StopTime

By Randy Attwood

This Wiccan healer can't travel through time but she can stop it. And that could change everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Randy Attwood
• Release date: Nov 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386247036

Randy Attwood

I grew up on the grounds of a Kansas insane asylum where my father was a dentist. I attended the University of Kansas during the troubled 1960s getting a degree in art history. After stints writing and teaching in Italy and Japan I had a 16-year career in newspapers as reporter, editor and column writer winning major awards in all categories. I turned to health care public relations serving as director of University Relations at KU Medical Center. I finished my career as media relations officer of The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. Now retired, I am marketing the fiction I've written over all those years. And creating more.

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STOP TIME

By Randy Attwood

(c) 2015 By Randy Attwood

When the land was no longer farmed, the prairie reclaimed its domain.

PART  ONE

i

(The Dissolution)

We are not poor as a people, yet somehow we have become bankrupt as a society. We are—to use an old-fashioned word—ruined. And yet how this ruin is possible—how it has come about—no one can explain.....we have come to accept that...violence, impoverishment, squalor, and cruelty will rule, and that the most we can do is to keep them at bay...

Notes and Comment

The New Yorker

Aug. 5, 1991

CHAPTER ONE

David Lopez sat at a table on the patio of the most popular outside cafe at the Kansas City Plaza Enclave on a warm, early spring day and was depressed at the thought of how happy everybody around him seemed. How satisfied they all are with their own lives, enjoying this day, their meals and the music of Mozart from the string quartet. His model, Gloria Barnes was snarfling alfalfa-soy sprouts and babbling about her studies in Buddhist logic: The thing that people don't realize is that Buddhism has a much better grip on what is real than any other philosophy, she said, pausing to curl her tongue to the side of her mouth to catch a wayward sprout. For Plato, reality is truth. What is cognized as true is real. For the Buddhist, reality is efficiency. Isn't that beautiful? Isn't that TOMORROW?

He watch her eyes dart briefly to the sky as she patted the corner of her mouth with a gray, linen napkin. Ultimately real Gloria continued, is only the concrete and particular objects that exist in the external world. That's what's nipped out my mind about this course. So many Yoga systems superficially tell us that only perceptions are real and that just goes against the grain. But if you really get into the meta-logic of Yoga and Buddhist systems, you find that, no, indeed, they do believe objects, these sprouts for example, the pots that I make, are really here. Although I do wonder if alternate realities are there to be experienced as some say you can do with drugs.

Christ, David thought, she is nipped out. Great body to paint, but nipped out to the max. David started wondering how to approach asking her to pay for lunch since he had no money in the particular reality of his own wallet. If I ask her that, then she's probably going to ask me how I'm going to pay her for eight hours of modeling I owe her. Good question.

He looked at the other diners. Am I really the only one to have any problems? Why does everyone look so happy? Am I the only one to have the world about to come crashing down on his head? He figured if he were tossed out of the Art Institute he'd be, at most, three months from getting evicted from of his Plaza apartment. He'd have to get a job as a waiter and live in the Service Circle with his parents. They'd be so deeply disappointed that he had blown his chance for higher citizenship rank. It was so rare for anyone with his Mescan background. And David knew he'd make a horrible waiter.

That's all really fascinating, Gloria, because that's why I like to paint in a realistic style. It's the creation of the new objects that will occupy and make the new real world. In a sense, by painting you I'm making you exist forever, whether anyone ever sees the canvas or not.

She was listening with rapt attention. He continued: Say, I must have left my wallet...

*

Ken Small placed an index finger onto his pursed, narrow lips and contemplated if he really wanted to get into Nancy's pants. Of course I WANT to. She's beautiful. That's why I hired her. Why would I hire an ugly one? She was only twenty years old and gee-awful-gorgeous, Ken thought. Then he played around with that phrase. What if I gave her a deep look and told her: Nancy, you're just gee-awful-gorgeous. It would indicate their relationship might enter into something more than being her boss. Anyone who spent as much time as she obviously did creating such a perfect face and picture-perfect hairstyle must want to know it worked. But he decided to continue talking bank business. The trouble with boinking your secretary, he knew, is that then they thought they controlled you. Still, her killer looks made it difficult to concentrate on the business of money.

Did I tell you Farnsworth III has invited me to make up his next golf foursome? he asked her.

No! That's wonderful. Congratulations. A Farnsworth!

I shouldn't discuss business on the course, but you know his father is planning another train expedition and if I could arrange for the bank to be one of the investors, well, that would be quite something, wouldn't it.

If the expedition is successful, it'd be a fast track from branch manager to V.P, she said, seemed to look at him anew and again he admired how astute as well as pretty she was. Pretty enough to use those looks to snare a marriage into the circle of the Plaza elite. He allowed himself a brief reverie on what it would be like to come home from work to the likes of her. A classy woman like Nancy at his elbow would be a great assistance in climbing Plaza society rungs.

He thought she was about to reach across the table to touch his hand when an engine roar and a loud horn interrupted all the diners. They turned their heads to watch a truck full of scum hunters whooping it up on their return from an outing. Young and rich Enclavians, Farnsworth III included, who had nothing better to do with their time had taken to the sport. They outfitted four-wheel-drive pickup trucks, which ran on expensive ethanol, with enormous inflated tires, installed strap-in seats in the truck bed, and roamed the decaying highway system looking for scum to blow away with their high-powered hunting rifles.

Listen, Nancy, how about going to a barbecue party Ray Radovich is having at his condo Saturday afternoon? I've got an invitation.

It was a calculated risk. It was already Monday and to accept would mean admitting she had no date yet for Saturday. A girl with her looks. But he also knew she had a thing for Radovich's art. When the invitation had arrived addressed to him, he started to take it to one of the vice presidents, Kenneth Smallwood, because such address mistakes were not rare. But he stopped. Ray Radovich was in the Enclave power elite. One of his sculptures was outside their own bank. Nancy would spend minutes just staring at the piece of twisted metal. It would be a good party for him and (bring a guest) to attend. With invitation in hand, he (and guest) would be admitted.

He saw Nancy's hand go to her breast when she heard the word Radovich.

A chance to meet him! I've got plans for Saturday, but I'll break them.

Wonderful, Ken smiled and thought how great Nancy would look on his arm at the Radovich party. He lifted the glass of blanc d'KC to his lips...

*

Mrs. William Farnsworth II shook with rage as she hurried down the sidewalk. That's absolutely the last time I'm going to shop in Halls, she fumed to herself. The nerve of that clerk to suggest I couldn't afford a mere KC$5,000 strand of pearls. The thought made the powdered jowls of her face quiver. She had wanted a new clasp for her string of artificial pearls. She didn't wear her real ones because they discolored on her. And when she showed the sales clerk the string of artificial pearls and requested a new clasp, the jewelry counter clerk showed her a clasp Mrs. Farnsworth didn't like and that's what she told the clerk: I don't care for those sorts of clasps.

The clerk dropped Mrs. Farnsworth's string of artificial pearls on the glass counter as though she had been holding garbage and replied: It's the kind of clasp we use on our KC$5,000 strings of real pearls.

My Dear, Mrs. Farnsworth had responded, I could buy all of your strings of real pearls, and I still wouldn't like the clasp. And she had turned on her rare Ferragamo high heel.

That's the second time this week I've been insulted by sales help in that store. I should go back and tell the manager and get that little tart kicked all the way to Scumtown. This thought came to her in the middle of the street, stopped her stride, and turned her back the way she had come just as a quiet-running, bright red, Ford Tempo smartly rounded the corner. Its screeching tires brought the car to her attention. She clutched her Gucci handbag to her throat before the shiny red car began the short slide in her direction...

*

More and more people began to realize that a barbarian class was being created in the very midst of America. And it was taking over. A greater percentage of American wealth was going to control the actions of people who in no way could be considered decent citizens. Prison populations soared. Many cities acted too late, Rodney Bakersfield said as he sat on the edge of the oak desk and looked at the crisp crease of his off-white, linen pants. In his hands was a coal car from one of his model train sets. Beyond him were thirty, high-rank, citizen children in the fourth grade wearing the neat uniforms of the school: the girls in navy-blue, pleated skirts and white blouses; the boys in gray pants and blue blazers with the pockets sporting the fountain emblem of the Kansas City Enclave. Several sported the common, round, black spectacles. A few wore designer frames, like the brownish-red frames that made the face of Rebecca Silverstein, the one Jew in his class, look like a cat. Of course her family could afford them. They owned the optical factory. The glasses made gave her a sly look. But weren't Jews supposed to be sly, Rodney thought.

There was the gradual decline of New York City, Rodney continued. Decent citizens just moved away. Those who left too late had few resources to take with them when they did escape. You can still hear that New York accent among some of our Service Circle workers. The scum seemed to take over Los Angeles almost overnight. The gangs there were better armed than the police. Rodney spun the wheels on the coal car, admiring the work had done to restore it to perfection. Then he noticed that Billy Farnsworth was close to going to sleep. I should rap the little shit's knuckles, Rodney thought, but it wasn't wise to make an enemy of a Farnsworth.

"When D.C. was lost and the President had to make an emergency transfer of the seat of government to Utah in 1994, it was a clear signal that communities were on their own. Communities could no longer rely on either the federal or the state governments. Anarchy broke out. The Dissolution occurred. Property and the lives of decent citizens needed to be protected. So the smart communities took the matter into their own hands. Many areas of Kansas City had already walled themselves in. The walled concept was extended throughout other areas of the city. Good areas had to be protected from bad. Enclave citizenship was conferred upon those decent citizens who deserved it, who had capital and resources that could be used to keep civilized life intact. Persons who could be trusted to be good workers, like so many of our Mescans, were included in the Service Circle as lower ranked citizens. Essential manufacturing plants were protected and their laborers included in the Service Circle. Beyond that, the scum were left to rape, pillage, use drugs, and murder among themselves, but away from decent Enclave citizens.

Kansas City was extremely fortunate to have a forward-looking visionary as its mayor, William Farnsworth, yes our own Billy Farnsworth's great-grandfather. Of course we'll devote a whole chapter later to his amazing contribution for the good, safe life we all enjoy today, Rodney said and smiled as little Billy woke up to smirk at his own self-importance.

I want you all to read now starting on page 152 of your textbook. There is an important essay by Patrick Buchanan setting forth the philosophical groundwork establishing that although no person born in the United States could be denied his or her American citizenship, there is nothing in the Constitution that prohibits cities from denying city or enclave citizenship to whomever they wished and conferring it upon only those who deserved such citizenship. This essay is often credited for saving what we have left of America, although as far as we know in America, only Kansas City has any true civilization remaining.

Rodney walked over to the fifth story window of the school that looked down at the Plaza in and around which the Enclave had been formed. In his hands was the coal car from his extensive model train collection. He replaced it on the shelf among the other model railroad cars he had brought in for his students to admire. Off to the distance, through the limbs of trees showing the first green of leaves budding, he could see the sprawl of small homes where the service and industrial workers lived. Beyond that was the high, patrolled-wall that protected the Enclave from the scum who would be shot if they tried to climb over.

He looked at the window, not to look out, but to see his reflection. Damn, I am handsome, he thought, and admired the cut of his own jaw. And I'd better just keep teaching at the fourth-grade level. Even some of the sixth grade girls passing in the halls giggled when they looked at him. Take no chances. Just two years ago his friend Bruce had been nabbed diddling a seventh grader and got tossed out of the Enclave and into Scumtown. Prisons weren't needed anymore. It was foolish of Bruce to mess with a high-rank Enclavian student. There were plenty of Service Circle young women to choose from while he could also date Enclavian ladies in the hopes of snaring a marriage relationship into one of the inner families. Rodney knew that one of his charges, that Farnsworth boy, had a college-age sister, Giselle. He had met that great beauty at a school event. That really would be a catch. Richest, most famous family in the Enclave. His eye was caught by a sudden movement on the street below and he focused his attention on an old woman walking directly into the path of an oncoming car. She's going to be struck! Rodney drew his hand to his mouth and gasped...

*

...Belinda allowed no doubt to enter her mind that the spell would work. Doubt was the great destroyer. You had to believe. And she did. She had followed the directions from the passage in the old book precisely. To stop the sun, first steal its image. That instruction had baffled her for months. How can you steal the sun's image? Then she had seen the painting. It had been fate. Her reputation as a healer had reached into the Enclave itself. A wealthy husband had managed to bring Belinda into their home to treat his wife for pains that mystified Enclave physicians. Belinda had worked the miracle. The woman had been so grateful she wanted Belinda to take one of her possessions. That had been when Belinda had seen the painting on the wall depicting the sun shining in a pond of lilies.

It was not a large painting, but beautifully executed. As the water had stolen the sun in its reflection, so had the painter stolen that image in his painting. The woman told her the artist was a just a student; she often invested in student art in the hope some of them would one day become famous. She said she had seen this painting at the Plaza Art Fair, whatever that was, a few years ago. In the lower right hand corner of the painting, Belinda could make out the name, David Lopez. The painting now stood propped on the altar in Belinda's hovel in Scumtown.

The Bloods left her alone because she could heal. And they were also afraid of her. Afraid of her powers. Making the wax for the candle had been unpleasant, but necessary. The smell was the worst part, but she had learned that once the nose was shocked by the smell of so many rotting corpses, the sense of smell just shut down. So she was able to gather strips of stomach fat from the fresher corpses and take the pieces home to render into wax. The wick had been harder to make. It had contain the hair of a virgin. She used the black strands she took from the head of a baby girl whose mother brought her to treat sores on her back. The chance of finding a developed woman who was virgin was just about nil. Belinda herself at the age of fourteen had been raped by a roaming gang, shortly after her parents had been killed. She had carefully woven the baby hair into a thread and made the candle. Now it sat in its holder in front of the oil painting facing her. She read the Latin incantation: en giro torte sol ciclos et rotor igne. It read the same backward and forwards.

Three times she recited the incantation, staring and holding steady with the flame. After the third reading, she realized she was listening to a stillness she had never before heard....

*

...David thought Gloria had been shocked into silence when she didn't answer his question about paying for lunch. Her mouth was open, stuck as it were, but no sound was coming out. He could no longer hear the background hum of conversations nor the Mozart quartet. The crash of silence smothered him. Have I gone deaf? He put his glass back on the table and heard the clink. A rush of information trying to reach his cortex made its way there causing him to draw a startling conclusion: nobody is moving. He moved his head slowly, then more quickly in all directions. Everything had stopped. Cars weren't moving. People weren't moving. There was a man with a forkful of pasta held before his open, waiting mouth, the strands of linguini hanging like motionless little white plumb bobs. There was a woman sipping her wine, the red liquid frozen on its way into her mouth. David's eye was arrested by the sight of the water in the fountain next to their table frozen into a mid-air array of beautiful, crystal drops.

He thought he must be dreaming and gouged his forearm with a fork. It hurt. He moved his chair back and that grating sound crashed into the air. No one noticed. No one moved. He walked around the cafe, waved his hand in front of the reddened face of a man whose own hand was caught midway through a conversational gesture. There was no reaction. It was as if the world had become frozen. The world is stopped, except for me, he realized and started to sweat. He had stopped beside the chair of a blond man with a brown mustache who sat opposite a stunningly beautiful, blonde woman. The man seemed supremely self-satisfied. One arm was thrown over the back of the chair, and David could tell he was keeping eye contact with the woman as he drank from the glass of white wine, the liquid frozen in a little waterfall on its way past his lips. David pulled the glass slightly away from the man's mouth and watched the wine pour down on the man's pants. Still the man didn't move. David laughed at the comical sight of the man continuing to stare across the table, one eyebrow cocked lower than the other.

I can't be dreaming, David realized as he walked around the table and touched the woman's blonde hair. I know what I'd be doing with this beauty if I had this much control of the dream. He reached across and pinched a nipple that showed through her thin blouse. It sprang erect, staying that alluring way when he removed his hand.

I could be crazy. This could be some sort of insanity affecting my perceptions. Maybe I'm the one who's nipped out. Then another perception that had been trying to snag his attention succeeded. It was in his memory. Just before all sound had stopped there was the screech of tires. He looked around the trees to the street beyond the outdoor cafe and saw an elderly woman clutching a leather purse to her throat. The mouth attached to the throat was wide open. A car was but three feet away from her.

David sprinted over to her, running around the string quartet whose female members dressed in their black dresses had raised their bows and stopped their playing to look in the direction of the screeching tires. Out of the restaurant, he dodged people frozen in the act of walking. Why am I running? He slowed down and walked a path between the statues. The unreality of the entire scene made him want to scream, but he fought his own panic. The woman had white hair, neatly clipped, and wore a white, silk, summer suit. David picked her up, her limbs going limp as he embraced her body, and he carried her to the sidewalk where he safely placed her. He noticed the gold crowns on the teeth in her mouth, still open in a scream.

He walked back to the cafe and felt as if he had stepped into the middle of a fashion photograph. A group of girls were caught with their hair swirling around their heads. Two of them had turned to look in the direction of the impending crash scene. Their skirts were plastered against their forward striding legs. One young man walking alone had been caught swinging his leather suitcase, the sun shining off its rich brown surface. The man's blue tie had flipped over the shoulder of his gray suit. David looked down at his own faded, blue jeans, paint-speckled, with holes starting to show at the knees and felt as if he had invaded some happy, rich land. He felt as if he were some louse, a thing to be plucked up, cracked, and flicked away.

As he passed the cash register, he noted Harold, the obese proprietor, was making change. The cash drawer was open. David reached past Harold's face and took out five KC$20 bills and then wondered if, although frozen, people could still see him, still perceive his movements. Maybe they're just paralyzed, but can still see. He sat back down at the table with Gloria and took a drink from his glass of beer and looked up to see a flock of pigeons swirling around the building's decorative tower frozen in midflight.

Christ, he wondered, what am I going to do in a world of paralyzed people? I really must be mad, but how do I get help in a world of motionless people? He looked again at the nearby fountain. It was a thing of crystal beauty. The drops were like strings of transparent pearls. He reached his hand into the stream of water and the pearls he touched fell as drops of water into the pool, made ripples, and he looked at the now blank spaces in the frozen stream of water. He started looking at Gloria's face, framed in her frizzy hair. She had a good set of wide lips. The light cast half her face in a shadow that deepened where her hair caught the sun. He took his sketch pad and pencils out of his bag and began to sketch her. It was almost like drawing from a photograph, but the light quality was real. He started noticing details of how her facial forms worked against each other as the highlights and shadows took shape under his own hand. He leaned forward and tried to understand how the eyes, how the wrinkles and pores around the eyelids and how the very pattern of her