Viola looked at the alarm clock on the nightstand next to her bed, "9:22" it read in its bold illuminating red numerals. Her human biological clock, which was still working, told her that it was p.m., not a.m. "Please!" She heard a young voice outside pleading. "Coming," Viola answered back, sounding more sure of herself as she slipped on her old blue slippers from a Christmas of long ago. That's when she heard it: the wailing of a crying baby, the pleas of a little boy. Viola peeked out the side of the curtain, turning on the front porch light. She saw a young girl, no more than 20-years-old holding a small boy on her hip, her arm underneath the small of the boy's back, her hips swaying out to accept the child's weight ." I've wrecked my car," the young woman said in a helpless moan. "Is anybody hurt,' viola asked, unlocking the door's deadbolt. "I don't know," the young girl said, looking at the boy. "I don't think so."
A puff of oldness and antiques swept over Shelby as the door opened to allow her into the foyer. Shelby was worried. She had to find a flashlight and get back to her car. She had to find the half of a joint that she was smoking before her Nissan Sentra lost it and decided to crash into the fence. It wouldn't take the cops long to get there; the Krispy Kreme was only four blocks down.
"May I borrow your flashlight?" Shelby asked, walking toward the house. Viola stepped aside, allowing her to go in. "In the kitchen drawer by the stove," Viola called out, taking Travis from her just as natural as natural could be. "Thanks!" she answered, walking down the hallway of the strange, yet beautiful house. "On the right," Shelby heard the old lady say as she took her first steps into the kitchen. "Yes, ma'am," Shelby replied. Respecting her elders was of the utmost importance to her for some reason. Shelby opened the drawer and saw the flashlight with a blacktop. "Thank you, Jesus," she thought, picking up the torch and heading back across the old kitchen to the long hallway and heading towards the front door.
Even though her car was outside, crashed through a fence, and also though she was late for a date she'd been looking forward to since its inception, she decided it was okay. She felt a lot better now than when she was on the front porch, knocking on the front door. She couldn't explain it to herself, and she sure didn't have the time to dissect her feelings or the events that led to her mood. "First things first," she silently told herself, passing the doorway to the living room and looking inside the bright room, seeing her son on the weathered bed, smiling up at the old woman who had so graciously allowed her inside the house. The old lady smiled down at her new-found young friend, both seeming to create a bond between themselves. A trust that needed no words or handshakes, just the look they gave each other.
She was staring, transfixed on her son and the old lady. She didn't know why, but the sight of them touched her heart, brightening her spirit as her headlights brightened the old living room that had been converted into a bedroom.
"Boy's name?" the old lady asked without lifting her head.
"Travis," Shelby answered.
"Travis," the old lady said out loud, the boy below her smiling and giggling.
"Travis is short for traveling. Travis, are you going to be a traveler?" Viola asked him like she was talking to an adult instead of a toddler. Travis shook his head up and down, gesturing "yes" and smiling peacefully at the old lady. "I never thought about it like that." Shelby replied. "He's beautiful," Viola told her. "Too beautiful to be a boy," Viola whispered.
Her voice barely reached Shelby in the hallway. Shelby hardly registered what the old woman was saying, yet smiled ear-to-ear. She knew the old woman must have been saying something nice about her only child.
"He is, isn't he?" Shelby replied without thinking, trying to remember the exact words the old woman had just spoken, hoping she could tell this story tomorrow or years from now. "Just go do what you need to do," Viola told her, taking her eyes from the toddler and looking at Shelby. "He's not hurt, no worse for the wear, he's fine. Go check on your car and turn your headlights off. No use in making a spectacle of ourselves. The neighbors will want to help someone as pretty as you," Viola said, smiling, the creases in her face deepening with her smile. "I doubt that," Shelby replied, almost embarrassed. She looked down at the flashlight in her hand and remembered what she was supposed to be doing. She remembered what her friends said about the Hot Springs Jail, and she certainly wasn't trying to go there tonight.
"Yes, ma'm," Shelby answered obediently, walking towards the front door, almost glad her car had ploughed through the old lady's fence. She was almost glad she wouldn't make her date. They were going out in her car because his car was in the shop. If she'd made it, it was probably only for a few beers and a roll in the hay. She walked towards her car, trying to figure out how all of this happened. After a couple of seconds, she pushed it all towards the back of her mind. She had to. Jail was no place she wished to be tonight.
Viola looked into the eyes of her first son's identical twin, squirming on her bed. She looked to the faded yellow photo in the bronze frame, perched on the small cherry table she used as a nightstand. The photo was of Andrew, about the same age as Travis. The face in the photo and little Travis were one and the same. It took her back so many years so quickly that she almost felt faint of heart. "Holy Mary, Joseph, and Jesus, "she whispered to the night as headlights turned off at that instant, an almost ominous feeling covering the living room.
"Hey, Travis." She said, almost slipping up and saying 'Hey, Drew.'
For a second, she felt as young as the girl who was the mother of the child. Travis squeezed her fingers with his little hands, his young eyes becoming heavy with sleep. Viola watched the child fade in and out of Never Never Land thinking about Drew, who had been gone nearly 35 years. He died much too young from an accident and illness, all because he chose to live a lifestyle that, on a cold, snowy night, landed him on the wrong side of the fence that he had straddled for most of his life. No matter how much the paramedics shocked his heart or pumped adrenaline through his veins, it wasn't happening. Death wasn't giving back that which it had taken.
Her husband, Billy Dugan, had whispered the bad news in her ear as Viola stood in this very hallway some 35 years ago. "It was too cold for death to go and find another," she whispered to Traves. His eyes closed gently, dreaming dreams that only babies dream; dreams of innocence.