The Tesla Gate (13 page)

That's why the incident outside of the Motel 6, however brief it may have been, simultaneously froze my soul and ripped my heart from my chest. Our reunion was a blessing but a very fragile one; I didn't intend to take that for granted.

A few minutes later we reached our destination. It was an old two-story house that probably had not had a coat of paint since the Lyndon Johnson administration. The yard was in severe danger of being assimilated by the nearby woods; briars, saplings, and brush covered almost every square inch of the yard, except for a narrow rock sidewalk that ran from the street to the front porch. Shutters and front porch railing sagged like old skin. A single light burned in an upstairs window, giving me a disturbing recollection of Norman Bates and his mother. The phenomenon didn't help matters either, giving everything a florescent glow reminiscent of the Bates Motel sign. As I got out of the car I looked at Seth and his newfound friend, then back at the house. I couldn't help but think this was definitely a night of clichés … or was it irony?

CHAPTER 15

The Prodigal Guide

“Nibble, nibble, little mouse,
Who is nibbling at my house?

The wind, the wind,
The heavenly child.”

—Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, “Hansel and Gretel”

My apprehension was short lived. Lizzie Chenowith, the younger sister of Rose the Motel 6 clerk, proved to be a warm and inviting host. She shared the same unmarried last name with her sister, but that was where the similarities ended. Rose was short and portly. Lizzie was tall and slender, with milky skin and long, straight salt-and-pepper hair that hung just an inch above her narrow waist. Her gray blouse and black skirt were a complement to her hair. If it weren't for her rosy cheeks, she could have almost been mistaken for a character that just stepped out of a black-and-white movie.

“Please come in!” she beckoned. “I just took a batch of my famous peach muffins out of the oven.”

She paused like she almost forgot something important.

“I've also got a pot of snickerdoodle coffee brewing!”

“Thank you, but we just ate not too long ago. I appreciate your gracious hospitality, but we are really tired,” I said before complimenting her on her beautiful décor. I guess the doilies and Depression glass would have been in some folks'
Southern Living
best decorated homes, but to me it just reminded me of my grandmother's house. At least Granny Pendleton had a nice TV, an appliance that was noticeably absent from Miss Chenowith's home. Not that it would do any good since the phenomenon was still interfering with the signal.

She did have a nice huge antique 1930s Midwest radio. It sat in the corner of her living room belting out a steady stream of gospel music. “Dead Man Walking” crackled through the old speakers.

I was dead in my sins, just as if I had been
Buried and laid to rest.
Then the One who overcame life and death called my name.
He said, “Child, arise, and be blessed.”
I was a dead man walking, but praise God I am alive.
And I can't stop talking, I've just got to testify.
Resurrected from the grave, from death's darkness I am saved.
I was a dead man walking, but praise God I am alive.”

I shook my head as I listened to the lyrics. I couldn't take any more irony this evening; it had been a long day and I needed some sleep. I had a fleeting thought of wondering why there was music and not news playing. After all, every other radio station had been running nothing but news coverage ever since the phenomenon started, except for Disney radio. My fatigue forced me to file this thought away for future consideration.

“Do you have room for three?” I asked as Seth and Jackson slipped in the door.

To my surprise there was no unusual reaction to Seth and his dog. She greeted them as if they were no different from anyone else. I was very appreciative for that, she was the only person – including myself – who had treated him as normal on first meeting. I also felt a little guilty because I had wondered what kind of unusual person was still up at this late hour, fully dressed, baking muffins and brewing coffee. On first appraisal, she seemed to be a very caring and generous person, whatever her quirks may be. She was willing to open her home to strangers on such short notice. Not many people would do that.

“Would you like a muffin, young man?” she asked Seth. “Perhaps a treat for your pooch?”

Seth smiled and spoke with the good manners that made me so proud.

“No thank you ma'am. I'm just really tired.”

I thought I saw a brief look of confusion pass across her features, but it passed as quickly as it had come and she continued with her same pleasant demeanor.

“Well I've got a nice snuggly warm bed for you and your dad and some big fluffy pillows for your dog … what's his name?”

“Jackson,” Seth said.

“Well, Jackson … would you like a cookie?” she asked as she withdrew a large cookie from a red cookie jar on her kitchen cabinet.

I couldn't help but wonder how she knew that Seth and Jackson ate, but I filed the question in my exhausted brain to ask tomorrow.

Jackson happily wagged his tail and gratefully accepted the treat with one quick chomp. She then led us past the kitchen and through a wooden door at the end of a long hallway. It opened into a room that was a stark contrast to the rest of the house.

While the outside of the house had not been painted since the Lyndon Johnson administration, this room was likely added sometime during the presidency of Bill Clinton. A tall queen sized poster bed was centered between two windows covered with green drapes. The floor was covered with a fairly modern maroon carpet, the new carpet smell still hung in the air. The room probably didn't get much use. Just the occasional wayward traveler, perhaps.

She made a bed of pillows for Jackson under the window and turned down the sheets for Seth and me. She wished us a good night and closed the door. I was just about to undress and turn out the light when I got confirmation that squenching was not amongst Jackson's talents. I carefully cleaned up the pile of cookie bits by his bed and disposed of them in a tacky brass trash can. Could Jackson be squench broken? I didn't know, but one thing was certain … he wouldn't be eating any cookies in my vehicle any time soon.

Morning came quickly and we were awakened by a soft knock at the door.

“Mr. Pendleton, you up?” Lizzie called in a loud whisper.

“Yes, ma'am,” I said rolling out of bed. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh yes, I was just making breakfast and I wondered how you and Seth liked your eggs.”

“You don't need to go to any trouble.” I slipped my pants on and Seth hopped on the floor to play with Jackson. “We can hit Martian Burger on the way out of town.”

What I didn't realize is that we wouldn't be leaving town today or even tomorrow.

“Don't be silly!” she said. “It's no trouble; I almost have it ready, anyway.”

I heard her shuffling away down the hall. I turned to Seth who was lying on his back in the floor. Jackson was happily licking his fingers.

“Come on, buddy. Let's go eat!”

He hopped up and started for the door.

“Don't forget your squenching,” I said, like I had just reminded him to brush his teeth.

He gave me a look as if to say,
no duh, Daddy,
before opening the door and heading down the hall. Luckily I had just zipped my pants and buttoned up, because Miss Chenowith was in full view at the end of the hall. She was now wearing a generic white robe with green fuzzy slippers, much more appropriate attire for the hour of the day.

Breakfast was incredible, the best I had had since I was a young boy spending the night at my grandparents' house. Granny Pendleton was a heck of a good cook and Miss Chenowith was the first rival to her culinary skills I had ever run across.

She gave me an inquisitive look as if seeking approval before asking Seth how he liked his eggs. I nodded and gave her a reassuring smile. I truly appreciated her effort to treat Seth normally. It was a legitimate question and her discreet, wordless query again gave me a stab of guilt when I thought of my first impression of Miss Chenowith last night. What I didn't realize at the time is that what I mistook for instinctual kindness was much more akin to familiarity with the subject matter, the subject matter being Seth and Jackson. Yes, the people now known to the world as Impalpables or Impals were very familiar to Miss Chenowith, actually quite a bit more familiar than they were to me.

“Seth can sit here with me,” I told her then continued with a wink, “but if you give anything to Jackson, you may want to do it outside.”

She led Jackson to the back door and gave him a couple of pieces of bacon and a large biscuit. He took them eagerly and sat down to dine on his treat which would soon be scattered in bits on the ground, fodder for the birds outside our host's back door. She closed the door as Jackson ate and returned to the table, joining Seth and me in pleasant breakfast conversation. The radio played another gospel tune in the next room. I couldn't help but crack a smile when I realized the song playing was “How Great Thou Art,” sung by none other than one of the most famous people, or should I say Impals, on the planet: Elvis Aaron Presley.

After I had taken my last bite of the delicious meal, I leaned back in my chair and patted my stomach.

“Miss Chenowith, that was incredible! That's the best meal I've had in years!”

She blushed modestly and gently blotted her lips with a large lacy napkin.

“Thank you,” she said. “I'm sure your wife is a good cook, too.”

I paused to look at Seth before answering. I had hoped that he was not paying attention, but he was. He sat back in his chair looking at me with sad, glimmering eyes. The subject of his mother had not come up since the day the phenomenon started, and I hoped it was a topic that could be avoided. I mean, what purpose would it serve? She was gone and there was nothing we could do about it. That fact only served to remind me that Seth could be gone again at any moment. A lump formed in my throat as I replied in a hoarse voice.

“She was … she's no longer with us.”

“I'm, sorry,” she said as she reached over and squeezed my hand. She looked at Seth and smiled warmly. “Sweetheart, why don't you go check on your doggie? You can play awhile in the backyard if you would like.”

Seth looked to me, his eyes welling with silvery tears.

“It's okay, buddy. You and Jackson go have fun. I'll be out to check on you in a minute.”

He slowly got up from the table and cheerlessly walked down the hall and out the door.

“Your wife went through the door, didn't she?” Miss Chenowith asked.

I stared at her incredulously for several moments before replying.

“Well, yes … but how … how did …?”

“How did I know?” she finished for me.

I nodded my head. Miss Chenowith smiled and rose from her seat then beckoned me to follow her. She led me into the room with the antique radio. “He's Alive” by Dolly Parton crackled from the seventy-year-old speakers. The room looked quite a bit different now that I was standing inside of it in full daylight. The radio was the least of the curiosities contained inside the faded floral antique paper print of its walls. There must have been at least four dozen white candles arranged on small tables surrounding a large round wooden table in the center of the room. The large table sat on top of a large oval Turkish rug. The ornate design of the floor covering was not what drew my attention; it was what sat on top of the round table.

I was just about to ask about the object when Miss Chenowith spoke.

“Do you know what I do for a living, Mr. Pendleton?”

I stared at her blankly for several moments. I didn't have a clue. As it turned out, I did have an idea as I looked at the object on the table and recalled Miss Chenowith's unusual attire for the late hour we arrived last night. It all started to fall into place like tumblers in a safe, but before I could venture a guess she answered her own question.

“I'm a medium.”

Well, I guess that was kind of what I was thinking. Actually another term came to mind.

“I was going to say fortune teller,” I said as I pointed to the object on top of the table, which was a large crystal ball.

She put her hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle which seemed uncharacteristically girlish from a woman her age.

“No, I don't tell the future,” she smiled. “I help people talk to their departed loved ones. Or should I say, helped people. There's not much call for me since all this mess started.”

I looked at her skeptically. I didn't want to be rude, but I had always pictured mediums, psychics, or fortune tellers as frauds, predators preying on the grief of others. I thought it was crazy that people could be that gullible, but, due to recent events in my life, it didn't seem so crazy anymore. In fact, it almost seemed natural for people to want to reach out, to have one last conversation with their departed loved ones, to want to quell the grief that consumed every second of their lives. My God, what a true gift I have been given, however short lived it may be.

“Really?” I asked, trying to filter as much skepticism out of my voice as I could. My filter was woefully inadequate because Miss Chenowith's face washed from a pleasant smile to a look of someone who had just had their feelings brutalized.

“Yes, really,” she said coldly. “I would think someone in your situation would be a little less skeptical.”

I felt my face flush red. I had hurt her feelings and Lord knows the sweet lady didn't deserve it.

“I-I'm sorry,” I stammered. “I guess that was me talking through my beliefs from a few days ago.” I paused and said, “I have become a lot more open-minded since then.”

Miss Chenowith smiled ruefully, then walked over and gently rubbed her right hand over the crystal ball. After several moments of uncomfortable silence, she sat down at the table and invited me to sit across from her. I did as I was bid and sat in the matching Queen Anne armchair opposite her.

“I have lost someone as well, Mr. Pendleton.”

“Did they go through the door?” I asked.

“No,” she replied glumly. “They stayed here … in fact, they have been here for years.”

“I don't understand, were they … I mean are they an Impal?”

She looked at me blankly.

“I don't understand. What's an Impal?”

I assumed that Miss Chenowith had at least listened to some news the past few days. Or at the very least was psychic enough to divine the meaning of the word. Okay, I admit that was a little of my old skepticism still talking; Miss Chenowith had made it very clear that she was a medium, nothing more.

“Impals are what they have been calling people like Seth on the news. It's short for Impalpable.”

“Clever name,” she smirked sarcastically. “What are they calling people like me? Impal pals?”