Windfall

By Barbara Avon

His shadow crossed her frail body like some menacing presence as he stood. He leaned over her, brushing her thinning hair from her face, and kissed her forehead, trying to reach her beautiful mind. "I'll be right back," he whispered in her ear. "I'm going to the store, but it will only take me a minute, okay?"

 

In 1982, John Armstrong walks into a convenience store. He emerges with a second chance at life. He believes he's been given a gift - but at what cost? Windfall is a fantasy/time travel story about a man who thinks he's won it all. Some dark themes. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Avon
• Release date: Apr 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393942108

Book preview

They gave us one extra day,

One last chance to frolic, and play.

We can climb a mountain,

Or swim in a lake.

Tell me love, which route to take?

There's not much time,

The hours are few.

Love me today,

Before I say adieu.

B.A. - Copyright 2019

Acknowledgements

As an author, I desire only one thing: to be read. My stories encompass love; regardless of genre, and it is with great pride that I present to you Windfall.  

Time travel has always fascinated me. The idea, (despite the science that boggles my mind), is something that I love to explore. This story marries the allure of deep love, with the concept of travelling in time in order to salvage that love. (Or so we hope). My wish is that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. 

This is the part where I acknowledge those talented people who mean a lot to me. From their never-ending friendship, to their support, I admire them, and wish to name them here: Ayal Pinkus, Illustrator, and the genius behind the coding for my lottery page; Johnny Swanson, who has lifted me up more times than I can count; Kevin Glenn,  inspiring author & musician; David Rudolph, author, poet, my anchor; Julia Benally, author, and a friend since day one; Scott Christopher Beebe, author, and forever friend; A.C. Merkel, author, and an inspiration; Olivia Castetter, author, and friend. 

Windfall is also a story about familial love, and it is my honour to thank my father, Domenic, my brother, Jerry, my sister, Linda, my beautiful niece, Emma, my amazing nephews, Nicholas, Nico, and Matteo, my brother-in-law, John, and sister-in-law, Sonia. I must make a special mention of our beautiful mother, Paola, who reads me from Heaven. I love you all, is too short a phrase.

I leave you last love, to be able to say this: A well used writer's trope is used in this book— the lottery trope, but it is you that makes me feel rich, each and every day. Ti Amo, Daniel Avon. Thank you for sharing your ideas, and for catching typos when I miss them!

To my readers: You have made me the author I am today, and you have my eternal gratitude.

Note that this story includes some sensitive themes.

ONE

July 17th, 1982

Static filled the screen. He welcomed the crackling in his ears. It served to drown out the whimpering emanating from the bedroom. He stared dumbly at the television set searching for something to help release him from his earthly hell; a coded message, or a brief intermission from the voices in his head, berating him. Salvation eluded him.

The living room was dark by choice. Lights reminded him of the harsh fluorescent bulbs at the General that he had come to detest. The stench of death still filled his nostrils. Date Night morphed into social visits with men wearing masks. Recreational drugs were replaced with those meant to take away the pain. Eventually, they signed her death certificate while blood still pumped through her frail, shattered body.

In the darkness, John grasped the bottle neck as if to throttle it. The alcohol provided temporary relief.  The Vodka label depicting a snow-capped mountain brought him back to a wintry night in December. He had offered to go with her; begged her. She had placated him with endless kisses, and the promise to return with his favourite snack to munch on during the big game. The Easy Mart was five minutes from their house.  Green Bay was winning in the third quarter. He had relented and sent her off with a final kiss. By the fourth quarter, he had started to wonder, but he had wrangled his fear and pushed it away. The shrill sound of the telephone had made him curse beneath his breath.  With his eyes on the ball, he had answered the phone gruffly. Her garbled cry forced him to pay attention. Ice coursed through his veins as he listened to her describe her surroundings. She was lost, sheltered in a phone booth a block away, unsure of her own name; oblivious to the tumour growing in her brain.

His once muscular legs carried him to the only window in the room. With a toast to his neighbours, he stared at the red, crumbling brick of their building. It was a twin to the one they inhabited, converted from some old edifice where renters slid money beneath the landlord's apartment door each month. He missed their house; lost now to greedy financiers. He missed the way he used to come home from hours spent labouring and would delight in the sweet pleasure of whatever homemade goods she had made that day. She always let him savour dessert before dinner. It was a ritual that was born from his insatiable hunger for sweets. It was their thing. She used to tease him by hiding some delectable morsel behind her back and would relinquish the delight only once he tasted her lips, first. She was strong then; healthy.

John tugged at the window. A swoosh of sticky July air washed over him. She was always cold.  Despite the high humidity, she was always shivering. The night breeze felt delicious against his skin. He was used to celebrating the small things these days, and a generous amount of Vodka slid down his parched throat. The city was coming alive. In another life, they would be getting ready to paint the town in vibrant hues of red. Tonight, he was merely a spectator.

He sat on the windowsill and lit his last cigarette. He watched as the smoke drifted away, like the ashes from an urn drift aimlessly until they settle nowhere, and everywhere at once. He imagined a speck of human riding bareback on an unsuspecting seagull – flying high and soaring above the clouds like a superhero without a cloak. He had dreamed of flying. He had wanted to be a pilot. Then he met her, and he chose to keep his feet planted firmly on the ground to be able to chase the woman of his dreams. After months of skirting around the question, he finally had the courage to ask her out to dinner. Her answer had succeeded in reducing his six-foot frame into a jelly-like mess.

What took you so damn long?

John placed the Vodka bottle at his feet and tossed the last of his smoke to the ground below. He quietly closed the window and walked towards the soft light peeking beneath the bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, and as he pushed on it with one finger, he expelled his breath once he saw the rise and fall of her chest. He never knew when he would walk in to find her stone-cold dead. This was his living nightmare.

The bedroom was stifling hot. A fan sat collecting dust in one corner of the room. Photographs torn hastily from an album were taped to the pea green walls. The story of their lives was meant to comfort her in her lucid hours and served to remind her of him in her hours of darkness. 

He stealthily approached their bed. It swallowed her once voluptuous body. She looked vulgar beneath the heavy blanket. He looked away, desperate not to cry. Instead, he studied one picture above her head, taken on a nameless road, during an impromptu trip. She had adopted an enigmatic presence that day. His red flannel shirt had reached her knees. His baseball cap was perched on her head; her chestnut locks tucked underneath. He remembered thinking that her mysterious shell contradicted her warm, sensual nature. She liked to remind him that as her husband, he had the distinct honour of knowing all of her. 

Let them wonder, she said of the rest of the world.

That day, beneath an angry Autumn sky, she had stood against a chain-link fence pointing at the sign next to her with a crease between her perfect brows: No Entry Beyond This Point, Unless Accompanied by The Gatekeeper. There was a prediction masked behind those words. They were being denied admission to Paradise by an unseen Deity – the one that John had begun praying to until his knees hurt. He didn't believe in her God, and she was the one paying for that sin. 

John sat at her bedside and readied himself to seduce her. It was their new ritual, reminiscent of Grimm's Tales. He was a strange kind of bedfellow; unkempt, and sullen, and not the vibrant, sexy man she married.

He lifted the covers, found her skeletal hand, and brought it to his lips. An icy sensation made his lips tingle, and he rubbed at them furiously.

Hey, baby. It's me.

He tugged at his lips, trying to erase the words before he could say them.

"How are you feeling? Stupid question, I know," he mumbled.  

"What do you want to hear