The Time Telephone Read online

  The

  Time Telephone

  Connie Lacy

  Wild Falls Publishing

  ~~~

  Atlanta, GA

  Copyright © 2015, 2018 by Connie Lacy

  Second edition 2018

  First edition 2015

  Cover design by GoOnWrite.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the author, except for brief quotations in book reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9996084-4-9

  Published by Wild Falls Publishing

  PO Box 29452

  Atlanta, GA 30359

  For my mother and father

  ~~

  Also by Connie Lacy

  The Going Back Portal

  A Daffodil for Angie

  VisionSight: a Novel

  The Shade Ring, Book 1 of The Shade Ring Trilogy

  Albedo Effect, Book 2 of The Shade Ring Trilogy

  Aerosol Sky, Book 3 of The Shade Ring Trilogy

  Shade Ring Trilogy: Complete Trilogy Books 1 – 3 (ebook box set)

  ~One~

  The Funeral

  It was way too quiet sitting under that canopy so close to the casket. The preacher took forever getting ready to speak. I guess it was because he was still trying to figure out what to say about a woman who got herself exploded half way around the world. And now, all those little pieces, or most of them, were in that polished mahogany casket with the brass handles.

  My mom, who wanted more than anything to be as far from home as possible while she was living, was going to spend eternity a stone’s throw from the broken-down old farm house where she grew up. I was positive she wouldn’t like it, wouldn’t want it, wouldn’t tolerate it if she had any say-so in the matter. Which she didn’t.

  Of course, I figured her spirit would be a long way from the countryside on the edge of the Atlanta suburbs. Maybe in Kabul where she and her cameraman died just before her live report. Or Iraq. Or Israel. Anywhere but home.

  The minister gripped his Bible with both hands, closing his eyes and turning his face toward the sky, like he was waiting for God to call him on his cell phone. Or like he was trying to catch a few rays. Until Grandma coughed.

  My grandmother commands attention. She’s a superior court judge, but looks like she could be a model for a seniors magazine. My height – five, seven. Trim. Hazel-green eyes, like mine. Sleek, short brown hair heavily streaked with gray. Expensive black suit.

  And when she coughed, Reverend Gray Suit opened his eyes, right on cue. He looked first at Grandma, sitting next to me in the front row, then at me and the rest of the family and friends gathered at the Pleasant Grove Church cemetery on that sunny April afternoon.

  It had taken three weeks for Mom’s body to be shipped home from Afghanistan. Why, I don’t know. Something to do with the investigation, I guess. Or maybe that’s how long it took to find all the pieces.

  When the network held a memorial service a few days after she died, I used half a box of tissues. In fact, I had cried myself to sleep every night since we got word. I got teary-eyed eating my Cheerios. Salty tears fell while I was brushing my teeth. I boo-hooed big time in the shower. I’d been walking around in a stupor ever since we got the call, staring into space.

  I still couldn’t believe she was really dead. Star reporters aren’t supposed to get blown up. They cover other people getting blown up. And I kept wishing things had gone better the last time she was home. But I couldn’t re-write history, you know. My heart ached twenty-four/seven.

  So I’d spent the last three weeks staring out the window, wondering why the trees were turning green and the azaleas and dogwoods were blooming like it was just another ordinary spring. And waiting for the phone to ring. I’d been tossing and turning at night, waking up thinking my phone was vibrating. But, of course, she never called.

  And now, as I sat there waiting for Reverend Gray Suit to begin, I was suddenly dry-eyed. I don’t know why. I fixed my gaze on the framed picture of my mother on a stand by the coffin. It was her favorite publicity shot taken about ten years ago. Her shoulder length blonde hair was parted on the side and was lifted slightly by a breeze as she stood outside a government building on a sunny day. Her make-up was muted but accentuated her blue eyes. She was wearing a teal jacket and speaking into a microphone. She looked beautiful, smart, professional and successful. Unlike me.

  Grandma glanced my way. It was the same look she’d given me that morning when I came out of my room.

  “I wish you’d wear a dress, Megan.” That’s what she said as I drifted into the kitchen like a piece of flotsam caught in a current after a shipwreck. “And maybe a little lipstick.”

  But I liked my skinny black chinos, black top, black jacket and my black flats. And I didn’t feel like putting lipstick or make-up on. My hair was parted in the middle and hung down on my shoulders like brown, half-closed drapes, to cover as much of my face as possible.

  Someone cleared his throat behind me. Then someone else. It was, like, contagious. A little kid in the back said: “I’m hungry, Mommy.” Then a “shhh.” Finally, the preacher stepped under the canopy close to the coffin and began speaking in a quiet, practiced, plodding cadence.

  “We are gathered here today… to say farewell… to Abigail… Jody… McConnell.”

  Bad sign. My mother never wanted anyone to know her first name. She was just “Jody McConnell, reporting live from Kabul,” or “Jody McConnell, reporting live from Baghdad.” She’d even talked about legally changing her name to remove Abigail, but never got around to it. So it was obvious to everyone now that this preacher didn’t know squat about the dearly departed.

  “Jody… was… a respected… journalist,” he said. “And she died… doing the job… she loved.”

  Who gave him that cheesy line? And why did he have to talk so slow and sing-songy?

  “She was also… a mother… a daughter… and… a friend.”

  Right. I noticed he didn’t say good mother, good daughter or good friend.

  And so it went for what seemed like forever until Grandma coughed again. The preacher stopped quoting scripture and bowed his head to pray. The prayer was full of talk about salvation and living a good life and looking forward to heaven and knowing that Jody would be there waiting when the rest of us arrived. And blah, blah, blah. Which made me wonder – could you get into heaven if you abandoned your child? And finally, finally, it was over.

  “Kate, please let me know if there’s anything I can do,” Reverend Gray Suit said, taking my grandmother’s hands in his.

  “Thank you, Reverend Dixon,” she said, pulling her hands away.

  And then all those relatives and friends were ready to blubber on her shoulder and say “may God give you strength” and stuff like that. Some of them wiped tears from their eyes as they hugged her. Grandma was prepared, as usual, to do her duty. But not me. It wasn’t my duty to let people drip all over me. And that’s when I spotted my old girlfriends heading my way, trailed by their mothers.

  Becca, Zoe and Caitlyn had been my best friends until I switched schools last fall. But I hadn’t seen them in months. And it was painfully obvious they didn’t really want to be at the funeral. I’m a hundred percent sure their moms made them come. So it was pretty awkward. They each gave me a hug and mumbled “so sorry.” Then their mothers h
ugged me and Caitlyn’s mom spoke for all of them.

  “The girls have been thinking about you a lot,” she said, patting my arm. “We all have.”

  But once the hugs were over, there wasn’t much to say. They said they’d call me sometime and then, thankfully, they were gone.

  I’d felt so watery the last few weeks, like skim milk – too thin, too weak to care about anything. But maybe it was the finality of the funeral and the crush of all the people that triggered my anger. I realized I wanted to yell at Reverend Gray Suit for being so lame. And I wanted to tell all those people to take their sloppy tears somewhere else. Including my former girlfriends. But, instead, I turned and wandered into the graveyard. No one would hug me there.

  I pulled my poem notebook and pen from my purse.

  Never got to say good-bye, to ask her why

  She wouldn’t try. Now she had to go and die.

  And I am…

  What? Heartbroken? Lonely? Miserable? Bereft? All of the above? Bereft was a good word. I pulled my phone from my bag and checked an online thesaurus. Definition of bereft: “lacking, missing.” Yep. Synonyms: “deprived, wanting, stripped, parted from, minus.” Minus – that was a good one. I was minus a mother.

  I studied the headstones as I crammed everything back in my bag. McConnell, Fleeman, Kelley, Berryman. I figured I was related to most of those dead people, but at that moment, I didn’t give a crap. It’s just that I had to get away from the living. I didn’t want anyone to touch me or tell me how wonderful and talented and brave my mother was. Because, you know, all those words were pretty meaningless since she was dead.

  You can’t do things with a dead person. Can’t talk with a dead person. Can’t walk with a dead person. Can’t watch a movie with a dead person or go swimming or bowling or hiking or skating or anything! Dead people are, well, dead, you know?

  The sun made my eyes water, it was so bright. I wiped them with my pinkies as I zigzagged between the grave markers. Big purple azalea bushes were blooming along the edge of the cemetery. Across a field, I saw the large pecan trees in the distance that shaded what Grandma called the old home place. That’s the house Grandma and Mom had both grown up in. It was abandoned now. I took off in that direction.

  The sound of the voices in the churchyard grew faint behind me as I crossed the meadow where cows had once pastured. A bird let out a shrill cry as though sounding a warning.

  Stepping through the broken-down gate into the back yard, I admired a giant pecan tree encircled by a dirt driveway. The branches were leafing out in a shade of spring green that bordered on yellow. Blackened pecan shells littered the ground. I’d seen pictures of big, round, black cars parked beside this tree with men in high-waisted slacks leaning against them, their arms around women with high heels and long, straight skirts. Two other pecan trees stood farther out towards the woods.

  I walked around the house, which was a crumbling shell of unpainted, dark brown boards. In the front, the roof sagged over a long rickety porch. There were two windows with broken panes, giving the house a mournful look, like some old man had closed his eyes and drifted away forever. Violet wisteria draped three large pines at the edge of the front yard, with two pink dogwoods nestled beneath them. The wisteria was in full bloom. And there was a huge magnolia near the road with branches that touched the ground. It felt like I’d walked into long ago.

  Around back there was a small screened porch by the kitchen, although the screen was tattered and about half of it was gone. The porch was a jumbled mess of old pots, bowls, tubs and jelly jars with rusted lids. And there, by the kitchen door, was a set of false teeth in a jar. Oh yeah, I remembered. They’d scared me half to death when Mom brought me here to show me the house when I was a little girl.

  When I stepped inside, the kitchen seemed like an empty set on a stage – lifeless without the actors and the lights. There was an avocado refrigerator sitting next to an old wooden ice box. A pink-flowered linoleum rug was worn through in front of the sink.

  It was quiet and chilly inside and there was a sweet tobacco scent mixed with the smell of mold. I tore down a curtain of cobwebs with a poker and stepped over a hole in the floor as I made my way to the front parlor. The boards creaked as I entered the room where the family had once entertained guests on special occasions.

  Frayed doilies decorated the arms of a faded sofa. A few family pictures still hung on the walls. But I was drawn to the old pump organ in the corner. I remembered sitting on my mother’s lap and pushing the keys while she pumped the large pedals, believing I was making pretty music.

  I sat on the round, wooden stool and pressed a pedal. But a sudden skittering behind the organ made me jump. A rat darted into the foyer and I fled to the middle of the room. That’s when I noticed the antique telephone on a table by the wall.

  It was black and stood straight up with an attached mouth piece and a separate ear piece connected by a straight cord. I thought it was odd there was no way to dial the phone. No buttons. No dial. Nothing. I didn’t know they ever made phones you couldn’t dial.

  I picked it up. It was cold to the touch and weighed a ton compared with the phones I was used to. I set it down again and walked back towards the foyer. But just as I reached the other room, the quiet was torn by a loud jangly ringing. I whirled around. Could it still be connected after all these years? A cord ran from the base of the phone and disappeared behind an overstuffed chair. I wasn’t sure I should answer it and hesitated a moment as the insistent ringing filled the house. Finally, I hurried across the room and picked it up, holding the phone in my left hand and clumsily putting the small receiver to my ear with my right hand.

  “Hello?”

  “What year do you wish to call, please?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What year do you wish to call?”

  It was like the sweetest voice I’d ever heard.

  “What year?” I asked.

  “That is correct. What year do you wish to call?”

  “I… I don’t understand.”

  “Do you know what year you wish to call?”

  “Uh… I uh…”

  “Do you know the name of the person you wish to call?”

  Her voice was so patient.

  “What’s going on? I just answered the phone. I…”

  I held the telephone away from me and examined it. Then I heard the voice again and put the receiver to my ear.

  “Would you like to call someone?” she asked.

  I closed my eyes. What year did I wish to call? Who did I wish to call? I didn’t try to call anybody. I opened my eyes and saw an old sepia-tone photo in an ornate frame, hanging slightly askew on the opposite wall. It was a picture of a young couple. The man was holding a chubby little blonde girl. The mother looked a lot like me. Of course – it was Grandma. The man was her husband and the little girl was my mother. Her arm was draped around her father’s neck and she was smiling like she was the happiest little daddy’s girl in the world.

  “Do you know the name of the person you wish to call?” the woman asked again.

  “I’d like to talk with my mother,” I mumbled to myself, my eyes stinging.

  “And what is her name?”

  “Her name?”

  “Yes, her name.”

  “Her name’s Jody McConnell! But she’s…”

  If only I could talk to her one last time, I thought.

  “And what year do you wish to call?”

  “She’s dead!”

  “I understand. What year do you wish to call your mother?” she said softly.

  “What year do I…?”

  Maybe I was dense or something, but I didn’t understand at all.

  “Yes, you can choose any year you like,” the woman explained. “This is a time telephone.”

  “A time telephone?”

  “That is correct.”

  I focused my brain.

  “You mean I can call my mother even if she’s dead?”

  “
That is correct.”

  There was this tightening in my stomach.

  “Even if she’s dead?” I repeated.

  “Certainly.”

  Certainly? Certainly? I could call my mother? Then it hit me: this is a stupid prank. A stupid, mean prank. And I’m the prankee.

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “This is the operator,” she said, calm as ever.

  “No, really, who are you?”

  “I am the operator.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I can connect you if you tell me what year you wish to call your mother.”

  Such a sincere voice.

  “Who is this?”

  “I am the operator. And I would be happy to…”

  But I slammed the receiver on the hook and set the ancient telephone back on the table. A “time telephone.” What a cruel joke! Probably some fifth cousin I’d never met was watching me from a hidden spot. Maybe with a hidden camera. My eyes swept the room. Well, I wasn’t gonna fall for it.

  I retraced my steps through the house and hurried out the back door. It was freaky to think someone was watching me like that. So I jumped when I heard a car approaching in the driveway, its tires crunching the gravel. But it was Grandma in her shiny black Lexus. My muscles relaxed.

  “Did you go inside?” she asked, closing her car door.

  I studied the tumble-down house, debating whether to tell her anything.

  “No.”

  “It’s starting to lean,” she said, giving the house a once over.

  She looked at me like I should say something. But I felt… shaky.

  “I really need to go through the house and choose any pictures or mementos we might want to keep,” she said. “Libby’s son Willie – you remember Willie? – he’s going to tear the place down and build a new home here.”

  It was hard to tell how she felt about it. Was she sad? Did she care?

  “It’s a nice spot for a house up on this little hill, don’t you think?” she said. “They could save the trees.”