses in the North Spokane area. Though I had never been there, I knew where she worked. I also knew that Jack Valentine, her destined husband, worked at the same office. What I did not know was what Jack Valentine did at that office and I only had the vaguest impression of what he looked like. My only memory of his features came from my previous life. I needed to gather some information.

Being free from ROP after my first lunch with Nina, I climbed into my car and drove to North Spokane, parking three blocks down from Anita's office. It was located on a major street that fed to the freeway system. The street was lined with gas stations, mini-marts, and strip malls. The office itself was located between a dentist's office and a pizza parlor. A light snow was falling as I entered the side parking lot of the complex, moving with all the caution of an infantry soldier in enemy territory.

I had purposely dressed warmly and was fully prepared to wait in the parking lot until she went out on a showing of some suburban house. I was aware that it might take several days of observation before such an event happened. After all, winter was not the prime time for real estate sales. But, to my surprise and delight, my luck was in. Anita's car was nowhere to be seen after three circuits of the parking lot.

Gambling that she would not return in the short time I needed to be in there, I walked quickly to the door of the office and stepped inside, blessing the orgasmic warmth that rushed over me from the building's heater.

There was a waiting area with several chairs and the inevitable outdated magazines. These faced a receptionist's desk where a pretty young woman was typing with machine-gun bursts. Behind her were ten or so desks, about half of which were occupied. One of the occupants I recognized as Jack Valentine, the only male present in the room beside myself. None of the desk workers paid me any attention as I entered but the receptionist gave me a suspicious look.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice not nearly as friendly as it would have been had an adult walked in. She probably figured I was going to ask to use the bathroom or something.

"Yes, ma'am," I said shyly. "My dad asked me if I would stop by here and pick up something called a..." I paused as if trying to recall information, "... a listing paper?"

"You mean a listing sheet?" she corrected, becoming instantly friendlier.

I nodded. "Yes, that's it."

"Did your dad tell you what range he wanted that for?" she asked patiently.

"Oh," I said, shaking my head as if disgusted with myself for not remembering, "I'm sorry. Seventy-five to eighty-five thousand."

"Why sure," she said, brightening even more when she heard that. She stood up and headed over to one of the desk people.

I took a moment to admire her legs, which were truly magnificent encased in dark nylons as they were. I then cast a nervous look outside, making sure Anita hadn't pulled up and was heading in. I could only imagine what would happen if she found me in there.

It took a minute but the receptionist returned with a sheaf of copied computer printouts upon which all of the current houses for sale in the price range I'd specified-the upper end for that time period in that city-were listed. The existence of such a document was not something the average sixteen year-old would have known about since most sixteen year-olds have not purchased a house in their past.

"Here you go, young man," she told me, smiling professionally.

"Thank you," I said, taking the papers and returning the smile. "And he also asked if I could have one of your brochures too?"

She picked one up from a stack on her desk. It was a full color pamphlet that listed the real estate agents employed by that office, their mission statement, and phone numbers. She handed it to me. "One brochure," she said. "Anything else?"

"That should do it, ma'am," I told her. "Thank you."

A moment later I was out the door. Five minutes after that I was sitting in my car, letting the heater run while I looked at the paperwork I'd acquired. According to the brochure, Jack Valentine was indeed another agent, not a supervisor or a lawyer or something else, as I'd feared. Perfect. He was one of four males in an office staffed by eighteen.

I looked at the printout next, looking mostly at the addresses of the houses for sale. Eight years as a paramedic had made me more than passingly familiar with the layout of the streets in this, or indeed any Spokane County neighborhood. There were four listings in close proximity to the office. I started up my car and drove to the first of them, my eyes looking for the right combination of details. I had a pretty good idea of what I was looking for.

I checked all four of the houses as a matter of course but the moment I saw the second one I knew it was as close to perfect as I was going to get. A small city park was directly across the street, complete with rows of bushes and thick foliage. The house itself had two large trees in the front yard, trees which would serve to cut the view from inside the house. The driveway, which I looked at most carefully, was completely unobservable from the interior of the house due to it's positioning. Truly, for what I had in mind, it could not be much better.

After dismissing the last house and firmly settling my mind on the second, I drove to the freeway, heading for downtown Spokane, my mind full of shaky confidence that my crazy scheme could be pulled off.

The hall of records was located in the Spokane County Courthouse, a dilapidated building in the unfashionable part of downtown. After battling for a parking spot, fighting my way through three clerks who wanted detailed explanations of why I, a teenager, wanted to take a look at these supposedly open public records, and then pouring through tons of paperwork in the largest filing cabinets I've ever personally seen, I was forced to admit there was something I missed terribly from my old life. The Internet. In 1999 I would have been able to pull up this information-information that took me more than two hours to retrieve in the courthouse-in less than five minutes. God bless technology, despite the Unabomber's ravings to the contrary.

I finally found what I was looking for in an obscure file marked "Real Estate Transactions--1983", a file which was not, I might add, stored with Real Estate Transactions 1900 to 1982 as you would have thought it would be. The file was more than an inch thick. I paged forward until I found the months of October and November. I began scanning through the columns of text and legalese, looking for two names in particular: Anita Browling and Jack Valentine. I found them eventually and copied down the names that were listed with them as clients.

Satisfied with my work, I returned the file to its proper place, signed out, and went home. I hoped this was all going to work. I'd been to a lot of trouble if it didn't.

That night I gave Mike a call.

"What's up?" he asked me, pleasantly enough.

"Not much," I told him. "You still coming over to study tomorrow?"

"Fuckin' aye," he agreed. "Got a test coming up in English and I need you to go over this modifier crap with me."

"You got it," I said. "How's ROP going?"

"Bitchin. I'm digging the new station. The BC has been hangin out with me a lot, you know, talkin to me and all. I think he likes me. He told me they'd probably be testing for hire in August this year. Looks like I might be getting paid to work there then."

"Cool, Mike," I told him. "You'd better quit smoking and start running." I advised. "I hear that physical agility test is a bitch."

"Yeah, that's what the BC told me too," he said. "I thought maybe I'd start jogging at night before I go to bed. That'll probably help."

"Probably," I agreed, inwardly feeling very pleased to hear his words. It sounded like Mike was growing up a little. Strange but true. "Listen," I told him, "I was wondering if maybe you could do me a little favor before you head to the fire station tomorrow."

"It'd have to be a quick favor," he told me. "I don't want to be late."

"It'll only take a minute," I explained. "Just meet me at the payphone by the office after lunch."

"What for?"

"I need to borrow your voice for something."

"How is your hand healing up?" Nina asked me the next day at lunch, her voice still careful and guarded.

"I think I'll live," I answered, holding it up for her inspection. The stitches were still quite prominent but the skin itself was starting to knit back together. It didn't actually hurt anymore but it itched like mad most of the time.

She nodded quietly. "You ought to be more careful what you do," she commented.

"I'm trying to be, Nina," I told her seriously. "I'm really trying to be."

This won me a smile. Not the best I'd ever seen from her, but it was getting there.

By the end of that lunch period she'd thawed a little more. Not completely, but a little more. She laughed a little. She offered looser comments. She even slapped at my shoulder playfully once, sending thrills racing through me at her touch. I began to suspect that things between Nina and I might just work out. Maybe even sooner than I'd expected.

I left the lunchroom happier than I'd been in quite some time.

Mike met me at the payphone just as I'd asked him to. The light snow of the day before had turned into heavier snow accompanied by an icy north wind. He was shivering when I found him there.

"God damn, dude," he told me, hopping from one foot to the other to keep warm. "I was about to leave. I'm freezing my ass off out here. What took you so long?"

"Sorry," I apologized. "I was talking to Nina and time kind of slipped away from me."

"Nina's talking to you again?" he asked, feigning disinterest.

"Yeah," I said. "I guess you could say we made up."

"Cool deal," he told me wisely, speaking with his voice of experience. "I think she's got the hots for you, man. You play your cards right, you might even get some off her like I did with Kathy the other night. Let me tell you, that bitch knows how to suck a..." He continued for more than five minutes, graphically detailing an encounter with this girl; someone I'd never heard of.

When he finished, I said, "Well that's cool. But anyway, can you make this call for me?"

"Sure," he said. "What do you want me to say?"

I explained what I wanted to him and we went over it a few times. "And be sure to deepen your voice a little, just a little, so you sound like an adult."

"And why are we doing this again?" he asked.

"It's a long story," I told him. "But you can rest assured it's for the betterment of all mankind."

He looked at me for a moment and then laughed. "Jesus, Bill, you sure know how to come up with 'em."

I handed him a dime and he picked up the phone. As he plugged the coin into the slot he took a sheet of paper from me, scanned it for a second, and then punched in the number I'd instructed him to dial. He held on to the paper after dialing so he could refer to the names and addresses I'd printed there.

I was worried that he would over-act but, to give him credit, he performed perfectly. He listened for a few seconds and then I could see by his face that the phone had been picked up. With just the right amount of deepening to his voice, he said into the phone. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Browling. My name is Bob Hartley. I was referred to you by a friend of mine who purchased a house on Sallyport Way last month; Rick Whaling?"

He paused for a second and then gave me a thumbs-up, letting me know she was buying it so far.

"Yes," he said. "Rick loves the house and he recommended you if I should ever find myself in need of a good real estate agent. Well, as it turns out, my wife and I have been planning to buy a house for quite some time. We've managed to put aside eight thousand for a down payment." A pause. "Yes, that's right. Eight thousand. Anyway, we've been kind of looking on our own and we found a house that is listed with your agency out in North Spokane." Another pause. "Well it's at..." He read from the sheet, "twenty-one nineteen Westbrook Lane." A pause. "Yes, Westbrook Lane." He rolled his eyes upward for a moment. "Why sure, I'll hold."

He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "She's going to get the file on that house," he told me. "Who is this bitch anyway?"

"Maybe I'll tell you someday," I said cryptically.

He shrugged and went back to waiting. A minute or so passed. Finally he began to listen again. "Yes, that's right," he told Anita. "My wife and I would like to take a look at that house as soon as possible. Is there any chance you could show it to us, say today about one o'clock?"

He nodded, completely into the drama he was participating in. "Very good," he said and then listened some more. "No no, we know where it's at. How about we meet you there?" He listened some more. "That's right, one o'clock. See you there. Thank you very much, Mrs. Browling."

He hung up the phone and looked at me. "Whatever you're planning," he told me, "you're dialed in."

"Thanks, Mike. I owe you one. You've been a benefit to oppressed people everywhere."

"Yeah right," he said. "Well I gotta go, dude. Catch you this afternoon."

A thought suddenly occurred to me. "Hey, Mike?"

"Yeah?" he said, in the middle of turning to leave.

"You got any buds? I've been itching to get stoned."

He looked at me strangely for a second. "I got some at home," he told me. "About enough for a joint, but I don't have any on me. You want to get stoned later?"

"Yeah," I said, hiding the grin that wanted to break out on my face. Mike had pot but he wasn't bringing it to school with him! For Mike, that was an accomplishment. "After we study today. I think we deserve it."

"Cool," he said, nodding. "Well, gotta jet."

"See ya," I replied, watching him go. He really was growing up.

Finally I turned back to business. I picked up the phone and put in another dime. Consulting my list I dialed a number. It rang three times and then a male voice responded.

"North Spoke Reality. This is Jack Valentine, can I help you?"

"Why yes, Mr. Valentine," I said, deepening my own voice, "you certainly can. You see, a friend of mine, Mark Vincent, recently purchased a house on..."

By 12:30 I was sequestered in the row of bushes in the park across the street from 2119 Westbrook Lane. Despite my overabundance of clothing I was shivering as the wind cut through my down jacket and snowflakes stuck to my cap. I was reasonably sure that I could not be spotted by anyone from the house even if they were looking for me, which they wouldn't be. The snow that was rapidly accumulating on me would do nothing but help with my camouflage.

I'd enticed the two real estate agents to this house by offering them dream clients, making my fictional customers almost too good to be true. It was something no agent would ever turn down-people who had apparently already decided upon a house and had large down payments in reserve in order to help finance it. They would show up, visions of large, quick commissions dancing in their heads. I only hoped that one of my suppositions was correct. If I remembered my real estate agents correctly, they always parked in the driveway if they could when meeting someone at the house. This allowed the customer to get the whole view of the house as they stepped out of their vehicle. The driveway was big enough for both Anita and Jack's cars to fit. It would certainly make things easier and less dangerous to me if they did not park in front of the house. If I was wrong, and they did, there were at least the trees to give partial cover.

As it turned out my supposition was a correct one. Anita arrived first at 12:50, fully ten minutes early. She pulled her car into the empty driveway, bringing it to a halt. Before she could even step out of her vehicle Jack pulled in, driving a late model (for that when) Buick. He parked it right next to hers.

They got out of their vehicles and looked at each other in surprise for a moment, holding a quick conversation. I couldn't hear them but I could guess what they were saying. What are you doing here? A client for this house? Oh really? One o'clock? What a coincidence. What's your client's name? Really? Well, I'll try not to step on you. Pretty weird, huh?

They spoke to each other as acquaintances, with no hostility I could detect. I saw them shake their heads a few times as if wondering at the quirks of fate that brought both of them here at exactly the same time. Finally a comment was passed that had to have amounted to, 'why are we standing out here in the snow?'. They both headed for the front door.

Anita knocked on the door and then rang the doorbell a few times. In my planning stage of this I'd worried obsessively about whether or not the owners of the house would be home before I finally figured out that it really didn't matter. Ideally, they would be gone but if they weren't, the plan would still work. As it turned out, they were gone. Giving up on the doorbell, Anita walked over to the brass lockbox that was attached to the water pipe. She dialed in a combination and opened the box, pulling out a key. With the key, she opened the door. A moment later the both of them stepped inside, closing the door behind them.

My first thoughts that had led to this plan had told me that simply getting Anita and Jack into a house together for twenty to thirty minutes would be enough to push them together. Further reflection upon this, and the consideration that the occupants would be home, therefore breaking the mood, led me to modify that plan somewhat. Just putting them together might not be enough. I had to immerse them into a situation together. Even that, I reluctantly admitted, might not be enough, but it was better than just throwing them together. An extension to the plan developed. An extension that now needed to be put into effect.

I acted quickly, extricating myself from the bushes and moving west along the perimeter of the park until I was out of view of the house. I crossed the street and began walking along the sidewalk, strolling casually towards the house, doing my best impression of a neighborhood kid out for a walk in the snow. When I reached the driveway, where the two cars were parked, I took a good look around me, searching for any neighbors who happened to be out and paying attention. There were none. It was time.

I dashed between the two cars, both of which were ticking as their engines cooled down, quickly putting myself between the garage door and the front of Anita's Chrysler. A quick look assured me that from here I was unobservable from any angle. I had changed the oil in Anita's car several times, usually as a prelude to sexual activity, and I knew the engine compartment of it well. I knew, for instance, that you did not need to be inside the car in order to open the hood. My hand found the hood release, which was warm, and slowly pulled it until I felt a click.

Carefully, taking another quick glance for unwanted observers, I lifted it, wincing at the squeaking noise it made. When it was about a foot above the engine compartment I peered inside. Though, as I've mentioned before, I am not a mechanical genius, my 34 years on two different Earths had taught me enough to know that an internal combustion engine could be quickly disabled by removing one particular piece of it. I reached in and grasped the coil wire, which led to the distributor cap. Without this wire, electricity could not get to the spark plugs and the cylinders could not fire. I gave a sharp yank and the wire was in my hand. I stuffed it into my jacket pocket and then eased the hood back down, giving it a firm push to latch it and wincing again at the sharp noise that resulted.

One more quick glance around for danger and I dashed back to the sidewalk. I headed back the way I came, crossed the street once again, and moved back into the park. A few minutes after that I was back in the bushes, observing the house. I began to wait.

It was 1:45 before they both emerged from the house. In the ensuing fifty minutes I'd seen both of them peer out multiple times, looking for their clients pulling up out front, clients that were figments of my imagination. When they left the house, carefully locking it up and putting the key back in the lock box, they were talking to each other and shrugging. I wasn't close enough to read their expressions so I could not tell how cozy they'd gotten during the waiting period.

They conversed a moment more and then headed for their respective automobiles. Jack jumped in his first and fired up the engine before Anita was even settled. I had a moment's horror when it looked like he was going to back out and drive away before Anita even had a chance to crank her now-worthless engine. But thankfully, his mother had taught him some manners and he stood by, waiting for her to leave.

From across the street I could hear the grinding of her engine turning over without catching. She would grind it for about ten seconds, let it rest for five, and then grind it again. This went on for about four cycles before the abrupt cut-off of exhaust vapor from Jack's tailpipe signaled that he'd shut down his engine.

He stepped out and walked over to her door. She rolled down the window and a brief conversation ensued. She then opened her door and stepped out, allowing him to sit down in her seat. He cranked the engine a few times himself, as if the mere presence of a man behind the key would make it fire up. Finally, when it didn't, he walked around to the front and popped the hood.