Not A Day Over Thirty

NOT A DAY OVER THIRTY by Timothy Dewey
copyright 1994




Ken Andrews takes notes from the stacks of books on the long oak table at the county library. Even though the internet holds research materials above and beyond what he requires, he always comes to this library. It is a love affair, of sorts, Ken and books. Research is a painstaking task, but a necessary evil when making a living as a freelance writer. He is working on a series of articles, he hopes, on the legends and myths of ancient civilizations. He had run the idea by an editor at National Geographic and was given the ball and told to run with it.
He has been writing professionally since he was thirty five, ten years ago. Ken’s work consumes him and he likes that. It leaves little time for anything else. From all outward appearances, he is a bit of a slob. He dresses like he eats, conveniently. If it can't be microwaved or bulk washed it isn't part of his life.
The county library is a marvelous place. One of the oldest buildings in town and it holds microfilm and some actual copies of newspapers and magazines from long before the turn of the century. Ken finds these sources of information particularly interesting. They are old enough, and buried so deep inside the bowels of the library that slight plagiarizing here and there seems almost acceptable. Who would know? Once on a dare he copied an entire article, word for word, and sold it to the same magazine that had printed it fifty years earlier.
He looks at his watch, 4:30pm. The library will be closing tonight at 6:00pm and he has to use the microfilm machine. Ken grabs his notes and a pencil and heads for the stairwell that leads to the basement.
When he reaches the bottom level he goes to the area that holds the copies of the Tribune, the states oldest newspaper. It was first published in the early 1800's. The editions from that era had been transcribed and then copied onto the microfilm. Some days, in the midst of researching one article or another, he would find himself reading a weeks worth of the publication without ever getting to the subject at hand. It is fascinating.
No one seemed to know or care about the treasure of these microfilmed artifacts. He would get spooked often, all alone in the basement, the ghosts of nearly two hundred years reading over his shoulder as he sat in the corner of the weighted room.
But today someone has found his informational treasure trove. There are five or so microfilm cartridges, each from different decades, missing from the rack. He is curious to see who shared an interest in the town's ancient history.
Ken peeks around the corner and sees a young man in his late twenties or early thirties sitting at the machine. He is casually dressed, jeans and collared shirt. At his feet is an open briefcase containing several copies off of the microfilm machine. It is apparent that he has been crying.
Ken backs around the corner and makes a little noise to let the man know someone is coming. He rounds the corner to see the man stuffing a tissue back in his pocket. The sobbing has ceased. "Will you be a while?" He asks the man politely, looking at his watch to signal his urgency.
"No... I'm finished here. I have enough information." He rewinds the cartridge in the machine and pulls it out. After closing the briefcase, he goes to the cartridge rack and reinserts them in the right places.
With the room to himself, Ken makes quick work of his research into the past. He is a whiz at finding what he needs on the microfilm. In fifteen minutes, his task is complete.
As usual he is the last one out, followed by the librarian, one Sheila Huber. He has dated her several times, never getting past the dinner and movie stage.
“Good night Kenny." She says affectionately. He is reminded once again that it is only by his choice that he has never run the bases with her.
"Good night, Sheila."
He watches her walk toward a small green Fiat. She is high on the ten scale for a librarian. "Sheila... "
She spins around, her long red hair making the turn seconds after. "What?"
"Do you want to have dinner with me tonight?" He already knows she will. He is busy thinking where.
"Sure. Pick me up at seven?"
"Yeah... seven is good. See you then."
She starts her car and drives off into the night. A rain shower has left the city with a clean rinse, and now a full moon reflects on every surface it can. He watches her tail lights melt into the ribbons of light shimmering on the wet black pavement.
The single lane Tenth Street Bridge spans the river at what used to be it's deepest point. Even then it was a deadly drop from the bridge to the water, over ninety feet. The river had been dammed up about five miles out of town for the power plant forty years ago, and the only water that flowed under the bridge this night is the runoff from the sudden rainfall of hours ago.
Most people use the new four-lane bridge down on Thirteenth Street that opened this year. The Tenth Street Bridge was constructed in 1910, and is scheduled for demolition in the following months. Ken is pretty much the only one using it in the past month because his house is only a block away on the other side. No one else felt safe on the old span, especially with the newly constructed multi-lane marvel several blocks away.
Tonight an old Buick station wagon is parked midway across the bridge, and a man stands precariously over the side of the rail on the four inches or so of concrete that runs the length of the bridge. A position outside of what any normal person would consider safe.
Ken hits the horn and flashes his high beams. It doesn't budge the man. If anything he inches out over the void a little more. In the high beams, Ken recognizes the young man from the basement in the library. He kills the engine and lights, then gets out.
"Hey there, what are doing, friend?" The words sound foreign to him, not quite what he wants to say. "Come down off of there, buddy, before you get hurt." Better.
"Leave me alone." The young man calls back. He starts talking to himself. "What do I do? What? WHAT?!" He calls into the darkness over the empty riverbed. The traffic from the Thirteenth Street Bridge drones back at him from blocks away, dozens of drivers oblivious to the possible suicide of this man.
"I'll listen if you want to talk." Ken walks closer, now at the back of the young man's station wagon.
"I don't want to talk. Leave me alone, or I'll jump." He gripps a rusting light standard, one of twenty that had lit the span in the early years.
"If you were going to jump, you wouldn't be threatening me with it." Ken recalls the line from some cop show, it seemed to work then. Keep them talking, that was the key. And they say television isn't educational. "What's your name?"
"Allan. Allan Solace." He releases his grip on the pillar and is now balancing on the four inches once again. "I don't know what to do."
Ken steps slowly closer, and is now at the front of the car. He can see Allan wiping the tears from his eyes. "What do you mean?"
Allan turns and looks at him, "Not another step, man!" He has a wild, unpredictable look in his eyes.
"It can't be that bad... nothing is." Ken leans back on the wagon. "Tell me about it. Girl friend dump you? Money trouble? What?"
Allan takes a deep breath and releases it. "It's more than that. Today's my birthday, man. It's the worst day of my life. I got fired from my job today for something that wasn't even my fault. Denise, my girlfriend, I got her pregnant nine months ago. I went back to the house for a little moral support, you know? When she find out I lost my job, she goes off. Now she wants me out of her life. She said she's going back to her folks in Nantucket after the baby is born."
"Hey, there's always tomorrow." Ken replies. "You wait, the situation won't seem so bleak."
"I found out there is no tomorrow, man." Allan turns. "I was at that palm reader's, spent my last twenty."
Ken nods, he meant Madam Siro's at the end of town. Up until now he thought it was harmless, having a palm reader telling the townsfolk that they would win big in Vegas or that a romance was in the future. This was entirely different. What could she have told this man?
Allan continues, "I thought she was going to tell me I would win big in Vegas or find a new girlfriend, something that would pick me up. Instead she tells me my family is cursed, the males. Only one spirit would be able to pass between the males."
"Oh come on now, you didn't take her seriously. It's an act man. She's a side show act." Ken says angrily. He would pay a visit to Madam Siro's when this was all over with the cops. Something like that can't be legal.
"I didn't think it was serious either, until she mentioned the fact that my father was killed the day I was born, and his the day he was born. She was right man... I looked it up."
Ken takes a chance and steps up to the railing. "What do you mean she was right?"
Allan chooses to ignore the move to the railing, not quite sure what to do. "She told me to trace my lineage. It was a curse or a hex… some damn thing, from the old country a couple of hundred years ago. If I want my baby to be born, I have to give it up. She was right man, I looked it up." He points to the briefcase in the front seat of the car.
Ken opens the passenger door and grabs the briefcase. In the glow from the dome light he releases the catches and opens it. Inside he finds the copies of the microfilm. He turns to talk to Allan but he is gone.
"NO!" Ken runs to the edge of the bridge and looks over. In the moonlight he can see Allan's body sprawled ninety-nine feet below in the rocks that make up the riverbed.
"OH... MAN!" He turns away. "DAMN IT!" He walks back to the station wagon and pounds his fist on the roof.
Minutes pass. He takes the briefcase back to his car and sits down, pulling a flashlight from under the seat. The papers Allan had copied were obituary and birth announcements from the vital statistics section of the Tribune. They went back about a hundred and fifty years in thirty year increments. Each page shows the death of a man. Some have sketches and later pictures of them in life. They indeed resembled the man on the bridge. On the same page, in the birth announcements, a child… a boy to be exact, was born to the widow on the very same day.
Over on the Thirteenth Street Bridge the flashing red lights of an ambulance are darting through traffic. Inside paramedics are too late to make it to the hospital. They will have to deliver the baby here and now. The stress of Allan losing his job has Denise in labor three days early, and she cries his name as the pain begin.
Across town, at Madam Siro's, the lights are off and the doors to the business closed and locked. Allan's twenty-dollar bill blows off of the porch where she had thrown it. It tumbles down the dampened streets in its balled up state. The cleansing spell she had administered seemed to help it along, away from her domicile. She sits in the dark, staring into what she thought was a useless ball of round crystal. After the reading, she was too afraid to move.
Up until now, the whole thing was a show, a scam. When Allan Solace walked in she really saw something. She had read about it in her mothers diaries, heard about it on the porch and in front of the fire on those days and nights when her mother would talk about the witchcraft of long ago. Her mother was a real psychic. Born with a caul, a veil of skin over her face. It was the true sign of the power. She could see into the past as well as the future.
She had told her of a curse so dark that it would fill the crystal with inky blackness of a Pharaoh's tomb. It was the curse that protected such places as ancient burial grounds and crypts. Somewhere in Allan Solace's distant past, one of the males of his clan had stolen from a protected sight, and now he, as well as all of those who came after, would pay the price.