19.
 “Seems only natural. You’ll get through it.”
“I’m not feeling terror anymore, either.”
“That’s a good sign. Come, I want to take you for a ride. Got your watch?”
“Right here.” Arthur patted the warm bulge in his pocket. The thick, heavy metal case felt solid to the touch, and smooth.
They went outside, down the porch, down the walk, and to Cuphandle’s truck. Only it wasn’t a truck anymore, but a solidly built, handsome dark gray limousine. Cuphandle drove, while Arthur sat in the back seat. It was plush and comfortable. The interior was done in white leather. Its lights glowed under dreamy milk-glass sconces engraved with lilies. The ceiling-seams were studded with tiny tokens of Christmas—red and white striped candy canes, green holly leaves with red berries, and even a few miniature, glossy red and silver ball ornaments. Cuphandle flicked on the radio, and carols played softly. Arthur listened absently for a few minutes while the dark city skyline fled past outside. Every few seconds, at regular intervals, his face would briefly light up under a street lamp and then grow dark again. While a choir hummed in the background, a lady sang Silent Night in a soprano voice as thick and smooth as fine linen. “Turn that off!” Arthur said. “I’m sick of Christmas carols. Haven’t listened to any in years, and I hope I never have to again!”
“Of course,” Cuphandle said quietly, and the music stopped. Arthur heard only the faint whistle of air outside, the hum of the engine, and the whisper of the car heater. “Recognize this building?” Cuphandle said, pointing to a rather boxy old brick structure that looked like a bank.
Arthur leaned forward as the car crawled to a stop across the street. Arthur stared at the building, thinking it had some significance, but he couldn’t remember quite what. “No, I’m afraid I have no idea.” It was a rambling old brick structure whose sign had not been lit up for years: Latchloose Broke & Trashed, Inc. Just one little red ‘a’ in Trashed flickered on and off in a remaining signal of life, oddly in sync with the throbbing of the watch in his pocket.
“The process is working then,” Cuphandle said.
“Am I getting younger already?”
“No. That will happen during the stroke of one o’clock at the end the twelfth hour, should you not have changed your mind about this?”
“Why would I change my mind?” Arthur said. “I’m happy to think about being young again and starting over. Already, I hardly remember anything, and the weight of years of sadness is lifting. I’m starting to remember what it feels like to be free.”
Cuphandle turned and put a finger over his lips. “Hear that sound?” As Arthur shook his head, Cuphandle lowered the automatic rear window. Arthur felt a wave of cold air come in, and blinked as his hair ruffled and snowy grit struck his cheeks. He heard, clearly, three clappers bonging on their respective bells. It was a labored, clattering sound not as pleasant as the ringing of his new clock, but there was something familiar about the clock tower’s slow delivery. Great bells lumbered in their wooden trestles as their booming notes floated through a blinded, frozen sky. “Hear that?” Cuphandle said. “That’s the sound of the hour being rung. Look at your watch.” Arthur didn’t have to look to know that another hour had passed, and he was within seven hours of irrevocably leaving his old life behind.
The window rolled up, and Arthur sat back filled with mixed emotions. Cuphandle drove on for a while. The streets were dark and quiet, but colorful Christmas lights winked here and there. Many doors had dark green pine wreaths on them, and some had lights burning in them to simulate candles. On one corner stood a group of carolers holding candles, and Arthur stared at them as the limo slowly cruised by. “What on earth are they so happy about?” he said softly to nobody in particular. “I am the happiest man on earth, because I get to start life over again with a fresh, blank slate—no worries, no fears, no tragedies or losses.”
The limousine pulled up at a brightly lit shopping mall thronged with happy pedestrians carrying packages of all sizes. Arthur rubbed his eyes. “This can’t be happening. It’s the middle of the night.”
Cuphandle looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Time has no meaning in your zone, my friend. This is where you get out. Oh.” He fumbled about his pockets as if he’d had an afterthought. He handed Arthur a wad of fresh dollar bills. “There’s a grand, on the house. Don’t spend it all in one place.”
Arthur sat numbly looking at the money, then at Cuphandle, and then out at the bustling shopping scene. The door opened by itself, and Arthur felt a ghostly wave of cold (almost an apparition of Cuphandle, who however remained in the driver’s seat, but whose eyes had a strange light in them for a moment) that almost physically pulled him from the car. “Goodbye until we meet again,” Cuphandle said. “Good luck, and please, make the decision that’s right for you. Customer service is my first and last order of business.” The door closed by itself, and a stunned Arthur Latchloose stood forlorn on the curb. The limousine pulled away and vanished. Thousands of red taillights dissolved amid whirling snowflakes. Arthur heard songs and bright laughter behind him, and turned to face the music.
|
 Thank you for reading. If you love it, tell your friends. Please post a favorable review at Amazon, Good Reads, and other online resources. If you want to thank the author, you may also buy a copy for the low price of a cup of coffee. It's called Read-a-Latte: similar (or lower) price as a latte at your favorite coffeeshop, but the book lasts forever while the beverage is quickly gone. Thank you (JTC).
|
TOP
|
MAIN
Copyright © 2014 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
|
