Walking Home

William had grown to hate the smell of antiseptic that permeated his world even as that world had shrunk to nothing more than a small, stark room and, occasionally, a narrow, bleak hallway. His hatred of it persisted, even though he could no longer attach a name to it or remember why it brought feelings of being out of place and an apprehension of physical harm.

Every moment of his life was consumed by that smell and its feelings. His once sharp mind could no longer grasp or hold any clear conception of how long it had been since the smell had not been present. Even worse was the absence of any standard for measuring the passage of time for longer than a single cycle of light and darkness outside of his window.

Three times during each period of light, one of the anonymous, blank-faced women would bring him a tray of what served as food. At other times, instead of food, they brought little paper cups filled with pills or sharp needles that burned as they pierced his skin. From time to time, his body would direct him to the bathroom, occasionally in time. During the darkness, he slept, and the dreams would come.

As dreary as these facets of William's existance were, they were minor compared to awakening at the beginning of each new period of light to the frustration of not being able to bring the face from his night-long dreams into any semblance of focus. For countless hours this indistinct image filled his mind. Even though he could not see the face, he knew it was important, familiar. It alone, of all the things in his world, brought with it a feeling of warmth. If just once he could see, really see, that face, he would remember, and by remembering, be real again.

The second tray of food in one particular period of light had appeared and disappeared when William made his way to the tiny closet that held his few remaining possessions. Pushing back the curtain, he reached in and retrieved a pair of brown, wing-tipped shoes, shoes which bore the clear marks of great age, but felt both comfortable and reassuring. William put them on his feet simply to enjoy a few moments communion with these two old friends. He had done this many times before, yet he sensed that this time something was different. Their simple presence on his feet gave him a sense of purpose, although what that purpose might be eluded him.

As he waited for this purpose to attain some recognizable form, William examined the other items in the closet as if searching for clues to its source. A large bag lay on the floor of the closet, faded gold letters embossed into its cracked tan leather. The letters, W. L. C., meant nothing to William, though he felt certain that they should. Neither did the cumbersome books which filled the bag. Just above William's eye level on the closet shelf lay a wooden object stained a rich brown. To William, it looked rather like a hammer too fragile and elegant to be used. The word gavel crossed his mind but held no meaning for him.

Not fully understanding why, William opened his door and shuffled out into the long corridor of cold, forbidding gray. A barely perceptible glint of sunlight caught his eye from one end of the corridor and drew him to it. In the long disused recesses of his mind, something resembling an idea was beginning to form. Sunlight. There was something about sunlight and something else that must go with it. Yes, sunlight and that other forgotten thing would banish the smell, allow him to really breathe again. Then he might be able to see the face and remember.

He passed others in his slow journey down that hallway, most moving about without discernible purpose or direction. He began to actually notice their faces. Some were sad, but most were just blank, empty, as William's usually was. But one or two of them had a strange puzzled, yet focused look, as if they, too, were trying to bring something long forgotten into focus.

Without being aware that he had reached the end of the hall, William bumped into the horizontal bar of an exterior door, causing it to open no more than two inches. Once again, there was a brief flash of sunlight, this time accompanied by something more, the faint whisper of freshness that stole through the crack to briefly mask the wretchedness of the smell. With this new incentive, William pushed on the bar, forcing the door open far enough to allow him to look upon an outside world only dimly remembered. That was enough. Like Alice through the looking glass, William slipped unseen from one world to another before the door closed softly behind him.

For the first time in his memory, William felt the warmth of the sun shining unobstructed on his face, a warmth that concealed from him the faint chill borne by the early fall breeze. A paved walk pointed in the general direction of the sun and William was drawn to follow it. The more the sun shone upon him, the less cautious and measured William's steps became. With each breath, he became more and more free of the debilitating fog of the smell. Still, William felt uncomfortable, as if he had been transported to some unimaginable future filled with odd looking buildings and strange vehicles.

About an hour after his return to the world, William reached an area where the buildings were fewer and more familiar. A barn, a freshly painted farm house, its manicured yard enclosed by a well cared for picket fence. The lone vehicle in his field of view was a tractor. The disquieting feeling of being out of place began to diminish rapidly. He remembered with sudden clarity the words his mother had spoken to him that very morning,

"Billy", she had said, her voice warm but firm, "You know I got chores for you to do this evening'. You come straight home from school, you hear?"

"Yes, ma'am", he remembered himself dutifully replying. He didn't really mind that he would have to forego his usual detour to his secret place deep in the woods that only he and Tommy Crandall knew about. Today, Tommy would have chores waiting for him, too. There would be a pause on their ongoing debate on bugs and bears and whether there might just be one last renegade Comanche lurking nearby. It was a thing of no consequence that there had never been a bear within a hundred miles, a complete irrelevancy that all of the Comanches had withdrawn to the reservation well before their births. Billy and Tommy were boys, so dreams came easily to them.

Of course, it was not a perfect world they dreamed in. In fact, Tommy had recently developed the extremely unfortunate habit of razzing Billy with the ridiculous accusation that Billy had a crush on Helen Gates.

His step quickened even more when he remembered that his mother would have a warm wedge of apple pie waiting to see him through his chores and on to supper. When he came to the rusty barbed wire fence, it seemed the same as always, but when he tried to step through it , he discovered that either the space between the strands of wire had shrunk, or he had grown. This realization was reinforced when he felt the sudden bite of one of the rusted metal thorns and heard the unmistakable sound of tearing cloth.

"Damn", he swore out loud. He knew that he'd sure enough catch a hiding if either his parents heard him do that! He might well catch one anyway for ripping his new shirt. Maybe if he worked extra, extra hard on his chores. Yeah, sure, that would do it. Just as quickly as it had arisen, the problem of the fence faded from his mind.

Beginning to notice the chill, Billy reached down to button his jacket only to remember that he had left it somewhere, probably at school. " Well, I'll be home soon," he thought, long before it gets seriously cold. Anyway, he could always borrow his older brother's jacket to do his chores in.

Billy's thoughts returned to his other problem, Tommy's teasing about Helen. But something strange happened when that name entered his mind. Helen. Yes, there was definitely something connected with that name, if only he could remember it. Suddenly, he seemed to see himself older, like he was Merlin from those stories about King Arthur, "youthening" and remembering the future. A brief, intense shudder ran through his body and he resolved not to think about it any more.

The sun was now very close to its nightly resting place below the horizon, its powers of light and heat rapidly failing. He knew he should have been home long before now, nearly finished with his chores. And he wondered why he was so tired? The wondering and not knowing generated the first cold prickles of fear, prickles that danced in his stomach like drunken ballerinas. He had the instinctive desire to run, but his body would not obey. Suddenly, he was unsure of the way home, and with this uncertainty, the prickles turned into spears.

Off to one side, he spotted an invitingly soft patch of grass and decided to sit down and rest, only for a minute. As he settled into his springy resting place, he saw the first star of the evening and automatically recited aloud, "Star light , star bright, The first star I see tonight,I wish I may, I wish I might, Have the wish I wish tonight."

"Please let me be home, " he thought to himself, certain that his wish would never come true if he spoke it out loud.

He started to get up, but that suddenly seemed more than he could manage. The sun now gone, the temperature was crossing the boundary between bracing chill and numbing cold. He needed, longed for his...not his mother, he suddenly knew. But if not Mother, then who?

He suddenly remembered the face, the reason he had made this journey. Before he could even begin to relish the joy of seeing her, he heard a voice call out to him from the other room. A woman's voice, more familiar than even his own, it brought tears to his eyes and a tightness to his throat.

"Bill, Honey, aren't you coming to bed? It must be after midnight again."

He turned toward the voice as he stood up, quite easily now. He looked into her familiar, beloved hazel eyes. Her flowing brown hair lay softly on the shoulders of her gossamer gown as she smiled at him.

"Yes, Helen," he heard himself say, "I was just about to."

Helen turned and retreated into their bedroom and Bill followed. As always, Helen had already neatly folded back the covers of their double bed. Helen slipped softly into the right side and Bill got in on the left. Then he turned out the lamp on the bedside table and turned toward his wife. Bill gently slipped his arm over her and kissed her warmly on the lips.

"I've missed you," he whispered.

"Bill, what on Earth are you talking about? I've been here all along."

"Yes, I suppose that's always been true," he said, "I only know that I love you very much."

"And I you, my darling. Now go to sleep. You have a very special day ahead of you tomorrow."

Puzzled but completely at peace, Bill closed his eyes and slept.