The Fifth Hour
20.
 Arthur felt the wad of bills in his pocket, and had a sense of both security and opportunity. A warm wind escaped from inside the huge shopping mall and ruffled his white hair. The place smelled of dollar bills, wrapping paper, fresh leather, happy greeting cards, fast noodles, and pine needles. It was mid-day. The sky had a mother-of-pearl glow as the sun tried to shine through whitish snow-clouds that brooded over the rooftops. Very pretty, Arthur thought as he strode forward on strong legs. He was a man who had taken good care of his physical well-being, never smoked, didn’t drink much, and walked a lot. He felt elated, for some reason he couldn’t quite fathom, as he entered the thronged hall that echoed with voices. At the same time, he kept getting this sneaky feeling that something terrible was about to happen, but it was a dim, around-a-corner sort of sensation that burned in his gut but he couldn’t put a name to it. Many shoppers milled about as they hurried on last-minute errands before the holidays. Everyone had forgotten just one more friend or loved one, and rushed to find just the perfect little gift to fit that personality. Arthur scoffed, feeling light, and free from such nuisances.
The mall was filled with aromas of food and coffee, and each store had its unique bouquet of scents—leather, stereos, clothing, all combining in the ambience of shopping. Arthur enjoyed the racket all around him, but didn’t stop until he came to a modern imitation diner. There, he spotted a very pretty young woman and a little girl sitting at a table. He waved to them through the window, and they waved back. The woman was pretty, he thought, though he couldn’t think of her name, and the little girl was about eight and very cute. He pushed the heavy glass door open and entered. The décor was sort of kitsch 1950s or retro 1970s, with chrome and stainless steel wrapped around Formica counters. The seats were plush, rouge, and plastic. The music was fairly loud, but once you slid into a booth, it became a mute background noise.
He slid into the booth next to the little girl. “Hi,” he said. It took him a moment to remember her name: “Katie.”
“Hi, Daddy,” Katie said, putting an arm around his waist. He hugged the child to him and leaned over to kiss her. She smelled of candy, hot dogs, cola, and throw-up. Her mother was about 35, attractive, and radiating warmth toward him. “Hi, honey,” Gretchen said. Her lips came close, but only just grazed his own, so faintly that he wasn’t sure they had made contact. And yet he could taste her waxy lipstick.
“Gretchen.” Arthur rubbed his eyes with both hands. “Say, this is a bit of a surprise, actually.” He couldn’t quite believe this, although he wasn’t sure why he shouldn’t. Run with it, he thought, it probably gets even more weird than this.
“Why? You think we’re ghosts?” she said with that sharp, quicksilver laugh he remembered so well. It could be biting when she was being sarcastic (how could he have forgotten that?) or fun when she was in a good mood.
“If you’re ghosts,” he said, “then what am I?”
“Time plays tricks on all of us,” said Gretchen, buttering a scone. Her eyes grew thoughtful, though her mouth never lost that faintly playing smile of good nature. “We’re not ghosts, so much, as maybe this is a thought I had one moment, long ago, maybe after you said something mean to me.”
He put his hand over hers. “When was I ever mean to you?” Something inside him hurt.
She lifted the scone with her free hand and bit into it. Mouth full, she said: “You don’t mean to be mean. You are just busy all the time. Sometimes I cry in the other room, so I won’t bother you, and you never know about it.”
Katie looked up from under her wool cap, with her blonde hair hanging down straight. How odd—every detail was right, even a flea bite or something on her neck, and the little birthmark shaped like a micro-butterfly on her wrist. In fact, now that he leaned close to give her ear a playful nibble, he could newly smell on her breath a strawberry milkshake and a grilled cheese with pickle. “Daddy, you never go shopping with us, or eating at the diner. Are you sort of a ghost of yourself, huh?”
He shook his head. “There’s a lot of weird stuff going on today. I bought a clock, and I’m supposed to be starting a new life. So why am I here in the middle of my old life?”
Gretchen sipped on her strawberry shake with two straws and shrugged while her eyes blinked as in ‘don’t-know.’ “We’re here, Arthur. For years and years, if you want to spend more time with us.”
“We love you, Daddy,” Katie cried.
“You’re just checking out your old life,” Katie said, “to see if it’s the one you really want.” She was twisted her two straws into a pained pretzel. Her feet didn’t touch the floor yet, and she was that typical skinny little rail of a girl with stick legs, hyper-active and always in motion.
Arthur looked at Gretchen. “Where does she get this stuff?”
Gretchen shrugged. “Smart for her age, I guess. Must get it from her Daddy.”
Arthur felt a tear running down one cheek. He saw his reflection in the stainless steel milkshake mixer cup. He saw an elderly man with jowls and white hair. He was old enough to be this woman’s father, and the little girl’s grandfather.
Gretchen gave him her standard, perky look. “You’re okay,” she said. “Whatever you choose, you know I will always love you, and it’s okay by me. Get the most out of life.”
“I wish you’d been able to stick around,” he said. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“Me too.” She gave that light shrug again. “If it’s any comfort to you, Artie, I’m happy here.”
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Copyright © 2014 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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