Shoe by Bill Tope

Shoe by Bill Tope

2002

Shoe’s eyes snapped open and he tipped up his head, but was struck with such dizziness and light-headedness that he immediately fell back on the mattress and shut them tightly again. What in hell had he drunk or smoked the night before to be this hung? he wondered bleakly. He discovered that he was lying on his bed with his body bisecting the length of the mattress, his bare feet resting upon the floor. Great, he thought, now my back will ache.

He opened his eyes again when he heard the hissing. Curious, he stared down the length of his body at the television, where an old-style test pattern was emblazoned across the screen. White noise crackled from the speakers. That’s weird, he thought. With 24/7 TV, he hadn’t seen a test pattern in many years. Nowadays, after the regular programming was concluded, the 300+ stations would always run infomercials on combustible laxatives or penile dysfunction or something. God, he felt tired. With a sigh, Shoe fell back asleep.

Shoe was experiencing a terrifying dream, a common occurence for him. He was back at school, in a class for which he was wildly unprepared. Calculus. All the other students, precocious children who immersed themselves in textbooks of complex numbers, seemed to thrive, but Shoe couldn’t make heads or tails of the material. The teacher, Mr. Velloff, had just asked him a question and Shoe struggled mightily, flashed back on all he had learned in the course and dredged up an answer.

“Wrong!” barked Velloff and all the other children screamed with mirth. This was rich. Eric Shoe was screwing up royally again. Each child was elated at that moment not to be him and it showed in their feral expressions. Even the teacher boomed out in laughter and Shoe wanted to fall through the floor.

Suddenly he awoke, sat up in bed. The vertigo was gone. He had slept off his hangover. What time must it be? he wondered. He heard voices and looked again at the television. A panel of important-looking persons was speaking in a serious tone. Then the program went to commercial, an ad about Ajax laundry detergent being “stronger than dirt.” A knight in glistening silver armor charged through a suburban neighborhood on a white horse and leveled his lance at a little boy covered in mud. With a lightning flash of magic, the toddler was clean again.

Shoe blinked thoughtfully. He’d seem this ad many, many times, but God, not since the 1970s, when he was an infant. Suddenly the busy cadence of the program’s theme music came back up; Shoe recognized it: it was Meet the Press, the venerable Sunday morning current events show that had been on since the 1940s. When he glanced at the screen, he spied the emcee and he nearly lost it. The program, broadcast in black and white, showed an elderly gentleman whom Shoe recognized but couldn’t name. Then the on-screen caption revealed the host to be Lawrence Spivak.

But, Lawrence Spivak had died many years ago. Tim Russert was host of Meet the Press now; everyone knew that. Then it hit Shoe: this must be a nostalgic look at TV programming from the 1970s. What was the occasion? he wondered. Hell, he thought, shaking his head, he needed to get up, grab a shower, eat breakfast. In the bathroom, he picked up the toothpaste, squinted at it. “Ipana?” he murmured, confused. “Must be something new.”

After showering and once again feeling more or less human, Shoe padded into his kitchen, fashionably decorated with vintage chrome and vinyl table and chairs. Shoe was often nostalgic for the days of his youth. He dumped butter into the cast iron skillet and expertly fried up some eggs, dropped bread into the toaster and seconds later extracted the toast and applied butter and jam, then wolfed it down.

A Hole in Time

As Shoe walked to his car, the sky suddenly suddenly grew ominously dark, and he looked up to find the sun under a heavy cloud cover. After a moment, the clouds dissipated and the sky was as bright as before. Blinking twice, he shook off sudden unaccountable but not unfamiliar misgivings, unlocked his ’57 Tesla X and scooted across the faux alligator hide seats. Shoe eased back for another nap and the car started and then sped swiftly away. At the toll bridge, the X winked in acknowledgement of the fiscal transaction and the car was soon on its way.

At work, Shoe slipped on the neural cuffs and leaned back in his ergonomic chair and allowed his subconscious to work. Hours later, he arose from his mechanically-induced slumber, walked to the sign-in station and manually clocked out. On the way to the exit, he noticed his boss, Stevenson, trying to make time with an attractive new female employee. Shoe admired her from afar. Another day in the books, he thought. On the drive home, a soft rain began pattering down out of an otherwise clear sky. The drops were obliterated by the X’s windshield ionization strip and in short order the vehicle turned in at the parking lot of the mega-grocery.

Shoe passed through the doors and scanned his zphone on the handle of a shopping cart and it fell in line behind him. At length, the cart piled high with comestibles, he passed without breaking stride past the checkout station and received a digital receipt on his zPhone. Shoe sighed. It was good to be finished with the hassle of shopping. As the X pulled into Shoe’s driveway, he was startled awake. Lights exploded on the dashboard; the car’s propulsion unit was failing and the vehicle was drawing to a stop. What the hell? thought Shoe. He’d programmed the trip home like he always did. These new Xs were a bit hinky, though, he thought.

The Past

As the vehicle ground to a halt in the gravelled driveway–gravel?–Shoe sprang alert. His vision from the piloting position was occluded by a huge circular device. If Shoe was not mistaken, this was what used to be called a steering wheel.

“Having trouble, Bud?” asked a uniformed man who appeared like magic at Shoe’s driver’s side window. Shoe opened his mouth, but no words spilled out.

“Whatta’ ya’ got here, Fella?” said the man, “one ‘a them new fangled automatics? I prefer the old-fashioned three-speeds on the column myself,” he went on. “No,” the man continued, “this here’s got a gear shifter.” He turned the wheel, found it locked in place. “Here,” said the man, who by his uniform Shoe pegged as some sort of an authority figure, a policeman perhaps. “It’s in neutral now. Press the clutch and fire it up.” When Shoe, still stunned, did nothing, the cop twisted the key in what Shoe intuited was an ignition. The car rumbled to life. “Now,” the cop went on, “put it in gear. What’s ‘a matter?” he asked suspiciously. “You high, mister?”

Shoe shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

The cop frowned.

& & &

After he had been taken into custody, Shoe sat in what the police sergeant referred to as the “drunk tank” and contemplated his dilemma. His companions were in a sorry state. Some of them slept on threadbare cots or on the concrete floor. Others bawled loudly and cursed one another, while still others sat morosely and vomited up whatever was on their stomachs. No one had belts or shoe laces.

“Number 11,” barked a burly man from outside the cell. “That’s you, Buddy,” said the cop, pointing at Shoe. Shoe didn’t possess what the police considered a valid ID or license to operate a vehicle, so he’d been summarily arrested and designated number 11. “Doc wants to see you, son,” said the cop kindly, leading him down a corridor. Unlike the police with which Shoe was familiar, these cops were pleasant, didn’t sadistically rough up the citizenry and didn’t wear masks. Shoe followed on the heels of the policeman and soon found himself in an overly bright room. A frail-looking little man sporting a goatee and clad in a white coat sat at a table which was bolted to the floor. The man invited him to sit.

“I read the police account of your arrest,” began the doctor. “It stated that you seemed confused about what time it was–about time itself?” He left the sentence dangling.

Shoe said nothing.

“Tell me,” said the doctor, “when do you think it is?”

“They took my zPhone,” explained Shoe.

“Oh, yes, your timepiece,” murmured the other man. “What I mean is, what year do you think it is?”

Shoe blinked in confusion. “57,” he answered. That was right, wasn’t it? he thought.

The doctor seemed relieved at the answer. “Not so bad,” he declared. “Just five years off.” He scribbled something on an old-school clipboard with an old-school ink pen. “1957,” he murmured as he wrote.

“No,” said Shoe. “2057.”

This drew the doctor up short. “You believe that this is 2057?” he inquired gently.

“Well,” said Shoe, “what year is it?”

“1962,” replied the other man, scrutinizing Shoe’s face.

& & &

Eventually, the police had to release Shoe, inasmuch as he had broken no law; it was not illegal to be generally confused, they reasoned, and so out the station door he went. He found his lack of memory disconcerting, however, and to regroup he took a seat on a concrete bench outside the police station. Pedestrians passed him by without a second look. They were all dressed in period garb. By this time Shoe would ordinarily be fixing supper. He discovered that he was hungry. Intent on returning home, he rose to his feet and began walking.

When he arrived, his car–the 1962 version–was still there at the end of the driveway. Extracting the keys from the ignition, he let himself into the house. The TV was still on and a man named Rod Serling was talking about …at the signpost up ahead; it’s the Twilight Zone! Shoe tried to think the TV to cease working, but when that had no effect, he approached the set and pushed in the off/on button. The picture shrank to a dot of light. He sat on the sofa and thought about his day. He hadn’t made it in to work today, having spent the previous 24 hours in lockup, but then, the computer company he worked for didn’t exist in 1962, so Shoe reasoned that he was not truant after all. The interrogations at the police station had been grueling, He wondered when it was now. Pushing off his loafers, he lay back on the sofa and was soon fast asleep.

2002

Back at work, during lunch, Shoe sat with Amelia Heini, the fetching brunette he had spied days earlier and to whom he had taken a fancy. He was chatting her up when she said, “What do you think of analepsis and prolepsis, Shoe?”

Shoe, who was blissfully ignorant of these terms, replied, “They’re fine, so long as they’re cooked right.” And he grinned winningly at Amelia.

“No, you didn’t just say that,” she said, and turned back to her iPad. Amelia, he’d discovered, was an amateur writer and was always going on about in medias res and what have you. Shoe could barely keep track. Before lunch was over, she had invited him to a Wiccan event she called an outer court. She considered him an initiate and called him a didicant. Shoe didn’t care, so long as it would get him into her pants. She was a looker!

& & &

Holding fast to Shoe’s hand, Amelia led him from their car up the walk to the small home, deep in the heart of the forest surrounding Hannibal, Missouri, one-time home of Amelia’s hero, the writer, Mark Twain. Amelia knocked softly and in a few moments the door was pulled open by an older–50-ish–woman. Amelia was 25 and Shoe 30. It was uncommonly chilly today.

“Don’t stand out there in the cold,” scolded the woman in a warm, friendly voice. She introduced herself to Shoe as Vonnie, “…with a V.”

Taking their late-autumn wraps, she led the way into the living room, done up in a cozy, comfortable Early American motif. “Sit by the fire,” she told them, and the pair advanced to the sofa sitting before a blazing hearth.

“This is for the ceremony,” said Amelia, handing the older woman a loosely wrapped package. ‘It’s mugwort and sandalwood and frankincense,”

Vonnie made an “O” with her lips and pulled out several short, light green stalks laden with clusters of small white flowers. “I’ll make tea,” she said, setting the mugwort aside. “The sandalwood?” she asked, holding up three thick sticks of incense.

Amelia nodded.

Vonnie smiled in acknowledgement. “And is this the olibanum?” she asked, taking out an impossibly tiny amber-colored bottle.

“Yes, that’s the frankincense,” said Amelia.

“What’s it used for?” asked Shoe, speaking for the first time and worried that they might think him mute.

“What can’t it be used for?” replied Vonnie. “Digestive problems, skin blemishes, cancer, even. It works wonders on the skin, Shoe.”

“Um,” said Shoe noncommitally.

“I’ve used it all my life,” swore Vonnie. “How old would you say I am?” she asked Shoe.

Shoe shrugged. “I really couldn’t say, Vonnie,” he said, not wanting to hurt her feelings.

“Go ahead, guess,” she challenged. “And be honest.”

Shoe blew out a breath. “Okay, 50, 55?” he asked.

“I’m 85,” replied Vonnie.

“No!” he insisted, thinking she was yanking his chain.

“It’s true, Shoe,” said Amelia. “Vonnie is my great-grandmother’s age. That’s how I know her. They were friends back in school.”

Shoe could only shake his head.

“I’ve got some jojoba oil; we’ll dilute it,” said Vonnie. “Take off your shoes,” she instructed her young friends. “And loosen your clothing.” She turned up a small wicker basket. “Take some crystals.”

Amelia and Shoe reached in and extracted at random minute specimens of amethyst, labradorite, moldavite and clear quartz.”

When Shoe stared at her questioningly, Vonnie said, “they’re all great for spiritual connection and timeline work. We’ll be using a liminal time–sunset,” announced the older woman. “Things are more…lucid then.”

“What do you mean, timeline work?” asked Shoe.

“You didn’t tell him?” Vonnie asked Amelia.

The younger woman hastened to explain. “We’re going to experience astral projection, Shoe,” she told him.

He stared at her. He had of course heard of it, but never gave it much credence. “You mean…”

“Time travel,” Vonnie finished his sentence. “Not like hopping on the subway and going from one town to the other, but rather, your spirit, you consciousness, will traverse time and space and you will experience things you’ve never felt before. You may go back in time to an earlier you, or forward to a more mature you.”

“H…how?” asked Shoe, bewildered.

Once we perform the ritual, you will picture yourself floating up, literally. Your soul will rise and become untethered from the earth. Just think it, Shoe; embark and the astral body will follow.”

“How will I know what to do?” he asked.

“You may call upon a spiritual force or a Guardian Angel or an ancestor, to guide you. Or as Lincoln said, the better angels of your nature. When you have completed your journey, gently guide yourself back to your body with love and gratitude. And when you return, wiggle your toes, open your eyes, drink some water, take deep breaths.”

“Will I remember what happened?” he asked.

“Do what I do,” said Amelia, “and write everything down: visions, thoughts, smells, symbols, colors. Whether it makes sense or not. It may make sense later.”

“How do I…embark?” he asked next.

“Envision a gateway,” said Vonnie. “Portals, doorways, staircases or even a light tunnel are available to you. Do you dream much, Shoe?” she asked.

“All the time,” replied Shoe. “Almost every time I close my eyes.” And even when I don’t, he thought. He didn’t mention his diagnosis of temporal lobe epilepsy, which markedly affected his emotions, language, sense of deja vu and on and on. Eschewing medication and therapy, he was subject to its occasional influence.

“How would you characterize these experiences?” asked Vonnie.

Shoe felt a chill. “Hideous nightmares, mostly,” he replied.

“We’ll try to turn that around,” she promised. “Find a way to let you see through the gloom and discover yourself.”

“I can’t wait to get started,” said Shoe, catching the spark of enthusiasm from the others. He had long hoped for some resolution to his gruesome dreams and flights of fantasy.

“We must first prepare,” said Vonnie solemnly. “Beginning with the purification.” Taking up a small metal cauldron, she burned leaves and stems and blossoms of sage and rosemary and lavender. Shoe found the aroma of the incincerating herbs intoxicating.

“This is the smudging,” said Amelia.

The women said little and this intimidated Shoe a little. He whispered furtively, “what are you doing now?”

Amelia said, “we’re finishing setting up the altar. It’s nearly finished.” Great strands of foliage wreathed the space before the hearth and adjacent walls. Arrayed before the altar were various curiously shaped Wiccan tools, symbols and offerings. “This is for Samhain,” said Amelia softly. “Halloween,” she explained.

Shoe nodded. Hallow’s Eve was the following day.

“Now we cast the circle,” explained Vonnie. She marked a large circle with herbs, stones, candles and sea salt. Vonnie beckoned and Amelia and Shoe stepped cautiously into the ring. Speaking in a low voice, Vonnie invoked the God and Goddess, then the four Elements: Earth, Air, Wind and Fire. Finally, Vonnie said aloud that she sought the blessings of the deities and the Elements to journey through the cosmos. The deities and elements were then formally thanked.

When the ritual was complete, Vonnie invited her friends to take their places on the sofa again. She sat in a recliner. In the background, Shoe could hear a soft drumming cadence and the sound of running water. Incense burned throughout the small home and Shoe soon found himself nodding off. When he shook himself to stay awake, Vonnie said, “No, let the energy take you far and away,” and he lost consciousness.

Projecting

Some time later, Shoe awoke and looked around. He was alone. Well, he’d had a decent nap, he thought, so no harm, no foul. But then he remembered: soaring at dizzying heights, over broad expanses. Feeling the wind in his face and passing vistas strewn out before and beneath him. The deep blue of seas. The cinnamon brown of deserts. The verdant green of forests. Had it been a dream? he wondered. But no, a dreamscape was not what he’d experienced, he was sure of it. This was far more beautiful than when he dreamed. He glanced down and spied on his shirt a small brown feather and recalled whisking through a flock of birds. He’d plunged from the sky and skimmed the waters of a lake and a river and then an ocean. Shoe’s mind spun. He was hundred of miles from an ocean.

Then he saw Shoe–himself, but older–talking to a beautiful woman: it was Amelia. They were in the kitchen of a modern home and were sharing a cup of coffee, then a glass of wine. Then they were in bed, making love. Shoe blushed, but could not look away from the image imposed on his mind. The other Shoe looked to be 40-years-old, or ten years older than reality, if that’s what this was. He glanced back at the tableau and the lovers were breathing hard and both were ready to climax. Shoe felt himself grow hard. He blushed anew.

Next Shoe was seated on a pew in a sanctuary of some sort. Although he had been born to a family of American ex-pats in India, his family had chosen the minority Christian faith. This was, he discovered, a Catholic church. A High Mass was being held. Shoe bent his head and meditated and prayed. After the church service, Shoe was commingling outside the church with Amelia and three small children–his? She touched his arm. The youngest child, a girl, clutched at his leg. Then the memories faded.

“Hi there, you’re awake,” said Vonnie, walking into the room. “We knew you were projecting, so we let you be.”

“Did you experience it too?” asked Shoe.

Vonnie shook her head. “It doesn’t happen every time, Shoe,” she told him. “I’d say you were long overdue, this being your first time.” She smiled.

What she didn”t know, thought Shoe. He smiled too. “It was….incredible,” he said, struggling for words. “Where’s Amelia?” he asked.

Vonnie gave him a knowing look. “I thought you might ask,” she said cryptically. Then she went on to explain, “in your travels, you mentioned Amelia–many tiimes.”

“What did I say?” asked Shoe.

“I’m too old to blush,” she said, “but I just might.”

As the memory came back to him, Shoe did the blushing for the both of them.

Into the room walked Amelia, carrying a pan of something she’d baked. It smelled wonderful. When she glanced at Shoe, she blushed too. “Cakes and ale,” she called out, setting the pan on the coffee table.

Vonnie turned up a bottle of spirits and they ate and drank. After they discussed Shoe’s cosmic journeys, the three sat in companionable silence for some time before Amelia spoke up.

“Shoe, I believe we should maybe be going. Vonnie might like to rest.”

He nodded. “Right.”

They all came to their feet and were effusive in saying goodbye. They had all shared a tremendous experience and felt closer for it.

“Thank you so much for your hospitality, Vonnie,” said Shoe. “And for the…experience. It was awesome.”

“We’ll do it again soon,” she said, hugging each of them tightly, in turn.

On the drive home, Amelia and Shoe said little. There seemed little to say. It was as if their future was predetermined, mapped out, and all they need do was succumb to the inevitable.

“Could I ask you out, Amelia?” asked Shoe. “I mean, like on a regular date?” It occurred to him that he had seen himself making love to the woman and she had birthed his three children and they lived together, but he had yet to actually kiss her.

“You’d better,” she quipped.

& & &

Shoe became fascinated with astral projection and time travel. He researched the Second Law of Thermodynamics and entropy and time dilation and soon talked himself into having experienced the real thing. He began alternately boring or fascinating everybody he knew with closed loops and ontological paradoxes. He also joined the small coven containing Amelia and Vonnie and two other women. Then Shoe began experiencing more time paradoxes. He viewed these, based on his extensive reading, as a consequence of either retrocausality or spontaneous time travel. He became obsessed, so much so that it affected his job, according to some.

“Eric,” said Stevenson, his boss and the only person who didn’t call him Shoe, “your extracurricular interest in time travel has begun to affect your work performance.” They were in Stevenson’s private office. Shoe had been warned by Amelia that Stevenson was gunning for him and that he should cut back on his Wiccan proselytizing. But he couldn’t help himself.

“I don’t understand,” said Shoe. He knew intuitively what was coming, that he would be fired.

“Computer science,” said Stevenson ponderously, “is a serious profession. We can’t have you commingling your hobby with your job responsibilities.”

Shoe decided to cut to the chase. “Am I being let go, Mr. Stevenson?” he asked.

“What’d you do, Eric?” asked the other man with the ghost of a cruel smile, “look into the future?”

Ten minutes, later, after surrendering his access card and company iPhone, Shoe vacated the premises for the final time.

The temporal paradoxes became redoubled almost immediately. Shoe was piloting a vintage mid-20th century automobile down an empty boulevard, feeling the excitement and freedom of untrammeled movement. Suddenly he spied a huge policeman, decked out severely in blue, in the middle of the street. Shoe tried desperately to apply the brake but to no avail. He was going to strike the cop. At the last moment, the policeman raised his service weapon and leveled it at Shoe. The cop was his old boss, Stevenson, and he fired the weapon. Bullets shattered the vehicle’s windshield and Shoe went careening out of control.

He woke up in a sweat.

Far into the Future

Shoe found himself lying in a hospital bed, barely able to breath. Into the room bustled his nurse, pushing a wheeled cart, laden with medicines, before her.

“Hello, Mr. Shoe,” she chirped, raising the head of his bed and checking his vitals.

Shoe found he couldn’t speak. He tried to raise a hand, but his withered fingers got only inches from the bed.

With the flip of a switch, the nurse activated Shoe’s brain-computer interface and a mechanical voice expressing his thoughts came to life. They conversed for some little time before the nurse, beset with other duties and bored with their conversation, flipped the switch of the BCI off and exited the room, giving her patient not another thought.

Shoe knew that he was in a medical facility, but the question he had was when. A mirror on the opposite wall revealed a cadaverous Shoe who must have been 100 years old and weighed no more than 80 pounds. He cast his mind back: in one iteration he was born in 1961, but at age 40 had lived with Amelia and their children…when? He calculated that he had been employed in both 2002 and again in 2057, perhaps by the same company. But, what was the valid starting point of his life? Had he been born in 1961 or 2027 or in 1932, which represented his birthdate if you counted his life when he was arrested back in 1962. Not for the first time, his mind spun.

Seeking respite, he lay his head back on the hard mattress and began listening to the cadence of the instruments to which he was attached, as a kind of chant. He envisioned a pathway, a portal, and soon he was astrally projecting.

2003

“Shoe,” said Amelia in a disappointed voice, “what happened at work today?” After being fired, Shoe had first visited a tavern where, fortified by five schooners of beer, he’d gone to his girlfriend’s house.

“You heard?” he asked unnecessarily.

“Jerry told me he had to let you go,” replied Amelia with dismay.

“Jerry?”

“Mr. Stevenson,” explained Amelia.

Ha! thought Shoe. Stevenson had always had the hots for Amelia and Shoe conjectured that that was the real reason behind his dismissal. Shoe wished he had another beer.

“What else did Jerry say?” inquired Shoe drunkenly.

Amelia frowned at her boozy boyfriend. “He said you’d become obsessed with time travel and astral projection and the time paradoxes,” she said. “He said it was affecting your work for the company…”

“Oh, the effing company,” he said with derision. “Stevenson can shove the company up his…” He caught himself before he cursed again. Amelia didn’t deserve that, he thought. “Look on the bright side,” he went on, “now we can hang out more.” He grinned stupidly.

Amelia didn’t smile. “Shoe,” she said, “I think we need a break.” There, she’d said it. She’d been meaning to for weeks. After a year of dating, it seemed like a little Shoe went a long way. She loved him down deep, but he had a lot of baggage.

“But, what about our date tonight?” asked Shoe pathetically.

“Jerry is taking me to dinner, at his club,” Amelia said importantly, making the break official.

The two stared at one another for a moment, before Amelia turned on her heel and left Shoe standing alone in her living room. After a minute, he quietly let himself out.

Shoe didn’t see Amelia for some weeks. It was time for the next coven gathering at Vonnie’s in the mysterious forest. Amelia decided not to attend, lest she meet her former boyfriend, but for Shoe there was never any question that he would make the ritual. The coven was the one constant in his life. Like he always did, he got there early, only this time without Amelia on his arm. When Vonnie greeted him, she said nothing about Amelia’s absence. Shoe concluded that the women had talked.

“Hi there, Shoe,” Vonnie said in greeting. She looked older, grayer now, he thought.

“Vonnie,” he said. The two warmly embraced. By this time, Shoe had been attending the rituals for almost a year. In fact, Halloween was once again on the horizon.

“Shoe,” said Vonnie a little shakily, “We’re not going to travel this time. I hope that’s alright.”

“Whatever you say,” said Shoe. “This is your home and you’re the archmage, Vonnie,” said Shoe.

The purification was conducted, the altar finished and the circle cast with just the two of them. Vonnie explained that the others had all had pressing matters to attend to.

“Even Amelia?” he asked dully.

Vonnie sighed but didn’t say anything.

They decided to forgo the usual rituals and instead did a Tarot reading. They also meditated and prayed. When Vonnie turned up the Death card, Shoe drew a sharp breath, but she put him at his ease.

“It doesn’t indicate physical death, Shoe,” she said, “but rather a change. Both a beginning and an ending.”

“Whew, that’s a relief,” he said.

“But in this case,” she said wryly, “It may be a literal portent.”

“What do you mean?’ asked Shoe.

“I have been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer,” she disclosed. “I may have only a few months to live.”

“Vonnie, no!” he said in a stricken voice.

“It’s alright, Shoe,” she told him. “I’ve lived a long life. In fact, when I met you I didn’t exactly tell you the truth.” At his questioning look, she continued, “I’m not 86-years-old, but 96. I didn’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”

“Are you in any discomfort?” he asked with concern. Shoe, who’d never known his own grandparents, had adopted Vonnie as a stand in of sorts.

“A little,” she admitted, and Shoe could see the pain in her eyes. “This will be our last meeting, Shoe,” she said. To his unspoken question, she replied, “I’m going into hospice next week. Better to manage the pain there,” she explained.

Vonnie then stunned him with a final request. “Would you officiate at my funeral, Shoe? she asked.

“But, shouldn’t a High Priestess conduct the service?” he asked.

“Anyone versed in The Ways may preside,” said Vonnie. “And I will instruct you. Plus give you this guidance. Here.” She offered up an ancient, leather-bound tome of ritual incantations that Shoe had seen her brandish before. “Take this, Shoe,” she said. “it contains the lore of yore,” she quipped with a smile. “It is among my most valued earthly possessions.”

“Where will you be…”

“I shall be interred in a Wiccan burial ground, perhaps an hour’s drive from here. It is privately owned and not accountable to state laws.” She explained that embalming fluids and other superficial preparations were not allowed at the passing of a Wiccan. They discussed the end at length, until the light outside the windows began to fade and Shoe decided it was time to take his leave.

“May I visit you in hospice?” he asked.

“No,” she said, surprising him. “I’d rather you remember me as you see me today, Shoe. You understand, don’t you?”

There remained no more to say, so with a last embrace, the two friends parted for the final time.

& & &

Shoe was on a darkened street, running. His footsteps slapped loudly off the pavement. He dared cast a look behind him and saw a large man on a tall steed, quickly closing the distance between them. Shoe began to pant stertorously, his lungs burning with fatigue. As he fled, he ran under a streetlamp, the only source of light. Looking backwards again, he recognized his pursuer. It was Stevenson, and he was bearing down fast. In a moment, Shoe would be trampled. Suddenly his limbs failed him and Shoe collapsed onto the pavement. The horse crushed him beneath its hooves.

At long last, Shoe regained consciousness. His body ached everywhere and he didn’t fall asleep for hours.

& & &

Vonnie’s time came only two months later, just before Christmas. Shoe was beside himself with grief for a woman he had come to not only admire and respect, but to love as well. Vonnie’a death brought into sharp focus the lessons she’d taught him about the passing.

“Most religions follow the creed of orthodoxy,” she explained. “You are supposed to believe the right things. Wiccans tend to believe in orthoproxy: it is important to do the right thing, then the right beliefs will follow.”

Vonnie had chosen to take a hands-on approach to her end. In her last week at home, she’d constructed her own coffin, wrote her eulogy and invited only certain mourners. “If word gets out that a Wiccan has croaked, Shoe,” she told him, “it could become a media circus. People will show up expecting a 100-foot funeral pyre or something.” Vonnie opted for conventional interment.

At the service, friends spoke, told stories, many of them humorous, all of them affecting, and songs and chants were given voice. Vonnie’s favorite tune, Van Morrison’s Into the Mystic, was sung. To celebrate the crossing-over, literally hundreds of candles were lighted and glowed eerily in the approaching gloom of sunset. A final circle was cast, in which the mourners sat and sang and chanted and meditated and prayed.

Shoe didn’t see Amelia at the funeral and upon asking, was told by one of their mutual acquaintances that her husband had forbade her to indulge in what he scorned as the Dark Arts. Shoe was stunned; he hadn’t even known that she was engaged. He learned that Amelia was now Mrs. Gerald Stevenson, and was expecting her first child. It was a somber conclusion to a somber day.

& & &

The passing of Vonnie was not the end of Shoe’s Wiccan involvement. He soon became attached to another small coven comprised of four middleaged women. The services were conducted outdoors in a glade in a woods during temperate weather and in one of the women’s homes during periods of inclemency. Shoe was a serious student, but the experience lacked the magic that had been imbued by Vonnie–and Amelia. Shoe found his thoughts wandering to Amelia more and more. He still loved her deeply and her loss was an open wound.

Twice he saw her. The first time was a year after Vonnie’s funeral. She was coming out of a convenience store early one morning, apparently en route to work. She paused and exchanged a few impersonal words and then excused herself. She was pregnant again. The second time was at an upscale restaurant where Shoe now worked as a maitre de. When he saw her, accompanied by his old boss and with their two children in tow, her eyes danced with panic. But Shoe put her at her ease and seated the family at a table. He felt relief; his angst over losing the woman of his dreams was drawing to a close. He smiled complacently and did his job.

2009

Still, Shoe frequently fantasized about Amelia and experienced her in episodes of astral projection and in tortured dreams. She was frequently with child or in the company of her husband. Stevenson’s hostility was palpable. Shoe blithely passed through these moments and travelled elsewhere. It was not until almost three years later that Shoe again made contact with Amelia and she took the initiative. On his 37th birthday, Shoe received a home-made birthday card from Amelia. He was taken aback.

“Wishing you well on your birthday, Shoe,” it read. “You are a sweet man, whose goodness and character I never appreciated before. There have been some changes in my life. Would love to see you. Call me.” And she left her number.

Over the previous six years, Shoe had had only two relationships which might be considered serious, and the latter of them had ended more than a year before. He had always felt that Amelia was his soul mate. Was he being given another chance? He could only wonder.

Shoe phoned Amelia and after a long, far-reaching conversation, he agreed to have dinner at her home. She lived in an apartment with her two children, William, 5, and Misty, 4. Two days later, Shoe arrived at the apartment bearing gifts for the children and a hug for Amelia. Following dinner, Amelia put the children to bed and sat with Shoe on the sofa in the living room, listening to music and talking softly. They discussed the coven and Vonnie with great warmth.

“What happened with Stevenson?” asked Shoe, who had never learned to call him Jerry.

“We divorced a year ago,” replied Amelia.

“What, is he insane?” asked Shoe. He couldn’t understand how anyone could reject Amelia.

Amelia smiled and shook her head. “Jerry had a wandering eye,” she revealed.

“He’ll be back,” predicted Shoe. “After all, you’re gorgeous, in the prime of your life and you’ve got his children.”

Amelia shook her head again. “He’s already remarried,” she said. “Got himself a trophy wife, a protege at the firm; she’s 23 years old.”

“Maybe it won’t last,” suggested Shoe.

“She’s pregnant–for the second time,” said Amelia. “He’s put our family on a shelf. I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said. “Jerry was married once before. Had two children. They’re in high school now.”

They sat in silent contemplation of Amelia’s ex-husband’s perfidy for a few moments before she said, with that old familiarity, “Would you like a glass of wine?”

Shoe smiled.

It wasn’t as if no time had passed since they were together. Shoe was still smarting from Amelia’s rejection of him six years before. Also, he was envious of her family; he’d always wanted children. Six months later he got his wish when Amelia conducted a home pregnancy test in his presence and then hugged him tight when the positive result was revealed. They made plans to marry.

Amelia also became involved with the coven again. Attending the Wiccan rituals for more than a year, Amelia, Shoe and three Wiccans from the coven they were engaged with broke away and began their own group. Amelia, reinvigorated, reborn, often officiated and led the rituals. Shoe explained to the group that his astral projection and journeys through time sometimes still got out of control and he asked for help. It was agreed that the group would oversee and monitor his next passage.

2012

Shoe was alone in a runaway roller coaster, surmounting great peaks on the tracks and then plunging precipitously to the nether regions of the circuit. It was the same figurative roller coaster he’d found himself on many times before. The train clacked loudly as it crept up a rise and then plunged crazily into a declivity. As if on cue, there he was up ahead, Stevenson, his tormentor, standing athwart the tracks, blocking his way, awaiting the opportunity to send Shoe screaming to the bottom of the metal canyon. The train was moving maddeningly fast now and was almost upon his nemesis, when the roller coaster struck Stevenson and sent him dropping into the abyss.

Shoe let out his breath; he hadn’t known he’d been holding it. Slowly the train coasted to a halt. Out stepped Shoe and there on the platform he found his beloved Amelia and his children. She touched his arm and the youngest child clutched at his leg. Shoe knew he need search no more, for life had come full circle and at last he had found all that he had ever sought.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Bill Tope 2025

Image Courtesy: Ennaej from Pixabay