Seasons in Time

By Larry Groves

Fourteen year-old John Taylor, reluctant athlete, waits impatiently for the end of football season as he plans to end his sports career, despite the objections of his over-bearing father. Those plans fall apart as the seasons change and he soon fi nds himself embroiled in a paranormal mystery from the past which threatens his sanity and may cost him his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 26, 2007
• ISBN: 9781465328816

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Copyright © 2007 by Larry Groves.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

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in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24: Special Edition

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Epilouge

For Nathaniel

Prologue

Twilight passes slowly this time of year. It lingers upon the western horizon and outlines the summer sky in shades of fiery pinkish amber reflecting off the clouds floating motionlessly aloft, effortless above the bounds of earth. The day was long and the sun bids farewell. A solitary firefly illuminates the evening, unaware of or unconcerned with my presence. I intently gaze upon the splendid creature and take awe in the wonderment of the moment.

The wind is still. The traffic moves almost methodically, without a sound, along the narrow highway. I watch the cars as they go by and watch the glow of their headlights disappearing silently out of sight.

The small white petals from the blossoms of the blackberry tangles have since fallen to the ground, replaced by the shiny red fruit still to ripen along the edge of the wood line, just beyond the suburban landscape. A single row of viburnums stands like soldiers along the hill, planted there perhaps to guard against an unforeseen and untimely ill.

The brilliant yellow flowers of the lantana just across the way are busily engaged in their annual summer display. A whippoorwill sings in the distance. The twilight still lingers. The weekend comes to a close in such a carefree fashion as the night unfolds.

Familiar sights, sounds and memories bittersweet, coagulate in my brain. With too much to be concerned with, to be concerned with anything at all. The darkness has fallen and I make my way home.

A ghost from summers past makes his presence known. He walks the earth with chains around his heart, wound ever so tight. In a whimsically metaphorical sense: he’s been here before. We casually reminisce of childhood days in the sun, and of battles lost and won. We know each other too well. He lingers in the night.

Suddenly a squirrel decides to cross the road at just the wrong moment. They always have such a bad sense of timing when it comes to that. I’m reminded how fragile and fleeting life can sometimes be, and I know but for the grace of God: The ghost could have been me. Still he lingers.

Closer to home now, the left-over scent of charcoal still smoldering on the grill drifts through the night as summertime rituals becomes routine. Soon the sky will explode with a massive celebration in remembrance of the birth of a nation. Again I’m reminded of days gone by. The siren of summer still sings softly in my ear; sometimes I hear her song all year.

The stars have appeared in the spacious sky. The fragrant scent of a mimosa in bloom hangs heavy in the warm suburban air. I pass the lady walking her funny looking dog along the sidewalk. She smiles and says hello. Her face is familiar, but I don’t know her name. The mongrel snorts a half-hearted warning, and I try not to laugh. He’s nothing to be concerned with and my neighbor continues on her way. Slowly I take my time and the ghost still lingers.

At last my journey is finally complete and it’s nice to be back home. The night is still as I climb the stairs, unlock the door to my apartment and come inside. I’m greeted with silence and for that I’m very grateful. Sometimes it’s nice to be alone: Another hectic week will begin soon enough. I know that all too well.

Outside my window, in the distance, nestled among the summer stars, the moon is glowing bright. At least for now, tranquility abounds and the world seems right, but I know the magic can’t last. It never does for very long. Tomorrow will be just another working day, and this summer night will become just another page too quickly turned.

Dead squirrels, viburnums standing like soldiers and funny looking dogs will quickly fade, when there’s no time left to think about metaphorical ghosts that carry chains through quiet suburban streets at night. Maybe it’ll all make sense in the end? Maybe one more draft will put the words in order? Maybe tomorrow when there’s no time left to linger.

Chapter 1

There was a crude joke going around the halls of Glenview Junior High back in the early seventies. In those days Glenview was still called a junior high and catered to the educational needs of would-be, stand up comedians in the grades 7, 8, and 9. The joke was a little too profane to be repeated in the classrooms; at least when the teachers were in earshot, but it went over pretty well in the boy’s locker room and on the practice field during football season of 1973.

I’d heard several versions of that joke in the fall of ’73. It was nothing Lenny Bruce would have been hauled off to jail for, but the oral implications were disgusting. Did people really do things like that? Apparently so, or the joke wouldn’t be going around. I was going to school with a bunch of perverts.

Taylor, get your fat ass on the field, now boy now. You’re too damn slow son; you’re just too damn slow. Slowly I trotted to the field.

Clipboard in hand, Coach Holiday bitched and screamed from the sidelines. Bitching and screaming was what he did best. It was his contribution to the team and it kept the players on their toes. I was his favorite target. They’re coming right at you, coming right at you. Hang in there big man.

By the look on Coach Perkins’ face, the outcome was a foregone conclusion: I would land flat on my ass. The center snapped the ball. It was a short yardage play, the kind you would use on a third and one, or a fourth and inches to go to the end zone. At 6' 3" and 280 pounds, I was an awesome looking figure at nosegaurd. My metabolism moved at a snail’s pace: It was just too damn slow. I landed flat on my ass.

How did that joke go? For the next few seconds, I couldn’t remember. Stars were dancing before my eyes. They glistened and gleamed in the cool October sky and disappeared. The joke was still disgusting: I remembered that much.

Damn it Taylor, I should have known, I should have known. Holiday threw his clipboard to the ground while Perkins danced with delight.

The sun was setting low beneath the grove of pine trees that bordered the west-end of the practice field. The sound of the afternoon traffic filtered through as the smell of burning leaves whiffed over the gridiron. I was in no hurry to get to my feet.

I think I broke my damn leg, I shouted in pain. In the back of my mind, I almost wished I had.

All right people, everybody over here. That’s you too Taylor. Get off your fat ass and get over here. Perkins was a jerk, Head Coach Perkins the jerk: Head Coach Jerkins.

Somehow I managed to wobble to the gathering. It had been a productive practice, maybe not for everyone. To me the words productive and practice didn’t belong in the same sentence. The smell of perspiration hung heavy in the air. Suddenly the stench was so great that the autumn aroma of burning leaves could no longer compete. At least it was October and not August, the heat had somewhat subsided. The early days of practice were always the worst. The August two-a-days were but a distant memory, but judging by the smell of things: It had probably been since August when most of the uniforms had seen a washer.

Coach Jerkins liked to end each practice with a pep talk. He was a bulldog looking sort of guy standing only 5' 6" on a stocky frame. In his late twenties, he’d let his reddish-brown hair grow down just below his ears. That was in keeping with the fashion at the time. Maybe he thought that would make him look cool to the younger generation? I’d heard the pep talk so many times that I could lip-sync the words with almost perfect precision. Jerkins threw a curve.

Clowning is not going to get it guys. Will it Taylor?

No sir Coach.

Good then, we’re on the same page.

That wasn’t the way it was supposed to begin, not at all. He should have said, tomorrow’s the big game guys. Every pep talk the day before a game started with, tomorrow’s the big game guys. My ankle was throbbing in pain.

Tomorrow’s the big game guys. That was more like it. It was good to know some things never changed. Some things were still predictable. I don’t think I have to tell you what this game means. That always followed.

Despite the pain I was in at the time, or maybe because it was a habit I couldn’t break cold turkey: I found myself once again in parody, silently mimicking the Jerkins. I had the routine down so well with the hand gestures and body language. This time it went a little too far.

Did you have something you wanted to add Taylor? he asked after noticing the display."

No sir Coach, I didn’t say a word."

I thought you might be going into seizures or something.

Oh I’m fine: just excited about the big game. Muffled laughter ensued. I’d never been excited about any game and the whole team knew it.

Good then, why don’t you give me two laps Taylor?

But Coach.

Now, funny man.

I’d give him one lap and I intended on taking my time on that. Maybe I should have changed my name from John to Give Me Two Laps Taylor. It would have been a lot more appropriate. I hated the game of football. Were it not for my size, they wouldn’t have wanted me out there at all. Too bad I really hadn’t broken my leg. They would of had fun carrying me off the field. That was if they didn’t just leave me out there. When I had completed my stroll, Jerkins had given the floor to Holiday.

We don’t need any wrinkledy, crinkledy, smelly people out here. And I want that locker room fumigated before I go back in there Steve.

Holiday would insist upon making hygiene an issue. He always made it an issue. It gave him one more thing to bitch about and he lived to bitch. He saw it as his duty, his obligation to the school. As the only black teacher in a school of predominately ivory-skinned, spoiled rotten, middle class, foul mouthed, crude joke telling white kids, all guilty of the sin of easy living, he was going to see to it that nobody was going to have a free ride. For that matter, nobody was going to have an easy ride, or even a comfortable ride, not on this train, not in his 8th grade Civics class, and certainly not on the football field. All right everybody, give me two laps, he barked.

This nightmare has got to end, I muttered beneath my breath to no one in particular.

Did you have something to say Taylor? The veins were sticking out on Holiday’s neck. That was never a good sign.

Not me Coach, I didn’t say a word.

The nightmare of football season would of course end, perhaps the next day, at worst in a couple of weeks. The nightmare of Coach Holiday’s Civics class would continue to fester for awhile to come. At 3 and 3, we the Mighty Glenview Panthers still had a shot at the city playoffs. It all depended on the next game. How the Civics class would go was anybody’s guess.

Holiday stood about an inch or so taller than I did at the time. He was the only teacher at school with a height advantage over me, but I had at least a good fifty pounds on the guy. He’d been an all-conference defensive end at Alabama A&M and probably knew more about the game than Perkins did. He used to shave his head, even before it was in style for black guys to do that. Many were still sporting huge Afros at the time, at least the younger crowd. He had a slightly hooked nose and oddly resembled a hawk from the profile. As long as Coach Holiday had a breath in his body: Nobody was going to have a free ride on this train.

My ankle was throbbing. It was going to be a long two laps, an even longer walk home. That journey would be a straight shot past Pamela Wright’s house, down to the highway, through the motel parking lot, onto the railroad tracks, then two more blocks through that middle-class neighborhood where all the inhabitants were guilty of the sin of easy living. I would rather have made that trip alone, but Jim Winters and Steve Henderson were taking the same route.

Winters was all right, definitely the best friend I had at the time, but Steve could be a twerp, full of school spirit and all the rest of that crap. If Jerkins hadn’t made him the team manager, he probably would have put on a skirt and became a cheerleader. We made our way through the neighborhood past Glenview Junior High. It was a trip the three of us had made many times before.

I’ll be glad when this season’s over, I blurted out as our odyssey began. That was a statement I never would have made in front of the Jerkins or Holiday, and definitely not in front of my old man. That would have been no less than an act of treason.

If I was as shitty as you are, I’d be glad too, Steve snapped.

Why don’t you go fumigate a locker room twerp? I was in pain and didn’t need any of his shit.

I’ll kinda be glad when it’s over with myself, Jim said in a rather nonchalant kind of way.

Oh no, not you too man? Steve just couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

Yeah, it’s getting kind of old. The only reason I even played football was to get into shape for wrestling season. I don’t even like the game. Winters was all right, definitely all right.

You’re just bullshitting aren’t you Jim? Steve asked, still trying to comprehend the concept.

He doesn’t like football twerp.

I didn’t ask you Baby Huey, Steve shot back.

Call me Baby Huey again and I’ll squash you like a bug, homo.

You’re both full of shit. I’d give anything to play and you guys don’t even care. Little Stevie with the light brown hair would have given anything to play. That’s what irked me so much about the guy. He had a lot of heart. I’d have to give him that. But barely topping the scales at 80 pounds, he just didn’t have enough ass.

The pace slowed as we passed Pamela Wright’s house. A light was on in the bedroom we all knew was hers: The one facing the road, just to the right of the living room.

The house had seen better days, I suppose the whole neighborhood had. Most of those wood framed structures in Pamela’s neighborhood had been built before World War II, when the old cotton gin was the biggest employer on that side of town.

What do you think she’s doing in there? Steve asked, staring almost mesmerized at the light.

How the hell should I know, I said, but I should have known what was coming next.

A wicked smile suddenly crossed Steve’s face. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways, as the poets say. I love you for your long blond hair. I’ll love you forever, our lives we will share. He was just getting wound up. Oh Pamela, your beauty so rare. Let me kiss your lips and caress your skin so fair.

Why don’t you knock it off Steve? Winters said, coming to my defense.

What’s wrong with you Jim?

Nothing’s wrong with me. Why don’t you give it a rest?

Steve had no intentions of that. It was just too much of a temptation for the little guy to leave alone. He probably thought I deserved it anyway. Now that the fire has gone out, he began to sing. They say that your crotch smells like a trout.

That was it. I’d had it. I charged like a wounded water buffalo. I was ready to grab the guy in a bear hug and squeeze the life out him. He saw me coming and made a mad dash down the road. I may not have been much of a nosegaurd, but he knew what would have happened if I’d gotten my hands on him. That wasn’t going to happen; my ankle did the twist again and I went