© Copyright 2000, Lewis Smith.
Story & Characters © Lewis Smith. All Rights Reserved.

One Place

The dirty black car sighed as it made its way down the lonely two-lane blacktop, the only witness to its flight the two solid rows of pine trees on either side of the road. The next few miles would offer much the same view, as had the twelve miles before that.

Marcus Thompson was far from the main highway now. He found himself wondering how long ago it had been since he’d taken that last exit. Twenty minutes? Forty? On these back roads, time seemed to dilate, minutes stretching and distance expanding.

He thought about a book he’d read a few days back, a lot of pop science facts that he’d thumbed through to avoid having to talk to anyone at the airport. He’d fixated on particular passage that theorized that at the edge of a black hole, time ceased to flow. Close enough, and time and space just . . . stopped.

It was a compelling notion to him, not least because even though he’d never been into space, and never been anywhere near a black hole, he was certain he’d come across this phenomena.

Along this very road, in fact.

It was happening to him now, as it always did whenever he went this way.

It was 30 miles to Heartsease, or, as he’d called it when he was thirteen years old and convinced he was the cleverest person alive, “Heart’s Ceased.” It was a little town that he’d tried with all his might to escape, so determined to take on the world and break the chains of a small town. How often he’d told people back than that he was going to leave and you’d never see him come back here for any reason.

He gripped the wheel, wincing at the memory.

If anyone he’d bumped into from those days (and there had been a few) who had listened to him rail at length against the constriction of small town life, they had been far too polite to say anything to him about it, and Marcus was grateful.

Because, although he hadn’t known at the time, places had a gravity to them, almost as strong as those gravity rips in space that had so grabbed his attention.

And no matter how far you went, or whatever you thought, they always ended up pulling you back.

Then:

Marcus Johnson was bawling his eyes out, legs tangled in his bicycle. He could see his knee, scuffed and weeping red into the dirt around it. Everything below his tailbone seemed to throb with pain, and he imagined the Rorschach of bruises he’d have tomorrow.

He’d been a bit too mouthy to the wrong people, again. The sixth graders who always yelled and called him names on the way to school had decided to escalate things and caught him in the shoulder as he passed them. He’d ducked the next two missiles and spun his bike around, pedaling full force, determined to run them down.

Had Marcus understood physics, or thought about the situation for a minute, he might have known that as a skinny eight year old, he wouldn’t have the mass to do much damage to the husky upperclassman who stopped him cold by grabbing the handlebars.

Marcus had just enough time for the cold terror to grab him, think ”I have made a horrible mistake,” and open his mouth before the bully dumped the bike over to one side, with Marcus still on it.

He’d read in a book before about how if you learned to roll with a fall, you wouldn’t get hurt so bad. As he hit the pavement, and the bike’s frame banged into his shin, he regretted he hadn’t finished the book, or at least got to the lesson about what to do if you were trying to roll with a fall with some large and metal falling with you.

The impact knocked the breath away from him, and one of them stepped forward, fist cocked, ready to inflict more damage, but something caught his eye, and he muttered something to his compatriots, and they bolted at once.

Marcus understood why when he saw it. His knee was scraped, bad, and dark red crimson was pouring from his knee, more than he’d even seen. Panic shot through him, which caused the tears that were already burning his cheeks to erupt into gasping sobs.

It wasn’t broken, he thought. Another book had told him that if you could move a limb after a jarring fall, you hadn’t broken it. But that was small comfort, as when he moved his leg, it caused more blood to trickle down his shin and into the crook of his knee and that made him freak out even moreso.

So, he sat there for a bit. Crying and throbbing in pain. Worse than the pain, even worse than the blood was the shame of it.

This had been, if Marcus was feeling conservative, the two hundredth time he’d dealt with these asshole sixth graders, and every time, he came out on the losing side. Either he got punched out, or their hateful words followed him around the whole day.

His mom said to ignore them. Names can’t hurt you, after all. Which was fine advice, except totally useless to him, because they hurt very much, and besides, they did worse than call him names. Dad said to stand up to them--even if you lost the fight, if you got a shot in, at least they might respect you some.

That, it seemed, was a dead end too. Because it had led him here, sitting on the pavement, bawling his eyes eyes, worried he might bleed out, but just as worried he wouldn’t, and he’d soon suffer the slow death of embarrassment, which for a third grader, was a humiliating and, he was sure, terminal condition.

And he didn’t want to die in Heartsease, of blood loss, embarrassment, or anything else.

God, no.

Not in this nowhere place.

He’d never been anywhere.

”Hey kid,” a voice said to him, cutting through the buzz of his thoughts, and Marcus was soon aware someone was crouching over him.

”Are you ok?”

Marcus was deep into his sobbing fit, and wasn’t quite ready to come out of it, so he cried some more.

”Can you move?”

More sobs. He couldn’t face someone seeing him like this.

”Come on,” the voice said. It was light, calm, and it didn’t sound mean, or as if it was judging him. In fact, the more it spoke, the more pleasant he found it. Gradually, the clouds around him parted and he focused on his savior.

She was gentle as she lifted the bike off him, disentangling man from machine with careful precision and, once he was free, she set the bike up on its kickstand, and then saw to him.

She was older than him--he could tell. Maybe in the fifth grade? Her golden blonde hair framed her face in a tomboyish halo, framing her round freckled cheeks, which were perked up in a gentle smile as she helped Marcus to his feet.

”Can you stand up?”

Marcus nodded, punctuating it with a snotty sniffle that mortified him.

The girl laughed, and reached in her pocket for something--a bright red bandana, that she offered to him.

”Here,” she said. “It’s OK. It looks like you had a bad fall.”

Marcus buried his face in the bandana, hoping it was red enough to hide embarrassment. Not just for . . .all of this, but because he really wanted to blow his nose--needed to, really--but felt very strange about just honking into some strange girl’s handkerchief that he’d never met before today.

There was no etiquette he knew for this sort of this--”please” and “thank you” felt a bit inadequate to the task.

”You . . . uh, ok, back there?” He voice called.

”Y-yeah,” he managed, sounding congested and muffled by cloth. “I’m suh-sorry. . .”

”For what?”

”Being . . . a . . . problem?”

She giggled. Gentle music. It pulled him out of himself a bit and he felt the corners of his mouth wanting to smile.

”You’re fine,” she said. He caught a bit of a drawl in her voice as “fine” seemed to gain a few vowels the way he said it. “But we should probably get that cut disinfected. It looks kinda bad.”

”You can do that?”

”I’m a Brownie,” she said, as if that were supposed to explain everything. ”I definitely can. Trust me, you don’t want that getting infected.”

”Oh,” Marcus said. “Where can--?”

”C’mon,” she said, gesturing past a hedgerow. “My house is right there. I’ll get you cleaned up.”

Marcus stiffened.

”But I don’t know you,” he said. Too much was happening, too much outside his comfort zone, and he felt himself digging in his heels, trying to get on solid ground.

It was the wrong thing to have said, and he knew it, as he saw her face fall over the bandana.

”You were hurt,” she offered slowly. “I heard you out here, crying. I wanted to help.

”And I still do. Even though I think you’re kind of a jerk. But I’m gonna assume that’s just because you’re hurt.”

She stuck out her hand.

”My name’s Hiver,” she said, smiling again.

Marcus reached for hers, taking in in a clammy, shaky, handshake. He dabbed the snot away from his nose, trying to hide the worst of it behind it and his hand.

”Marcus,” he replied. “My name is Marcus.”

Now:

There was only one road into Heartsease, and the oak trees on either side made for a thick canopy, that kept the oppressive summer sun down to a few glimmering stars in a shadowed tunnel.

As Marcus surveyed the scene from his driver’s side window, it seemed it hadn’t changed that much. There was still the courthouse in the middle of the roundabout in the center of town, and the drugstore adjacent to it, and the small bar and grill across the way from the drugstore.

Like a room I hadn’t gone into for a while, he mused as he circled the roundabout. Everything’s just where I left it. I bet that storefront’s still--

Wait.

Marcus blinked. There had been a storefront on the eastern side of the circle, a remnant of the days when the square was the center of commerce. That storefront had been, Marcus guessed, at least 20 different kinds of business since he’d been here. He first remembered it as a general store, and then it was a video store, then a law office, then a bakery, then a bail bondsman’s office. The last time he’d come through, it had been a florist, but had been closed for a month, so Marcus imagined they couldn’t have been a very good one.

Still, some poor sucker could always be counted on, out of some nostalgia for Main Street Americana (or a generous grant from the town to bring business back to downtown . . . again) to give the place a try.

The tenants had changed, but it was always there--anchoring this circle.

But there was nothing there now.

No tenants, no building, nothing. Just an asphalt lot with a neat row of parking spaces, all emblazoned with friendly green and white signs offering free parking. . .for about two hours. Tarry too long after that, and your car was booted or towed.

Marcus drifted into the parking lot, finding a space and easing his way in. He took it all very slowly, as he felt an odd sense of dislocation. This felt wrong. The building should be here.

But it wasn’t.

He sighed and shut the car off, easing back in his seat. A welter of emotions drifted through him, a lot of noise drifting through his mind, and he didn’t want to think about this.

This whole drive, he’d thought of Heartsease as the place where time stood still. Hell, his whole life he’d thought of it as kind of a trap, which would keep you here, frozen in time but still getting old while the real world spun on outside.

And this one small change shook him at a very deep level.

Looks like the magic’s slipped a little, he thought with a weary sigh.

Time’s leaking in.

He swung the car door open and slid out, taking a look around and walking towards the drugstore as he tapped his key fob to lock the car. Next to the drug store was a small coffeehouse (he gave a small thanks to the chamber of commerce for that), and that seemed like the perfect place to get to grips with the heavy thoughts in his head and the reason he’d come.

Then:

Early August nights were starless, soupy, and alive with the sounds of whippoorwills and cicadas having a contest to see who could make the most noise. It was almost idyllic.

Except for all the bloodsucking bugs.

WHACK!

Marcus’ hand came down on his bare thigh with a practiced whip-cracking motion. He brushed off the mosquito carcass he’d felled, frowning at the bump it had left on his leg, now part of a set of five.

How the hell can these things be so hungry? Marcus wondered.

Hiver sat not far away, leaning against a tree in the backyard. Down the gully, in a thicket that was too big to be called weeds, but not big enough to be woods, fireflies flickered in and out of sight.

For the most part, they rarely talked on nights like this. Ever since they’re meeting a few years ago, they’d hung out together more and more. In school, at home, they were almost always together, Hiver still the adventurous tomboy with her easygoing manner, Marcus the quiet tagalong who looked like he wanted to be somewhere else wherever he was.

Two of a kind, if “two of a kind” meant two utter opposites.

But it worked, somehow.

WHACK!

“These bugs are terrible, ” Marcus whined.

“I gave you some citronella,” Hiver said.

“You did, and I used it,” he said. “But I think I sweat it all out an hour ago.”

“Pretty sure it doesn’t work that way.”

“Tell the bugs that.”

“They just like you. You’re full of blood.”

Marcus laughed. “Full of something, I guess.”

Things got quiet.

“How do you stand it here?” Marcus asked.

“I know how to use citronella, for one thing,” Hiver replied.

“That’s not what I mean,” Marcus said. “I mean here, in Heart’s Cease. You come from the city; you’ve seen the world--”

“I lived in three towns, and they were all in this state,” Hiver said, cocking an eyebrow. “That’s not the world. That’s barely a state. You’re really exaggerating, there.”

“It’s three more places than I’ve lived,” Marcus said. “My family’s idea of a big road trip is an hour up the road to Sawyer, and that’s just for the day. I mean . . . isn’t this place kinda . . . small?”

“Not for me,” Hiver said, leaning up and wrapping one of her arms around her legs. “It’s perfect.”

“I don’t get that.”

“You say that every time we talk about this.”

“Do not.”

“Look,” she began, her brow furrowing as she tried--again--to get her point across. “Yes, we lived in big cities, and we lived in a lot before we settled down here. And there were things that were great about that. But . . . I really don’t remember being very happy there.”

“Why not? I bet they had everything.”

“Everything for who?”

Marcus blinked. In the silence, the chorus of cicadas wheezed in a note that accented his confusion.

“There was a lot there, sure,” she continued. “But everything they had wasn’t anything I wanted. I like it here. I like knowing where everything is. I like being in a place where I’m known, and liked, and comfortable. It’s like an old, comfortable blanket.”

“A blanket . . . that you live in,” Marcus said.

“Sounds good to me,” Hiver responded. “Don’t tell me you never made blanket forts.”

“I made great blanket forts,” he said, laughing.

Hiver giggled. “Then you know. You know when something’s just . . . yours, right?

”Yeah,” Marcus said, looking at the twinkling fireflies. Another mosquito fell to his mighty hand.

”I just know it’s not here.”

Now:

”I can’t believe this,” Marcus said, smiling as the dark-haired woman behind the bar slid the coffee across the Formica countertop to him. “I’d just seen the coffeehouse open and I needed a cup. I didn’t expect it was someone local running it.”

”Oh, I always have people coming through,” Tonya replied. “And just like you, at the end of that drive up the highway, they usually need something. That drive does your brain in. I do it every day, seems like.”

Marcus took a sip of his coffee, blinking because it was a bit too hot and singed his tongue.

”You, uh, don’t live in town anymore?”

Tonya laughed. “Oh God, no,” she said. “I’m in Sawyer now. I have a shop there too--I’m back and forth every other day.”

”Huh,” Marcus said, taking another sip. “What’s Sawyer like now?”

”You haven’t been?”

He shook his head. “Not since they closed the park. That was like . . . what, twenty years ago?”

”It hasn’t changed much,” she said. “It’s a little more sleepy, I guess. Not many people come through there, some come to stay, and a few come to visit.”

”You must be doing OK, if you can keep two of these places open.”

”I do OK, but I didn’t get into this to make money,” she replied over her shoulder, turning to the task of cleaning the espresso machine.

”Why’d you do it, then?”

”I liked coffee, and I wanted to keep busy,” she said with a smile, wiping her hands with a dish towel. “Idle hands, and all of that. Plus, I like my two towns, and I didn’t want them to fall apart on account of being forgotten.”

Marcus took another drink of his coffee, his expression darkening a bit.

”That must seem weird to you,” she continued. “You’re here, there, and everywhere for your work, aren’t you?”

He nodded. “I’m going in every direction at once, and most days, getting nowhere,” he responded with a laugh.

”I remember every day in high school you complained about what a one horse nothing town this was,” she chuckled. “And how you were never coming back once you left.”

Marcus took another swallow of coffee, giving an embarrassed smile.

”Oh yeah,” he said with a sigh. “That sure sounds like me.”

”And here you are. Again.”

”Had to come, didn’t I?” Marcus responded with a smirk. “I mean, the coffee’s great.”

Tonya laughed too. “I hope that flattery has a tip attached to it.”

Marcus slid a ten dollar bill along the counter to her.

”I tipped more because of the flattery,” he said.

They laughed again, and Marcus finished his coffee, taking it over to the recycling bin.

”So why did you come back? Get tired of going in all directions?”

Marcus smiled.

”Here to see an old friend,” he said, waving as he stepped through the door.

Then:

Marcus studied the painting hanging on the wall of the attic room with care, appreciating the way the rising sun slashed across the windows of the skyscrapers, like warm sunshine disturbing endless cool blue. Behind the buildings, wisps of clouds swirled in the air, lazy dreams hanging in a blue sky.

Behind him, Hiver sat on a small stool in front of an easel, making quick strokes on the canvas. Under the bristles, another image was taking shape--carving canyons with buildings.

”These are amazing,” Marcus said, turning to look at another painting on the far wall. “When did you start doing these?”

Hiver made a noise, but kept at it.

”My freshman year of college,” she said. “I needed to stay sane being there, they had a night class. Turned out that I had a knack for it. I don’t know whether it’s being able to focus on one thing and push it aside, but it’s always calmed me.”

Marcus smiled. “I never knew you did stuff like this.”

”Painting?”

”Well . . . being creative,” Marcus clarified. “Not that I thought you couldn’t do it, just . . . I guess I remembered you more as a tomboy.”

Hiver clucked her tongue, her brow furrowing as she looked at the easel. She was sizing up her next move--the rough shapes were there, and she was trying to decide what to put in next.

”I still am,” she said. “No one’s just one thing--you should know that.”

”I know,” he said. “Geez. You’re always full of surprises.”

”So are you,” Hiver said, dabbing more color onto her brush. “Not that you tell anyone. Did you tell anyone you play guitar?”

Marcus shrugged. “I don’t have time. To play or to tell people. This new job is a hell of a time sink.”

”Well,” Hiver said. “You don’t really have to tell people, I guess. I don’t go out of my way to show people the paintings. But if they see them and like them, I’m happy. But it’s mainly just a thing for me. To make me feel better.”

Marcus looked at another picture--a golden skyscraper at sunset--older, ornate, but shining in auric clouds.

”Why are they all cities?”

”Mm?”

”The paintings,” Marcus said. “Why are they all cities?”

Hiver looked away from the painting, staring at the picture Marcus was regarding.

”I’ve always been fascinated by cities,” Hiver mused. “I didn’t like living in them, but to be there and see these gigantic things that people built, they’re like mountains, but something people made. I’ve always been fascinated by them.”

Marcus nodded. “It’s just funny,” he began. “Because you like being here in the country so much.”

”That’s the thing,” Hiver replied. “I like living here, but just because I live here doesn’t mean I don’t dream of other places. I just go there in my mind, and I have my house to come back to. I think everyone has a place like that.”

”Home?”

Hiver shrugged and went back to the painting. “Just a place you visit in your imagination,” she clarified. “Home is different. Home is the place you always come back to.”

”Does it have to be a place?”

”I guess not,” Hiver said, roughing in the windows in her painting. “Different for everyone, I guess. How a compass always points north. It’s a pull.”

”Must be nice to have that,” Marcus replied. “A star you know you’re meant to steer towards.”

”It is,” she said, rinsing the brush and beating it out on the easel.

”So, how many planes this year?”

Marcus sighed and rubbed his face. “Too many. Twenty five.”

”It’s barely July,” Hiver said. “When do you sleep?”

”Every other weekend, lately,” he answered. “I’m barely in my apartment anymore.”

Hiver laid in thin strokes of white as she defined the shape of the buildings.

”I’m guessing that means the plant I gave you last year--”

”--Died. Yeah.”

”Marcus, how in the hell did you let it die?” Hiver said, giggling. “I found you a plant that hardly needed to be watered.”

”And I did what you told me,” Marcus said. “But then it looked really limp one day and I thought it might need watering. Then I got called away for five days, forgot I’d watered it, and watered it again, and . . . it kept looking worse.

”Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to kill it. I feel really bad about it.”

”It’s fine,” Hiver said. “I had a feeling it might happen.”

”Because I’m that irresponsible?”

”Nooooo,” she began, dipping the brush into the water. “Because you get too much in your head and forget things, overcompensate when you do remember, and then forget again.”

Marcus sighed.

“I don’t mean to.”

”I know you don’t. Just . . .work on it, all right?”

He chuckled.

”I will,” he said. “Promise. I will.”

Now:

The florist in the town square might not have lasted, but the one on the far side of town had been there for years and years, and they were always good, and took such care with their work.

He carried the plastic box that contained the fresh flowers like precious cargo. After all, it was intended for someone special.

He paused as he walked through the neat, manicured grass, taking a second to look up at the sky for a second. The clouds in the sky reminded him of her paintings, of the summers, the happy times, the sad ones--all of the precious moments, the memories, and the special things they’d shared.

This was her home. It always had been. Wherever she went, she always came back here. This small town that never changed, that felt like a prison to him, freed her.

And that, he decided, was good enough. For her.

For him, he was always on the move. On some level, he had to be--the world beyond pulled him away the way this place pulled Hiver back. For years he wondered if he’d ever have a home.

And he never found one, on his dozens and dozens of plane rides, or up and down endless highways. Because the sky had no limit, and the roads had no end.

So he kept coming back here, trying to figure it all out.

He came to a stop, and took a deep breath, sinking to his knees in the fresh-cut grass as he opened the box.

”Hello, Hiver,” he began. “Sorry it took me awhile to get back to see you. Thirty-two planes this year, if you can believe that.”

He took a deep breath.

”I wanted to tell you, I figured it out,” he said. “What you were always talking about, what we argued about. I think I finally get it. I think I have, anyways.”

He pulled two fresh-cut white roses in the box and laid it on the black granite stone before him. He didn’t read the inscription upon it, or mark the date carved into it.

He wasn’t here for that.

He closed his eyes, sitting down in the grass and rocking back. For a moment, they were together again, young again, and the world was before them, endless, imperfect, contradictory, but theirs. Together.

”I miss you,” he said. “Every day. And yet . . . I see you every day, in my memory--like those cities you always imagined when you painted.”

He looked away, back towards town.

”I’ll never understand why you love this place so much,” he said. “But it meant a lot to you, and it means a lot to me, because you mean a lot to me. And it’s right you’re here, I guess. This place is home, for you.”

He looked back towards the stone.

”I found a home, finally, if you can believe it,” Marcus continued. “I made it. Out of the moments and memories and everything we shared.

”You’re my best friend, and you always will be. You’re home.”