Spoonbenders

“Thank you,” Matty said. “We could use the money.”

That was the truth. Irene was broke-ass broke. “So why you still have that look on your face?”

“Something happened to me a couple weeks ago.”

“I told you, kid, it’s perfectly—”

“No, not that,” Matty said firmly. “It was something amazing.”

The kid told him what had happened, and how later he’d made it happen several more times. Cars came up behind them and Frankie waved them through, not wanting to interrupt.

Then finally Frankie said, “So you lie there in this meditative state—”

“Right,” Matty said. “Definitely meditating.”

“And then it happens. You start floating around, seeing into other rooms.”

“Uh-huh.”

Frankie was getting an idea—or rather, the warm glow that indicated that an idea was about to poke its head above the horizon. Finally he asked, “Does your mom know about this?”

“Not really,” Matty said. “I mean, no. She caught me meditating, but that’s it. You’re the first person I’ve told.”

“That’s good,” Frankie said. “Let’s keep this between you and me.” 

JULY

5 Buddy

The clock says 7:10 a.m., but this is not nearly enough information. The air is sticky and the sheets are damp from humidity, so it’s probably summer. But what year? This is a mystery that cannot be solved from the bed.

He pads downstairs to the kitchen, and there’s teenage Matty, cramming a piece of buttered toast into his mouth. That’s a major clue. This is probably the year that Matty and Irene moved back home. The year he did all the work on the house. The year of the Zap.

He says to himself: I am twenty-seven years old and Maureen Telemachus has been dead for twenty-one years.

Matty turns when he walks in, then coughs, choking on the toast, as if he’s surprised to see him. “Morning, Uncle Buddy,” he says finally. He looks quickly away, embarrassed. But by what?

The boy busies himself by pouring a tall mug of coffee. Buddy can’t remember why Matty would be up so early and already dressed, but then he notices that he’s wearing a yellow Bumblebee polo, and remembers that his nephew is working for Frankie this summer. At least the first part of the summer.

Matty glances at him, sees his frown, and says, “Oh, this isn’t for me. It’s for Frank.” Then: “I’m supposed to call him Frank when we’re working together.”

Buddy nods. Matty is having trouble keeping eye contact.

“Hey, that’s the van. Gotta go.” Matty pauses at the front door. Without quite looking at him, Matty says, “Thanks again for letting me use the computer. That’s really nice of you.”

Buddy thinks, I didn’t do it for you. But then, it doesn’t seem to hurt any of his plans to have the boy use it.

He goes to the calendar and checks the date. July eighth. All the days are marked off in Xs that are a particular shade of purplish pink. For a long moment he can’t remember the July Fourth picnic, then an image of fireworks comes to him, the crackle and boom. They went to Arlington Racecourse to see them. That was this year, he’s pretty sure. God knows it can’t be next year. He marks an X on today’s date. Then, as is his habit, he flips ahead through the months, to the end of the summer. Labor Day is circled in that same shade of pink. It drives a spike of fear into his heart every time he sees it.

September 4, 1995, 12:06 p.m. The moment the future ends. The day it all goes black.

Zap.

He only became aware of the date a few months ago. He woke up to realize that the future had disappeared. For years he’d been plowing through the days, hands over eyes, figuring that eventually a runaway truck or pulmonary embolism would catapult him out of the world.

But this, this ugly stump, so full of complicated doom. He never expected it would end like that.

Gangsters and G-men. Bullets and burning cars. The gun against his head. It’s all terribly dramatic.

Yet if it were only his own demise waiting for him (no matter how outlandish and lurid), he’d close his eyes again and let Time carry him along. But there are other people to consider.

“For God’s sake, Buddy!” Irene says angrily.

He turns, confused.

“Put some clothes on!”

Ah. Irene doesn’t like it when he walks around naked. This doesn’t strike him as fair, since he’s the permanent resident and she’s just here temporarily. Plus, she’s not wearing much more than him, just running shorts and a T-shirt from a bank in Pennsylvania.

“What?” she asks. “You want to say something, say it.”

But he doesn’t know what to say. That’s the problem with a lot of future memories. If he doesn’t remember what he said, then he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say. Like being shoved onstage without a script. Better to say nothing than risk changing everything.

Irene scowls at him and puts up a hand to shield her eyes. “I’m going for a run,” she says.