"Hello," he responded, his voice aged by the harshness of his rough life. Of course, he thought, the habit of smoking a pack a day did absolutely nothing to help his situation.
"Mr. Reynolds? This is Amanda from the Civic Therapy Center. I'm just calling to remind you of your appointment." Therapy. Damn. The man looked down at his twisted legs and wondered what the point of it all was. Ever since the center had given him the convenient electric chair with wheels, there had been no use for the therapy, or at least to his way of thinking.
Damn the war. Damn Germany. Damn explosives. WWI had done this horrible cruelty to him. The call to arms had also wanted young entertainers to relieve the rigors and stark finality of war. And he, James Scott Reynolds, had patriotically followed the call. by the time he managed to land at an American army base in France, the war had been raging all around him. He was barely able to save his props when they parachuted him into safe territory.
He still smiled when he thought of all of those starved-for-home soldiers. Sure he was not fighting the actual battle, but he was waging his own war. The problem of the language barrier between English and French did nothing to stop him. He made certain that "James the Jubilant" was the best magician in all of the war-relief efforts. More than the soldiers, though, he remembered Saint-Malo.
Shuddering he pulled the ever-present picture from his pocket and laid it upon his quilt-covered lap. The Loire Valley. God it was such a beautiful meadow. It was surrounded by shops and such green grass. But in 1917, it had not looked like that. No, in 1917 there was no green. The meadow had had huge, gaping holes where bombs had landed. Burnt soil and the smell of scorched flesh hung in the air. And he had merely sat there, out in the open, wondering what the fighting was for. For the loss of beauty? For the destruction of humanity?
He had sat on the hill overlooking the meadow for several hours when he heard the shrill cry of the town clock in downtown Saint-Malo. He remembered looking at his watch. 12:42pm. Why on earth--?
Ovearhead came the scream of engines as enemy planes flew into sight. Belatedly he remembered what the old captain had told him. The clock of Saint-Malo never rang, except when enemies were present. He had jumped to his feet, racing through the town, his dark blue magician's cape fluttering behind him. Shrill whistles from the bombs sounded all around. The ground shook on each impact, and large pieces of debris flew about him.
Off to his left, a building exploded. Crying out, he dove for the ground, covering his head with his arms. He remembered thinking, "Oh God, don't let me die here. Not like this." He scrambled to his feet, struggling with the cape, and then he tripped. In front of his face was a ceramic figurine. It was an old woman with a toy chest open at her feet, children peeking out from bhind her. Mesmerized by the figure, the war seemed to fade. The old woman's smile seemed more mocking than friendly, and the children seemed to be demonic and not angelic. That was war, he realized with a jolt. The loss of innocence. The ultimate, inevitable lose of everything.
As he watched a crack appear where the old woman's neck joined her shoulders, he remembered feeling himself pale. He saw the old woman's head crumble from her body. A ragged sob was torn from his throat as he attempted to rise, but it was too late. Even as he struggled to flee, he could feel the stark pain shoot up his legs and pool in his lower back. It was almost a relief to give himself over to the numbing blackness.
"Mr. Reynolds?"
The old man jerked his mind from Saint-Malo, France, September, 1917. "Wha-? Yes. Yes. I'll be there for therapy." A cough interrupted him. When it finished, it left him weak and slightly shaky. "At 3pm, Amanda."
The voice on the other end lowered with concern. "Mr. Reynolds, you should really quit smoking. Those things are going to kill you one day."
Touched by her concern, he smiled. "No, Amanda. It won't be the cigarettes that kill me when I die." Then as gently as he picked up the phone, the old man lowered it. His gaze shifted to his lap, and he picked the rumpled photo up. Wheeling himself into his study with a touch of a button, James Scott Reynolds let his eyes roam over the meadow he knew so well. The place where he lost his naivety, the place where he lost his freedom.
The blackness was calling, and this time he knew he would never leave it. Death was not a bad thing, he surmized as he watched the picture slip from his fingertips. He saw it land face-side down. Yes, he rationalized, dying was like turning over a picture. He closed his eyes and shut his mind to everything, welcoming the darkness, welcoming the eternal absence of pain. He felt his life ebb from him, and the old man simply let it go.
The ticking of the clock echoed through the still house. Then the ticking stopped.
And the clock read 12:42pm.
HOME
