Interstate Chimes

Interstate Chimes

short fiction by

Douglas Christian Larsen

He stood disoriented, for just a moment, peering in through the doors of the main sanctuary — what was he supposed to do? What was his next move? In fact, when he thought about it, what exactly was he trying to accomplish, anyway? Joe Lancaster leaned against the door, resting his forehead against the cool glass. Knowing everything, understanding everything, but did he? It seemed his mission was spread before him; but you must hurry, he told himself, you must hurry because time is passing. Time never pauses nor lingers.

He did not touch his hair. It was understood that every hair was in place. He didn't glance down at his clothes. Everything was pressed and cleaned and free of wrinkles — Joe Lancaster, the perfect, wrinkle-free man! His fingernails sparkled, and his sister Jane would be delighted, and his shoes shone, and his other sister, Carrie, would be charmed, and his posture was military-straight, upright enough to please any mother, but especially so Joe's — wonder of wonders, he even wore a tie, which would shock his darling, star-crossed Linda.

Joe Lancaster was perfect. Had he ever been so buffed and shined, so clean and coifed, ever, in his entire life? For the first time in his rebellious life he was not the unruly boy with the messy, wild hair, the sardonic, angry eyebrows and challenging eyes. For the first time in his life his clothes matched and not a wrinkle was in sight — even his silly Italian waiter's jacket was uncharacteristically unwrinkled (and it was supposed to be wrinkled!) — the garment, considered high-fashion cotton in this country, was worn by almost any given waiter on any given day in any given restaurant in Italy.

Good memory, Italy, he thought, stalling for time, but there was never enough time, it kept marching forward, kept grinding onward, time did, and Joe Lancaster was short for time, but still, he had enough time to remember Italy, didn't he? He had motored through Italy and most of Europe the previous summer on his solitary bike sojourn across the world. Well, not the world, not quite, he thought, because there was not enough time for the whole world, but close, he thought. The Italian waiter's jacket, purchased on a whim, was worn wrinkled — a purposeful fist against fashion.

Today, it was pressed perfectly.

The perfect boy, Joe Lancaster.

Joe peeked through the glass and spotted his father kneeling about halfway down the length of the church, on the usual left side, in the usual pew, not that Joe had been in a church in a while. But still, everything was usual, everything was as it should be, except the world, and Joe Lancaster, and Jimmy too, if he allowed himself to think about his otherworldly little brother. Good old Dad, with his shining, sweating bald head. The light glinting all the way up the church off Dad's head brought back a memory Joe had not thought of in years.

They were on vacation in Canada and Dad, of course, was driving the old one-ton Ford, his bald head shining brightly in the sunlight, and Jane and Carrie were squeezed in between the parents, Mom (poodle in arms) smashed up against the passenger door. Joe and Jimmy were lying in the over-cab camper bed, high up above the world and traveling fast through the air like soaring angels. The boys waved at on-coming traffic, so that when the people waved back, the rest of the family assumed that everyone in Canada was "just so friendly!"

"When we grow up, let's go all over the entire world on great big bikes," said ten-year-old Jimmy, Joe's identical twin brother.

"Yeah, okay!" Joe agreed, thumping up and down on the thin mattress, causing the cab roof to buckle in and out. Dad knuckled the ceiling and shouted something up at them which they could not make out.

The boys had just observed a wolf pack of motorcycles cruise past in the opposite direction (all of them waving at the gleeful monkey boys in the big upper window, causing the family below to believe that even Canadian bikers were "just so friendly!").

"Harleys!" Jimmy declared, even jumping a little on the thin mattress, but never hard enough to attract Dad's attention. Jimmy was always the good boy, known far and wide through the entire wide world as a lad of manners, kid of golden heart, whereas Joe was famous already as the naughty imp, the scamp, the headstrong rebel.

"No way, dingbat! Harley Davidson would fall apart! We need the great big rice rockets, smooth sailing all the way!" Joe snorted, mock choking his brother.

"Harleys!" Jimmy returned, chin jutted uncharacteristically stubborn.

"Suzukis!" Joe snarled.

"Harley!"

"Suzuki!"

Within seconds they were grappling, thumping, rocking and rolling. Dad rolled his knuckles beneath them, a little harder than usual. The boys immediately scrambled over the edge of the over-cab bed, hanging upside-down like bats in the camper boot.

Dad smirked at them, peering myopically at them through the rear-view mirror, doing his best to look stern and forbidding (but his ridiculous bottle-bottom bifocals didn't in any way aid the illusion). His eyes flicked from the road to the boys to the road to the boys.

"Fighting again?" he asked, valiantly keeping the grin buried.

"NO SIR!" shot Jimmy, ever the good brown-noser.

Joe snickered.

"Don't fight, boys," Mama said, holding up her rust-colored poodle as a pinnacle of well-bred manners to which the boys should attempt to achieve. "Be good, like Ginger!"

Joe groaned and played out his finest death scene, fingers writhing at his heart, and he nearly lost his purchase on the bed above to tumble to the quaking camper floor, but Jimmy caught him and steadied him in just the nick of time.

"Besides," Mama said, "the people up here in Canada are just so friendly! Everybody up here waves at us!"

Joe snickered again, a little too loudly this time. Jimmy elbowed him.

"Dad," Jimmy said, "we're going on big motorcycles — all over the world — Joey and me are gonna do it!"

"Oh no you're not," Mama interjected before crazy Dad got the chance to comment, maybe even volunteer to join the expedition.

"The HELL we ain't!" screamed Joe. "And we're going on Suzukis!"

"Harleys!" Jimmy shouted in return, both boys red in the face from hanging upside down so long.

"SUZUKI!" Joe exploded, snaking his hand in through the boot to yank Carrie's long yellow hair.

When Dad yelled sufficiently loud enough (and persistently enough) to silence the ensuing uproar, he ordered the boys, the both of the pesky little critters, to the back of the camper, where they sat, as nicely as anyone could have wished, even holding hands — they were that close — listening to the tiny silver chimes jingling above the rear door of the camper.

Jimmy turned to Joe, smiling, and asked sweetly: "What do those chimes say to you?"

Joe returned the sweet smile.

"Suzuki!"

"Harley!"

"SUZUKI!"

The adult Joe Lancaster, all these sixteen years later, leaning against the main sanctuary doors in the church he had not been inside in many years, closed his eyes in the warm glow of the memory. He couldn't help but smile. Poor Jimmy, he thought, my poor little brother Jimmy.

Identical twins, as close in age as two boys could ever be, poor Jimmy would forever be Joe's little brother, because poor Jimmy died only a year after that trip to Canada, and if he did not make it to travel the world on a motorcycle, at least he died happily, smiling, pedaling his bicycle as Joe raced before him, neither boy ever saw the weaving car behind them until Joe heard the terrible noise back there where poor Jimmy just could never keep up, hanging behind Joe, forever behind, an eternity of second-place, and poor Jimmy had never kept up, not after that terrible accident, and Joe just kept getting further and further ahead, the years piling on, as poor Jimmy forever remained eleven years of age.

It was only Joe that would go on to pilot his huge Suzuki 1000 across Europe and most of America, so close, so close (around the world!), the tiny silver wind chimes from the old camper dangling inside the motorcycle faring.

The prayer finished, the congregation returned from their knees to the pews, and Joe Lancaster had to be moving on, because time was most precious to him, a commodity he could not afford to squander. He pushed open the doors, not giving himself time to consider (he had no time) and moved with long strides up the center aisle. The pastor, approaching the pulpit caught sight of Joe Lancaster and paused with one hand reaching toward the podium, a half-smile locked upon his lips — the entire congregation followed the pastor's cue: they turned to stare as Joe Lancaster turned into the row where his family were now registering his arrival.

Mama and Dad looked up, faces devoid of expression, looking at Joe, and Dad had difficulty focusing his mole's eyes upon his son. Jane and husband Don were there, looking at Joe with wide eyes, and Carrie looked up to smile at her brother.

It was great seeing them, so bright and beautiful, so very beautiful, his family. They had changed so very little in the passing time, Joe sighed. He didn't pause to consider what in the world kind of thought that was, he just didn't have the time — it had only been three weeks since he roared away from home to circle the states! Funny, but it seemed to him more like many years. And now they blinked at him and they all looked so pale.

"I love all of you, and I'll miss you," Joe Lancaster said with his heart, smiling with his soul, feeling the sum of his being rise up into his words. Everyone in the church watched. No one stirred.

"Joe," Mama and Dada breathed as one, unable to say more, their eyes shining with tears.

But Joe Lancaster had to be moving — he had to be on his way — time was precious and it was about all gone, because we are only gifted with so much time, and he had yet to accomplish his task for his brother, his gift, and he turned, forcing himself away, to walk away, to fade from these precious people — his family, to fade away, but suddenly Jane, his older sister, seemed to realize something, and she stood and lightly seized Joe's hand as he passed, "I'm going to have a baby," she told him, and Don was all smiles, and Joe felt tears well up, and he nodded, kept moving, because he had to keep moving because time was precious and then Carrie was up and tears stood in her eyes, "I'm taking the piano seriously, all my music," she told him, "I'm entering the Conservatory in the fall," she told him, and Joe wanted to cry, so great was his love, his happiness, the beauty of seeing them all again, of being alive, precious life, but he had to keep moving and he kept moving, going away, moving away, moving away from them...

...to her. He strode back up the aisle to where she was sitting with her parents and her recently affianced — Roger, or something like that — this would prove terribly hard, he knew, but it was also something which must be accomplished — something very important to his brother (but that couldn't be right, could it?) — something which must be enacted because of that darned Joe Lancaster and his swelled sense of self! Sheesh, the boy took pride to whole new heights of delusional stupidity!

Linda. There. Sitting very straight, very gaunt, watching Joe with those eyes, those lovely almond eyes, eyes so dark, so piercing, and she was watching Joe as if he were a risen messiah (or a ghost returned across the moors). Ah, then she does still love him, Joe Lancaster shouted within himself, and then instantly corrected: I mean ME, she still loves ME. His blood swelled and he stood taller, stronger, and he was before her now and he put out his hand and she rose to meet him, and he had her by the hands, she squeezed his hands powerfully, and she emanated toward him, to him, within him, and all about it.

"Joe?" she whispered, as if she were not quite certain it was him.

"Yes, little pirate lady," he growled, spirit focused fiercely upon her.

"Joe," she whispered again, her eyes darting back and forth between his eyes, a small catch in her voice. Did love end? Could it ever only be felt by one, and not two, when it was true?

"If it hadn't been for my pride, Linda, I would have done this years ago. Years ago when we still had precious time to us. I would have told you years ago."

"It has been years," she whispered, not even conscious of poor little Roger glaring from the pew, or of the Dragon Lady shooting fiery darts from her eyes — Linda's great dark eyes sang a siren melody of the intense passions welling within her heart for him, her Joe, her eyes shone brightly with the exquisite love she refused to even admit was there all those years, buried, smoldering, contained like a beautiful fiery monster beneath layers of concrete and steel.

All his fears over the years were worthless, as fears always prove to be. Love was not something that faded or vanished or morphed into something else — all those fears, that her love had slipped away with time and space, it had all been groundless, a waste of opportunity and precious, precious time.

"I thought," he croaked, near tears, "that feeling had died."

"Honestly, Joseph, I could never stop loving you."

And because time was terrible, time was relentless, Joe Lancaster had to be moseying along, he had to roll on, little dogeys, and he pulled her to him and it was as if by some miracle the pew was not between them, she was in his arms, they grappled and squeezed furiously, they were again one, their lips found the matching set, the soul clung to the corresponding soul, and they were one, they were one, and Joe kissed her, or rather it was Linda who threw herself within his embrace — came the wondrous melding of sensitive skin to vulnerable lip, perfection melding, their lips and hearts and beings enrapt, melding, melting, and spontaneous applause burst out in the church, people laughing with tears in their eyes, clapping and nodding, many hugging.

Joe Lancaster had to go and tore himself from his past and whispered through the air toward his future, or perhaps it was further below him to the past, he could not tell, but he could no longer turn his head, time drew him, he felt their eyes upon him, their wishes, their love, and he projected back his own passion, his own love, his own well wishes and godspeed, and could not even make it to the main doors of the sanctuary —

— Joe Lancaster vanished from the world.

Or, rather, the world vanished from him as he was carried away, upon wind and time, over mountains and hot deserts and thick pine forests, always racing, always flowing, racing toward his destiny, the wind through his hair, the wind through his body and he through the wind or a part of the wind following in a thin blur the very trail his motorcycle traveled three weeks before or was it eons back through the demon heat of Nevada into strange twisted Utah landscapes across skywalks in mile-high Colorado and higher with strange-weather hail in August Kansas and heat and rain into flat, flat Nebraska where he drove through the night escaping monotony over the border into Iowa green and rolling hills and camping beneath trees rainstorm darkness is this now Illinois winding rolling too fast drawn on faster into streaks of light entering Indiana here the cigarette-cinder flash of fireflies dancing their visual symphony upon warm night winds and slowing, slowing now dropping down along the interstate clipped musical tones and slowing a tinkling a melodic spatter of tinkling tinkling slowing and here the trail the trail winking winking winking red tail lights the slowing, finally slowing...

...along the tail lights, backed up traffic, slowing...

Joe Lancaster touched down near the cars, he strolled, time was not so terrible now, not for Joe Lancaster, he slowly walked to the scene of the accident, the overturned Lupus trailer truck, and the crushed motorcycle beneath it. Joe pushed through the milling people and knelt by the young man's body, and took the bloody young man into his arms, pushing back the blood-streaked hair, wiping clean the face...

...that face! Joe Lancaster blinked. The world spun about him. The man in his arms was alive and his eyes opened and looked at Joe, his lips parted, and he spoke, a bare whisper.

"Jimmy," the dying man whispered, life trickling away.

Joe Lancaster started. That face, that voice, and he looked deeper into the dying man, and it was his own face he looked upon.

It was his own face he looked upon. Or not, it was his face but also the face of his brother, his twin brother Joe!

"Jimmy," whispered the man, "I made it, buddy, I made it, for you, around the world! Around the world"

And then Jimmy remembered, his mind expanding, encompassing the gift, his gift to Joe and Joe's gift to him, this last act of grace, this last gift from brother to brother, and brother to brother.

Jimmy Lancaster remembered his own death fifteen years before. And the intervening darkness between then and now, the gap of time, fifteen years of darkness, or was it only a blink of space, a blink of time, no more than an instant. Jimmy Lancaster remembered all the things he had never known, the voice that had never deepened, the growing pains never felt, the things he had never known or touched or tasted. He remembered or didn't remember all the lips he had never kissed and all the journeys he had never taken, and that fateful bicycle ride following his brother, laughing, pedaling faster, faster, because he was going to catch Joey this time, for the first time, he would finally catch athletic Joe — then the horrific heat behind him, the rush of darkness and a giant pillow hitting him from behind, and then floating gently down, into quiet, into peace, into sleep...

...and then nothing, nothing, a suspended breath, waiting to exhale, holding, quiet, holding, until today.

Jimmy released his pent-up breath, and he smiled in the sigh of time and love and embrace and peace.

It seemed that with God, time was irrelevant — there was no yesterday, no tomorrow, only the present — with God then could be now, and now could be impossibly then. To die was to step outside of time, God, Who had created time, was also apart from time.

Now, he was here, with dear Joey, his twin brother, who was finally joining him in death, dying on a trip made for his poor brother Jimmy, a trip they were to have traveled together.

"I made it for you, Jimmy," Joe Lancaster whispered again, voice gone now, a sweet smile glossing over eyes that could not see.

"Hey!" a fat man snorted, smoking a cigarette too close to the accident site, "who's the kid talking to?"

The people did not know. Still, they were uneasy, and they came no closer. Even the guy with the cigarette stepped back and crushed the butt beneath his flip-flop.

"I made it for you, little brother," Joe whispered, his time very close, very precious, very near. What was that? Did he manage to laugh, even now, as he breathed: "On a Suzuki!"

Jimmy had journeyed for his strong brother Joe. One last gift of love between brothers, saved for this time, to be gifted now. He took his dying brother's face in his hands and held him close and poured into him the gift, the journey, the good-bye, Mama and Dada's smiles, Jane and Don's baby, Carrie's music, and Linda, always Linda, forever Linda . . . Jimmy gave to Joe all the gifts, all the gifts, all the love, all the good-byes.

Joe began to weep then, with the last of his strength, but not tears induced by pain or suffering. His shattered body was far beyond feeling pain, far beyond feeling any physical sensation. Only breath was left, sighing breezes, toning breezes, tinkling sounds of silver, moving, rippling.

They clasped hands a short while, Jimmy and Joey, twin brothers, together in age, together in time, together in love, their fingers interlocked, the tiny silver windchimes pressed between their palms, and soon they stepped through the bubble of time.

The people, sensing something wondrous, turned away.

♪ ♫ ♪

The boys tussled along the interstate, giving each other noogies, tickling, giggling and poking. They looked exactly the same, unless you knew them well; if you knew them intimately you could see that one boy was undoubtedly mischievous and saucy while the other one was shy and sweet. But the thing about them that was impossible to tell apart, was their sweet, deep smiles, flashing bright as the fireflies waltzing overhead.

"Suzuki!"

"No, Harley!"

And their laughter was peaceful, and sweet, silver chimes toning upon warm Indiana breezes, flickering bright and intimate in the air.