Short Story / Special Delivery

The knock at the door jarred him awake. Then there was tap on the window, “Anybody home?” Who could it be? The Jehova’s Witnesses had stopped coming around ever since Ewell Noe had started answering the door naked. He used to let them in, more because of his lack of will power than any interest. They would talk about how the time had come. For him, the time had gone. He didn’t answer the door naked for just anybody. He reserved that for them in particular. He thought it would work, and it did. They stopped coming. The truth is, no one else ever came to the small house at the end of the road facing the deathly quiet cemetery – no one except the mail man. It must be the mail man.
By the time Ewell pulled himself out of his easy-chair, shook off his slumber, dragged across the room, and opened the door, whoever had been there was gone. He looked North, West, South, back to the West. He always looked to the West more, to the cemetery, to her – or at least the stone statue that now represented her. He had spent a lot of money on that statue. It was worth it to see his wife each and every day from his front window. Unconsciously, he took a step towards her, and, when he did, he tripped and fell hard face down on the dilapidated and paint-thirsty wood porch. He turned to see what had thwarted him. A box in plain brown shipping paper was toppled, crunched and tangled in his twisted and confused feet.

He brought his face back around to the West. He looked at her, and she looked back at him. He had planned it that way. All the plots in the cemetery faced South, all except hers. He had paid good money to have her facing East – facing him. He had very little use for money these days. He would have spent it on her one way or another anyway. Somehow, the cold granite eyes warmed him.

If he had been a heavier man, the fall, no doubt, would have hurt more. He pushed his scrawny one-hundred and twenty pound body up off the cracked and splintered porch until he was upright once more. He looked back at the plain box as he walked past it back through the open door. Never once did it cross his mind to pick it up. There was no curiosity in him. Ewell slammed the door behind him and turned towards the small kitchen to his right. For a moment he considered the refrigerator with a sense of responsibility, but turned to a particularly worn cabinet door above the counter beside it instead. The screws in the top hinge stripped out a bit, like they usually did, as he opened the cabinet door, sprinkling a small amount of the finest particles of wood on the counter. He pushed the screws back in with his thumb, wiped the particles from the counter, then pulled the bottle of Scotch down from the cabinet. It was the last bottle. “Time to go shopping again,” he thought as he instinctively turned around to the small table by the window, pulled out the chair facing out the westerly window, sat, twisted the cap off the bottle, and filled the lonely, dirty, used crystal glass too the brim. The glass was always there, always waiting for him. It was dependable – something to he could lean on.

The first sip had a bite to it. The first sip was the only one that he ever appreciated fully. That first bite reminded him that he was still alive. The rest went down smooth. The rest helped him forget that he was still alive. He filled the glass up again. The first glass may have helped him forget, but the second glass was always filled with memories. He remembered everything about her as he stared out the window into her granite eyes. He rubbed his face and pondered all her nuances, all those little things that made her her. The stubble on his boney face reminded him how she always liked it more when he was clean shaven. She couldn’t restrain herself. She just had to kiss his smooth face, sometimes even before he had wiped away the last residue of shaving cream. He could see her clearly, with the cream smeared on her lips, on her cheeks. Though he hated shaving, he would do it each day for her. She always liked him clean and clean shaven.

He stood, anticipating unsteady legs. They were sturdier than he expected. He chalked that up to practice. Still, Ewell’s feet scuffed at the dried up and cracked linoleum floor as he ordered himself away from the table. The pictures stared at him from both walls of the short dark hall while he staggered towards the bathroom. He stopped briefly to stare back at one. They were so young, happy, healthy, sitting on the hood of his brand new white 1994 Porche 911. She loved that car. He hated it. He drew a fist back to punch the picture, but her warm and happy smile restrained him. The smile was hypnotic, almost more than Ewell could take. Her curly blonde hair framed her soft white skin. The blush in her cheeks and the slight turn of her head evidenced that she was camera shy, even humble. Innocent. Compassionate. Caring. Loving. Her warm brown eyes made him suddenly feel cold – chilled to the bone. He continued to the bathroom.

The fluorescent bar light over the sink flickered one, two, three times when he flipped the switch on. The porcelain tiles on the floor and halfway up the walls glared ridiculously white, making the deep dark grime of the grout stand out harshly. The dull pastel green paint on the upper half of the walls made the room seem nauseous, near the point of vomiting. He pulled back the stale off-white shower curtain and turned the water on. As Ewell undressed, he took notice of all the bones that poked through his skin. He hadn’t always been like this. The body of the athlete was now nothing but another memory. He stepped into the shower without waiting for the water to warm, and the cold water hurt for a moment. He liked that. He should hurt more, as far as he was concerned. The shock of the water temperature almost sobered him up, something he would have to do remedy after his cleaning duties were done. Along with the gradually rising steam, the smell of mildew filled the small closet sized bathroom. It was a deathly smell that he almost enjoyed.

After the withered and boney man had finished drying himself, he wiped the vanity mirror off and tossed the wet towel to the floor where it lay with several others awaiting some far off laundry day. He peered into the mirror looking through the streaks of water droplets that the towel hadn’t quite managed. Was it the light fluorescence, or did his face actually match the color of the walls around him? Maybe both. Ewell was only forty-five years old, but he had the face of someone sixty or sixty-five. He never was sure what she had seen in him, but he was certain that it wasn’t the same man staring back at him now. He rubbed the shaving cream on slowly, methodically, hypnotically, his mind somewhere else. He hadn’t even realized he was shaving until he nicked himself. A single drop of blood fell from his chin and splattered in the ridiculously white sink. Anger seized the moment. He scraped frantically at the rest of his face, forcing himself to complete the task. Another drop. And another drop. And still more, until the sink was more alive than anything else in the room – anyone else in the room.

The angry man jerked the door open and threw himself out into the hall again, stopping only to ball his fist once more at the picture on the wall. Once more he could do nothing about it. He staggered naked and enraged out into the living room to the front door. He swung the door open screaming at the top of his lungs. He lunged out like a naked, raw, raging animal onto the porch and without hesitation kicked the plain and partially crumpled box, sending it flying across the thirty or so foot small yard where it finally crashed against the chain link fence which separated his yard from the cemetery. The box settled on the ground. His eyes settled on granite eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered as he slumped back into the house.

I am sorry. He contemplated the multiple meanings inherent in three small words while he dressed him self. The apology: he felt so terribly guilty. The self-reflection: he was a sorrowful man. The self-description: I am a pitiful being. Most important of all, the state of being combined with an apology: I am – sorry. He is. She is not. She has not been for fifteen years now. The sorrowful man looked beyond the piled clothes, away from the empty and neatly made bed, to everything else that filled the room. Everything else was hers. There was no longer any room for his stuff. He had cleared out everything that belonged to him many years ago. Her shoes were piled in one corner of the room. He sometimes smelled them, but her scent was present no more – only that of musty leather and rubber remained. A bottle of perfume had evaporated and left him as well, but a small trace of the odor hung on. The bottle was kept sealed tightly, except for special occasions like birthdays, anniversaries, and certain passing dates. Some days he could still cry. He opened the perfume bottle and sniffed. Today was one of those days.
It wasn’t long before he found himself once more sitting at the table, drink in hand. The Scotch helped ease some of the pain from his now throbbing foot. He stared sourly out the window, but this time at the box he had kicked across the yard. He held no real concern what might be in the box, but he did briefly wonder what might be in the box that could hurt so much to kick it. According to the shadows cast by the poles of the chain link fence, he guessed it was around three or four o’clock in the afternoon. He couldn’t be sure. There were no clocks in the house. Time was meaningless to him now. The thought only crossed his mind in reference to how many more hours remained in the day to be suffered.

The alcohol was taking over finally. His consciousness was slipping. He stood very carefully and limped back to the living room, finally slouching down into his easy-chair. Just before nodding off, Ewell noticed the remote sitting on the television. It was resting slightly crooked. Usually he placed it very square on top, just as she used to. She liked things orderly. When had he done that? How long had it been since he last watched TV? He couldn’t remember. All efforts to straighten out the situation would have to wait. He passed out cold.

Ewell Noe had been a bright young kid. He graduated with honors from an elite private school his parents could barely afford, earning a scholarship to an Ivy League college. In college he majored in Business Management, but also took as many computer courses as he could. He recognized immediately how promising computers would be in the coming years, even grasping the significance of the up and coming World Wide Web. Though he had earned a scholarship, Ewell’s parents gave him what money they had saved for his education. Ewell’s first instinct was to refuse the money, but, just as quickly, he realized the opportunity at hand. He took the money and invested it in a couple of computer hardware and software companies he felt had strong potential. He was right about the potential. In his freshman year alone, he turned his parents’ ten thousand dollar gift into over $100,000. In his sophomore year he doubled the money again. During his junior year, he and another student from one of his computer courses (the guy was a genius when it came to computers, really only taking the course for credit) developed a software program for stock market trade trend analysis. By Ewell’s senior year, he and his buddy had the software out on the market. A large brokerage firm bought out the patent and rights for 2 million dollars (which the firm immediately shelved). With a few other key investments, Ewell was a multimillionaire by the time he met Portia.

Portia was a petite young woman full of spirit and vitality, the kind of girl that bounced a little giddily when she talked. She was no blonde joke. She was a junior psych major at the sister college to Ewell’s, and she had never fallen from the dean’s list. He met her at a coffee shop between the two campuses. Ewell had already graduated, but he continued to take courses here and there that interested him, still unsure of whether he wanted to continue on to a graduate degree. It would have been impossible for him to miss her in the tiny coffee shop. It was her bouncing that first caught his attention. Then it was those warm brown eyes that went well with the smell of coffee. He drank them in, the warmth scalding his tongue so that he was speechless. She lost track of the conversation with her friends, and became complete rapt in his silence.
They saw each other everyday after that, always making time to stop for a cup of coffee at their favorite place. A month into dating, Ewell bought his Porsche 911. He couldn’t help himself. He had two loves: Portia and Porsche – in that order. She loved the car too. They would drive for hours with the convertible top down, letting the wind blow through their hair. They were really living life. She would beam with excitement whenever he would pull up to her dorm in the car: her two loves. They carried on this way for what seemed like an eternity. Everyday passed too quickly, but the next always held promise of more – not more of anything in particular – just more.

They were married before they even knew it. It was a long cross-country drive to Vegas, but they loved to drive. Neither of them bothered to tell anyone else, not even their parents. They did as they pleased, when they pleased. This is not to say that they were disrespectful, only that they lived in a different dimension when they were together. Nothing else existed.
It was on their drive back from their one year anniversary trip to Vegas that all the promise left. The next day no longer offered more. It was a narrow highway cut into the side of the mountain, a steep climb to one side and a deep drop to the other. The Porsche’s headlights lit up no more than brief glimpses of sharp turns in the road, the distance blocked by the mountainous climb which passed just several feet outside Portia’s half of the car as they drove the inside lane. The car handled the road well, so Ewell was driving a comfortable forty-five miles per hour, a little faster on the rare straight-aways. As they entered another blind turn, a large black van came around the corner straying across the line from the outer lane to the inside – only by a little more than a foot – just enough. There was no time to react. The van clipped the driver’s side front quarter panel, throwing the Porsche into a spin. As the car spun, Ewell and Portia saw, in an instant, the black van glance off their car and off the cliff. In the next instant, Ewell awoke, still in the car, which was now balancing on the edge of the very same cliff. He turned to Portia. She was gone.
It took hours that night for the rescue team to find her lifeless body. Ewell hoped beyond all hopes that she had simply climbed from the car and wandered down the highway for help. What came next destroyed him.

The first thing Ewell did when he awoke was straighten the remote. How many times over the last few months had he found things oddly misplaced or out of order? Was he messing with this stuff in an unconscious drunken state? “Who cares,” he thought to himself. He cares. He knew it. There are certain things that must be the way she likes it. He replaced the remote back perfectly, and then turned back toward the kitchen. Again, he considered the refrigerator. He really ought to eat something, but he could find no hunger in him. How long since he had eaten? He couldn’t remember. He sat at the table and poured another drink. It was dark outside. Though he couldn’t see her, he knew he was looking directly into her eyes. He was grateful for a moment that she couldn’t actually see him. Still, it felt like she could. He emptied the bottle into the glass. He had no use for clocks, but he always kept a calendar on the wall next to the kitchen window. It was important to him to remember birthdays, anniversaries, and other passing days. This day hadn’t passed fast enough. Except for his usual breakfast toast of Scotch, a toast to her, he would have been content to have slept the entire day away – to sleep with her. He might have if it hadn’t been for the delivery of that damn package. The empty bottle on the table next to the empty glass was unacceptable. It was time to go shopping.

His foot didn’t hurt as much now, but it hurt enough to slow his walk to the liquor store. It was only a couple of blocks, but, in his somewhat drunken state with an aching foot, the walk was much longer tonight. Still, he scampered on. There was no way he was going to face tomorrow with an empty glass. The city lights blurred and streaked past him. There were no faces worth mentioning. He was, alone, biodegradable in an asphalt, concrete, plastic and metal maze. Sure, someone must have been behind the wheel of those metallic flashes grumbling and screeching this way and that, but they weren’t real. They were detached and unaware, in some parallel dimension. There had only been one dimension for him since that day in the coffee shop: theirs. She was gone. He was alone here and now. Nothing else exists, and even he shouldn’t exist. Why did the car have to balance on the cliff? Why did his life hang in the balance? Why hadn’t he gone over as well? The neon lights of the liquor store faintly distracted him.

As usual, the clerk was reluctant to sell him the whole case of Scotch. As usual, the clerk gave in. Still, the clerk had taken too long – long enough for Ewell to notice the time on the clock. It was only ten thirty. The night was hanging on. The walk had sobered Ewell too much. He was in a hurry now get home and wash away the memories the previous drinks had brought. His foot ached as he turned the corner on to his street. He was at the southeast corner of the cemetery now. He needed to sit. He could here a siren off in the distance. It was getting louder. It transported him back to that distant cliff so many years ago, fifteen years to be exact.

The red, white and blue lights flashed against the walls of his mind. Voices echoed from every direction. People were talking to him, but he wasn’t listening. He had already heard what they had to say. He had no interest in their questions. He had no interest in anything anymore. The Porche was mangled and hardly unrecognizable. It was hard at first for him to remember how she… it had once looked.

The fire engine startled him as it rushed the turn on to the street in front of him – on to his street. His eyes followed the flashing lights down the road. Beyond the blinding lights he could faintly see a low orange fluctuating glow. He noticed smoke billowing up into the cold night air with amber traces and occasional white hot embers. “If only such a fire would consume me,” he thought to him self as he heaved himself back to his feet. Another truck and a police car rushed past him. Then it crashed in on him: it was his house that was on fire. He picked up his case of Scotch and limped as fast as he could down the cold dark road. The blaze was growing. In his attempt to hurry, he stumbled and fell. The case of Scotch shattered underneath, the glass stabbing deeply into his hands. A memory flashed to him of the glass in his hands as he sat balancing on the edge of the cliff gripping the steering wheel. He pushed the memory aside and limped as quickly as he could to the raging fire ahead. Another memory snapped into his mind, the memory of a foot broken by stepping down on a break pedal at a moment of impact. Again, he pushed the memory aside.

Very little of the house was left standing by the time he finally arrived. He had lost everything, yet nothing of his. He had lost her again – more finally and more completely. He fell to his knees and shed enough tears to quench what remained of the disaster. Again, there were voices around him, but he was not interested in their questions. He knew all that he needed to know: she was gone forever.

The paramedics removed the pieces of glass from his hands, and cleaned them up. The police asked him repeatedly if there was anywhere else he could go. He simply answered, “No.” They offered to take him to a shelter, and he said, “No.” The neighbors lingered outside for a period, some offering him a place to stay for the night. He told them, “No.” Eventually, the street was completely quiet, and he was completely alone. Had any of them understood that he was not answering their questions? – that he was simply refusing to believe he had lost her again? – denial that he would never be able to smell her shoes or her perfume again? – denial that he would never again have a picture to clench his fist at? The rage burned within him until he was entirely consumed. He fell back on his small and completely drenched lawn, and stared up at the smoky sky. A few stars were starting to peek through now. Somehow, the universe was still their. Somehow, he still existed. Suddenly, he had a thirst for a warm cup of coffee. What else was left?

He stood up and allowed his eyes to take in the remnants of the house, still too wet and wrecked to step through. It was still too dark to sort through, but he was certain nothing had survived. He turned back to the West. He could make out only the faintest silhouette of her statue. In the darkness, he imagined her eyes were closed this time – probably forever. His head drooped with sadness until the box caught his attention. This time he was truly curious. Whatever was in the box was all that he had left. He picked it up and began a slow stroll towards anyplace at all that served coffee.

The wind blew crisply through him (there was nothing left of him to stop it) as he opened the door to the all-night diner. The sign in front of him read, “PLEASE SEAT YOUR SELF – WE’LL BE RIGHT WITH YOU.” He walked to a booth at a far corner and sat down, placing the box on the table in front of him. There was no return address, in fact, no address at all. The thoroughly crumpled box was wrapped in plain brown paper which was now soaked. The box sagged in front of him. The only distinguishing feature was a simple label typewritten which spelled out generically EWELL NOE. He started to unwrap it when the waitress came to the table. He removed the box from the table and placed it in the seat beside him. Without looking up, he said directly and more curtly than he had intended, “Coffee please, just coffee.” The petite waitress bounced a bit and said sure, “Sure, no problem,” then pivoted away to fill the request.

Again, Ewell turned his attention to the package, this time a little more hesitant to open it. Still, his curiosity was piquing. It was all he had left in the world. What was it that he had left? He turned the box over and over in his sore and bandaged hands, picking a bit at the edges.

“What’s in the box?” She placed the cup and saucer on the table in front of him and began filling.

“I have no idea,” Ewell replied quietly, almost under his breath.

“Wow, mister, you look like you’ve been through hell,” the waitress observed aloud.

“You have no idea,” he replied, still not looking up.

“That would drive me crazy,” she continued. “I would have to open it immediately. If it were a bomb, I would be dead. I’d never hear it ticking.”
Was it her words or her demeanor that startled him? Perhaps the combination, but he did look up this time. As his eyes swept up towards her face, he first noticed the name tag that said LADY. Next the dark brown locks of hair that dangled just above the tag. Her smile came into view, a wonderful smile – compassionate and vital. Otherwise he missed her face as his eyes honed in on her dark, warm coffee brown eyes. He jumped in his seat.

“Are you okay, mister?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. She slid into the seat on the opposite side of the table and leaned in to get a better look at his face. Ewell flinched and turned away, at the same time snatching the box back down to his side.
“I’m sorry. I just want to enjoy my coffee, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure. No problem. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

She slid back out of the seat and looked for something to do. The place was empty except for Ewell, but she did her best to look busy. Ewell would have been fighting back tears if there were any left in him. Instead, he just shifted back and forth in his seat, head hung low and eyes toward his coffee. Try as he may, he could not bring himself to take the first sip. He knew the first sip would have a bite. After that, he would forget some of the coldness of his soul. By the second cup, he would be filled with memories – memories that a third cup would not help him forget. He couldn’t help glancing back at the waitress as she pretended to busy herself doing this or that at the counter. Her eyes were much like the saucer and cup in front of him – pure white containing a deep rich dark liquid brown. She did her best to pretend not to notice. He knew she had caught him once or twice. He turned to look out the window into the secrecy of the city night. He could see Lady’s reflection in the glass. He could also read the clock on the wall behind her – five fifteen. He trained his eyes past the reflection in the glass, absorbed in darker reflections. He was startled once again when the plate of hot apple pie clinked against his the saucer, causing the coffee to splash over a little.

“Sorry,” she blushed. “I can be kind of clumsy sometimes. I just thought you looked like you could use a little something to eat. I’ll get you a fresh cup of coffee.”

“No, no. It’s fine. Thank you for the pie.” Ewell was drawn to her eyes once more. Lady slid back into the booth slowly, hesitantly, measuring whether he would object or not.

“I know you said you just want to enjoy your coffee, but you don’t seem to be. Enjoying your coffee, that is. Are you okay? Is there anything I can do for you?” She slid a fork and napkin across the table to him.

“It’s been a rough night,” Ewell said flatly.

“Well, I’m sure some warm pie and coffee will help. That will fix anything.”

“My house burned down tonight,” he said, wondering why he bothered saying it.

“Whoa, okay. Maybe the pie and coffee won’t fix that, but it won’t hurt.” She nudged the plate a little closer to him. He picked up the fork more as a responding gesture than with any true intent. He picked some of the flakes off the crust and sat silent. She continued, “So, what’s with the box?”
“I don’t know. It was dropped off this afternoon at my door. I don’t know who it’s from or what is inside. I just know – whatever it is – it’s all I own now.”

“Wow. It better be good, huh?” She didn’t mean to make light of his situation, and she was afraid she had. “I mean, that is all you’ve got, so, at least in that regard, it’s something special, right?”

“That thought had occurred to me, but I don’t really have much interest in possessions – at least nothing of my own.”

“Well, you were interested enough to carry it in here. You could have left it in your car.”

“I don’t have a car,” Ewell responded with a tight jaw.

“Oh, how far did you walk?”

“I don’t know, maybe two or three miles. Hell, I really don’t know. It could have been ten miles. I wasn’t paying much attention.”

“So, you walked an unknown distance with this crumpled up box which is all you have left, and you still aren’t curious what is inside it? You still haven’t opened it? Open it up! What have you got left to lose?”

“Nothing. I’ve got nothing to lose.”

She cleared the pie and coffee off to one side of the table as Ewell reached down for the package. She couldn’t help herself. Lady was as giddy as a child at Christmas. Ewell stared back into Lady’s eyes. The eyes, the giddiness, it was almost more than he could stand, yet Lady’s presence was also extremely comforting. He placed the package between them on the table and took a deep breath. He looked back out the window as he let loose his breath in a sigh. The sun was about to come up. The city was turning to blackened geometry as the horizon turned a golden blue.

“Come on, come on! You’re killing me here!” She could barely contain herself. Ewell’s jaw tightened again with her words. “Are you sure it’s not something you ordered, and forgot about?”

“I’m positive.”

He took another deep breath and began pealing away the soggy paper.
“Whatever it is, it’s probably broken. I tripped over it once, then kicked it across my yard and up against a fence, and then the package was soaked when the fire fighters were working on my house. I can’t imagine anything surviving all of that.”

“You never know. It might be something durable.”
After removing the wrapping paper, Ewell started picking at the tape meticulously.

“Oh, come on!” Lady insisted.

He pulled back the final piece of tape and folded back the flaps of the box to reveal lots of Styrofoam packing popcorn. Lady climbed up on to her knees in the booth to get a better view, bouncing up and down erratically. Ewell started to reach in the box when suddenly a bell jingled at the door. A couple of new customers walked in and took seats at the counter.

“Hold on!” Lady ordered in an excited manner. “Don’t you dare look any further. Let me take care of these guys real quick. I’ll be right back. I’ll hurry.” She dashed over to the counter with spring in her step.

Ewell settled back into his seat and without thinking took a bite of the pie. It was wonderful. How long had it been since he had eaten? How long had it been since he ate something for pleasure? How long since he had experienced pleasure? He could feel himself on the verge of grinning. How odd. He picked up the cup of coffee and brought it up to his mouth, but stopped before it touched his lips. Could he do this? The aroma was wonderful. He continued. Neither the pie nor the coffee was warm any longer, but the taste was magnificent. He had missed coffee all those years. He was determined to miss it. Now, it was all he had left – coffee and whatever was in the box. Lady ran back over to him and resumed her kneeling position in the booth, hovering over both the package and Ewell.

“You didn’t look did you?” she asked in an accusing voice.

“No. I didn’t look.”

“Are you sure, because your expression is much warmer now?”

“I just tasted the pie and sipped some of your coffee.”

“Okay, go! Let’s see what it is.”

Ewell stuck his hands back into the box and felt around in the popcorn until he felt something solid. He pulled the object out, but it was wrapped in bubble wrap.

“See? Whoever packed it did a good job. Whatever it is, I bet it’s is perfectly preserved.”

He peeled back the tape on the plastic bubble wrap, popping a few bubbles in the process, until finally he had one end opened. He reached in and pulled out a rectangular shaped object which was sealed in a black plastic bag.

“Miss, we’re ready to order over here, when you get a moment,” a voice called from the counter.

“Ugh! I’ll be right back. Don’t you dare look till I get back.”

Ewell took a couple more bites of his pie and drank half of his coffee. Lady must have noticed he was finally enjoying his coffee because, when she returned, she brought a coffee pot with her. She topped off his cup with a smile.

“Alright, let’s see it,” she encouraged him.

More tape. This time he tore through the black bag instead. They both looked at the thing confused. The wood was finely carved with mermaids, dragons, griffins, elves, ivy, flowers, splashing waves and so much more. The detail was fantastic. The face of it was made of a crystal like glass etched with Roman numerals. Golden hands formed like arms with hands lay behind the glass pointing to the etched numerals. Behind the golden hands was a smooth pearl-like finished plate with no markings at all. It was a real piece of art. He turned it to face him.

“It says something on the back,” Lady informed curiously. He turned it around quickly:

Ewell Noe
It is time to move on.

Ewell sat still in complete shock. The words slowly etched in his mind just as plainly as they were in the wood of the clock before him. “Who delivered this?” he shouted out. Lady jumped. The guys at the counter swiveled towards him,

“Easy buddy, we’re trying to eat here.”

“Who gave me this?” he asked the air, this time under his breath.
The bell jingled again.

“I’ve got to get back to work, but sit tight. My shift ends shortly, so we can talk – that is, if you feel like talking.” She could tell by his expression that something was turning deep inside him, something way down deep. Ewell just nodded with his expression somewhere between terror and confusion. She reluctantly left him in that state.

Ewell stared at the clock for a long spell, not knowing how to react. Indeed, he was unable to react. He could only stare at the inscription. Without knowing what else to do, he turned the gold key on the back of the clock just above the puzzling words to wind it up. It began to tick, he turned the clock back around to face him, and he marveled at the craftsmanship. The ticking was mesmerizing. He drifted, not into thought, but into thoughtlessness. He turned to look out the window just as the sun peeked up over a distant rooftop through a smoky haze. Nothing. Not one single thought in his head – only amazement and confusion. He laid his head down on the table letting the sunshine warm his face. At first he squinted his eyes, unable to stop staring at the blinding light. Finally, he closed his eyes, giving in to the fatigue that had been following him all night long. The fatigue had been following him for much longer than one night. It had been following him for years.

When he awoke, he found himself lying down on his back with a brown haired uniformed woman in his peripheral vision.

“Lady,” he said hoarsely.

She turned around to face him, locks of brown hair falling against her cheeks while the bulk of it was pulled back in a pony tail. Something didn’t fit.
“Good morning sleepyhead.”

“You’re not Lady.”

“Now don’t be rude. I may not be a lady, but you don’t need to say it out loud,” the woman teased. It was her eyes. The eyes were all wrong.

“You’re eyes, they’re not brown.”

“Well at least we know your eyes are working well. You’re right. My eyes are hazel, and they have been all my life. Some people even say they suit me. But, I think I know whose eyes you’re looking for, so I’ll let your unflattering remarks slide. She’s been waiting for you to wake up. I’ll go get her.”
Ewell looked around the room confused. Where was he? It took a moment, but it finally dawned on him that he was in a hospital room. Next he noticed the IV in his arm, and all the electrodes taped to him. Had he been in such bad shape? Had he passed out at the diner? Had Lady brought him here? His guest emerged in the large doorway. The saucer shaped coffee eyes were sloshing over the brims. He sat up quickly – too quickly. He saw stars and everything faded to black. When he came back around, the nurse was pulling her aside to check his status.

“No!” he cried out. “Let her be! I want to see her.”

“She’ll be back in just a moment,” the nurse promised. “First we need to take care of you. You pulled your IV out.”

Ewell began to fight against the nurse, to try to climb out of the bed. His foot hurt badly as he dropped it to the floor. It was in a cast. His bandaged hands pinched with pain as he grabbed at the rail of the bed. Just then another nurse and a large male intern came into the room and gently wrestled Ewell back down into the bed. Straps were tightened around him so that he couldn’t move. “No! Just let me see her, please.” He saw the nurse inject something into his IV line. He fought for a moment more and then his fight was gone. The blackness returned.

“Ewell, are you awake?” A soft voice whispered to him with concern. It was a compassionate and vital voice. “I thought I saw you move. Are you awake?”
It was a difficult task, but he managed to lift his heavy eyelids. A moment passed before he could focus his eyes enough to understand the room. He turned towards the direction the voice seemed to have travelled from.

“You are,” she sighed. “I’ve been waiting so long to talk to you.”

The uniform was gone. These were not hazel eyes. He could almost smell the coffee. He would have sworn this Lady had a golden halo over her head, a radiant sun surrounding an angelic face. The halo came into focus a little more.

“Portia.”

“I thought I was going to lose you,” she sobbed. “The wreck was so terrible. I walked for hours.” She broke into a complete cry.

“Portia. Is it really you?”

“Yes, Ewell. I’m here. I’ve been with you everyday.”

“I know you have,” he remembered the statue. “Everyday?”

“Yes. For nearly two weeks now.”

“Two weeks?”

“Yes. Everyday for two weeks. The doctors couldn’t find anything wrong that would cause you to go into a coma, anything physical anyway. They said that it could be psychologically induced, but they’ve been running tests and scans nearly everyday looking for anything they might have missed. They could find nothing. You blacked out before they could remove you from the car, and you never came back.”

“Where’s Lady?”

“If you mean the nurse, I had a talk with the doctor about her.”

“The clock, do you have my clock?”

“I don’t know what you mean? You’re watch is with your wallet and other things.”

“Who delivered the clock?”

“Maybe I should get the doctor. I’ll be right back.”

“No. Don’t leave me. Don’t ever leave me.”

“I won’t leave you. I just think that I should get the doct…”

“Time. Time! It’s all we have.”

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