Paycheck (2003) (17 page)

Tim looked at his watch. It read ten o’clock. He reset it, moving the hands to four-fifteen. ‘Douglas said it would begin at nightfall. That won’t be long.’

‘Then we’re really staying in the house,’ Mary said.

‘That’s right.’

‘Even though there’s only a little chance?’

‘Even though there’s only a little chance we’ll get back. Are you glad?’

‘I’m glad,’ Mary said, her eyes bright. ‘It’s worth it, Tim. You know it is. Anything’s worth it, any chance.
To get back
. And something else. We’ll all be here together … We can’t be - broken up. Separated.’

Tim poured himself more coffee. ‘We might as well make ourselves comfortable. We have maybe three hours to wait. We might as well try to enjoy them.’

At six-thirty the first rom fell. They felt the shock, a deep rolling wave of force that lapped over the house.

Judy came running in from the dining room, face white with fear. ‘Daddy! What is it?’

‘Nothing. Don’t worry.’

‘Come on back,’ Virginia called impatiently. ‘It’s your turn.’ They were playing Monopoly.

Earl leaped to his feet. ‘I want to see.’ He ran excitedly to the window. ‘I can see where it hit!’

Tim lifted the shade and looked out. Far off, in the distance, a white glare burned fitfully. A towering column of luminous smoke rose from it.

A second shudder vibrated through the house. A dish crashed from the shelf, into the sink.

It was almost dark outside. Except for the two spots of white Tim could make out nothing. The clouds of ash were lost in the gloom. The ash and the ragged remains of buildings.

‘That was closer,’ Mary said.

A third rom fell. In the living room windows burst, showering glass across the rug.

‘We better get back,’ Tim said.

‘Where?’

‘Down in the basement. Come on.’ Tim unlocked the basement door and they trooped nervously downstairs.

‘Food,’ Mary said. ‘We better bring the food that’s left.’

‘Good idea. You kids go on down. We’ll come along in a minute.’

‘I can carry something,’ Earl said.

‘Go on down.’ The fourth rom hit, farther off than the last. ‘And stay away from the window.’

‘I’ll move something over the window,’ Earl said. ‘The big piece of plywood we used for my train.’

‘Good idea.’ Tim and Mary returned to the kitchen. ‘Food. Dishes. What else?’

‘Books.’ Mary looked nervously around. ‘I don’t know. Nothing else. Come on.’

A shattering roar drowned out her words. The kitchen window gave, showering glass over them. The dishes over the sink tumbled down in a torrent of breaking china. Tim grabbed Mary and pulled her down.

From the broken window rolling clouds of ominous gray drifted into the room. The evening air stank, a sour, rotten smell. Tim shuddered.

‘Forget the food. Let’s get back down.’

‘But—’

‘Forget it.’ He grabbed her and pulled her down the basement stairs. They tumbled in a heap, Tim slamming the door after them.

‘Where’s the food?’ Virginia demanded.

Tim wiped his forehead shakily. ‘Forget it. We won’t need it.’

‘Help me,’ Earl gasped. Tim helped him move the sheet of plywood over the window above the laundry tubs. The basement was cold and silent. The cement floor under them was faintly moist.

Two roms struck at once. Tim was hurled to the floor. The concrete hit him and he grunted. For a moment blackness swirled around him. Then he was on his knees, groping his way up.

‘Everybody all right?’ he muttered.

‘I’m all right,’ Mary said. Judy began to whimper. Earl was feeling his way across the room.

‘I’m all right,’ Virginia said. ‘I guess.’

The lights flickered and dimmed. Abruptly they went out. The basement was pitch-black.

‘Well,’ Tim said. ‘There they go.’

‘I have my flashlight.’ Earl winked the flashlight on. ‘How’s that?’

‘Fine,’ Tim said.

More roms hit. The ground leaped under them, bucking and heaving. A wave of force shuddering the whole house.

‘We better lie down,’ Mary said.

‘Yes. Lie down.’ Tim stretched himself out awkwardly. A few bits of plaster rained down around them.

‘When will it stop?’ Earl asked uneasily.

‘Soon,’ Tim said.

‘Then we’ll be back?’

‘Yes. We’ll be back.’

The next blast hit them almost at once. Tim felt the concrete rise under him. It grew, swelling higher and higher. He was going up. He shut his eyes, holding on tight. Higher and higher he went, carried up by the ballooning concrete. Around him beams and timbers cracked. Plaster poured down. He could hear glass breaking. And a long way off, the licking crackles of fire.

‘Tim,’ Mary’s voice came faintly.

‘Yes.’

‘We’re not going to - to make it.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘We’re not. I can tell.’

‘Maybe not.’ He grunted in pain as a board struck his back, settling over him. Boards and plaster, covering him, burying him. He could smell the sour smell, the night air and ash. It drifted and rolled into the cellar, through the broken window.

‘Daddy,’ Judy’s voice came faintly.

‘What?’

‘Aren’t we going back?’

He opened his mouth to answer. A shattering roar cut his words off. He jerked, tossed by the blast. Everything was moving around him. A vast wind tugged at him, a hot wind, licking at him, gnawing at him. He held on tight. The wind pulled, dragging him with it. He cried out as it seared his hands and face.

‘Mary—’

Then silence. Only blackness and silence.

Cars.

Cars were stopping nearby. Then voices. And the noise of footsteps. Tim stirred, pushing the boards from him. He struggled to his feet.

‘Mary.’ He looked around. ‘We’re back.’

The basement was in ruins. The walls were broken and sagging. Great gaping holes showed a green line of grass beyond. A concrete walk. The small rose garden. The white stucco house next door.

Lines of telephone poles. Roofs. Houses. The city. As it had always been. Every morning.

‘We’re back!’ Wild joy leaped through him.
Back
. Safe. It was over. Tim pushed quickly through the debris of his ruined house. ‘Mary, are you all right?’

‘Here.’ Mary sat up, plaster dust raining from her. She was white all over, her hair, her skin, her clothing. Her face was cut and scratched. Her dress was torn. ‘Are we really back?’

‘Mr McLean! You all right?’

A blue-clad policeman leaped down into the cellar. Behind him two white-clad figures jumped. A group of neighbors collected outside, peering anxiously to see.

‘I’m OK,’ Tim said. He helped Judy and Virginia up. ‘I think we’re all OK.’

‘What happened?’ The policeman pushed boards aside, coming over. ‘A bomb? Some kind of a bomb?’

‘The house is a shambles,’ one of the white-clad interns said. ‘You sure nobody’s hurt?’

‘We were down here. In the basement.’

‘You all right, Tim,’ Mrs Hendricks called, stepping down gingerly into the cellar.

‘What happened?’ Frank Foley shouted. He leaped down with a crash. ‘God, Tim! What the hell were you doing?’

The two white-clad interns poked suspiciously around the ruins. ‘You’re lucky, mister. Damn lucky. There’s nothing left upstairs.’

Foley came over beside Tim. ‘Damn it man! I
told
you to have that hot water heater looked at!’

‘What?’ Tim muttered.

‘The hot water heater! I told you there was something wrong with the cut-off. It must’ve kept heating up, not turned off …’ Foley winked nervously. ‘But I won’t say anything, Tim. The insurance. You can count on me.’

Tim opened his mouth. But the words didn’t come. What could he say? - No, it wasn’t a defective hot water heater that I forgot to have repaired. No, it wasn’t a faulty connection in the stove. It wasn’t any of those things. It wasn’t a leaky gas line, it wasn’t a plugged furnace, it wasn’t a pressure cooker we forgot to turn off.

It’s war. Total war. And not just war for me. For my family. For my house.

It’s for your house, too. Your house and my house and all the houses. Here and in the next block, in the next town, the next state and country and continent. The whole world, like this. Shambles and ruins. Fog and dank weeds growing in the rusting slag. War for all of us. For everybody crowding down into the basement, white-faced, frightened, somehow sensing something terrible.

And when it really came, when the five years were up, there’d be no escape. No going back, tipping back into the past, away from it. When it came for them all, it would have them for eternity; there would be no one climbing back out, as he had.

Mary was watching him. The policeman, the neighbors, the white-clad interns - all of them were watching him. Waiting for him to explain. To tell them what it was.

‘Was it the hot water heater?’ Mrs Hendricks asked timidly. ‘That was it, wasn’t it, Tim? Things like that do happen. You can’t be sure …’

‘Maybe it was home brew,’ a neighbor suggested, in a feeble attempt at humor. ‘Was that it?’

He couldn’t tell them. They wouldn’t understand, because they didn’t want to understand. They didn’t want to know. They needed reassurance. He could see it in their eyes. Pitiful, pathetic fear. They sensed something terrible - and they were afraid. They were searching his face, seeking his help. Words of comfort. Words to banish their fear.

‘Yeah,’ Tim said heavily. ‘It was the hot water heater.’

‘I thought so!’ Foley breathed. A sigh of relief swept through them all. Murmurs, shaky laughs. Nods, grins.

‘I should have got it fixed,’ Tim went on. ‘I should have had it looked at a long time ago. Before it got in such bad shape.’ Tim looked around at the circle of anxious people, hanging on his words. ‘I should have had it looked at. Before it was too late.’

Verne Haskel crept miserably up the front steps of his house, his overcoat dragging behind him. He was tired. Tired and discouraged. And his feet ached.

‘My God,’ Madge exclaimed, as he closed the door and peeled off his coat and hat. ‘You home already?’

Haskel dumped his briefcase and began untying his shoes. His body sagged. His face was drawn and gray.

‘Say something!’

‘Dinner ready?’

‘No, dinner isn’t ready. What’s wrong this time? Another fight with Larson?’

Haskel stumped into the kitchen and filled a glass with warm water and soda. ‘Let’s move,’ he said.

‘Move?’

‘Away from Woodland. To San Francisco. Anywhere.’ Haskel drank his soda, his middle-aged flabby body supported by the gleaming sink. ‘I feel lousy. Maybe I ought to see Doc Barnes again. I wish this was Friday and tomorrow was Saturday.’

‘What do you want for dinner?’

‘Nothing. I don’t know.’ Haskel shook his head wearily. ‘Anything.’ He sank down at the kitchen table. ‘All I want is rest. Open a can of stew. Pork and beans. Anything.’

‘I suggest we go out to Don’s Steakhouse. On Monday they have good sirloins.’

‘No. I’ve seen enough human faces today.’

‘I suppose you’re too tired to drive me over to Helen Grant’s.’

‘The car’s in the garage. Busted again.’

‘If you took better care of it—’

‘What the hell do you want me to do? Carry it around in a cellophane bag?’

‘Don’t shout at me, Verne Haskel!’ Madge flushed with anger. ‘Maybe you want to fix your own dinner.’

Haskel got wearily to his feet. He shuffled toward the cellar door. ‘I’ll see you.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Downstairs in the basement.’

‘Oh, Lord!’ Madge cried wildly. ‘Those trains! Those toys! How can a grown man, a middle-aged man—’

Haskel said nothing. He was already half way down the stairs, feeling around for the basement light.

The basement was cool and moist. Haskel took his engineer’s cap from the hook and fitted it on his head. Excitement and a faint surge of renewed energy filled his tired body. He approached the great plywood table with eager steps.

Trains ran everywhere. Along the floor, under the coal bin, among the steam pipes of the furnace. The tracks converged at the table, rising up on carefully graded ramps. The table itself was littered with transformers and signals and switches and heaps of equipment and wiring. And—

And the town.

The detailed, painfully accurate model of Woodland. Every tree and house, every store and building and street and fireplug. A minute town, each facet in perfect order. Constructed with elaborate care throughout the years. As long as he could remember. Since he was a kid, building and glueing and working after school.

Haskel turned on the main transformer. All along the track signal lights glowed. He fed power to the heavy Lionel engine parked with its load of freight cars. The engine sped smoothly into life, gliding along the track. A flashing dark projectile of metal that made his breath catch in his throat. He opened an electric switch and the engine headed down the ramp, through a tunnel and off the table. It raced under the workbench.