The Inheritance Paradox
Three (Eugene’s Story)
EUGENE WALLACE HOLBROOK was disgusted with himself. He had betrayed everything he held as true and holy. He was the scum of the earth and he knew it.
On June first, 1979, he woke up in his car—a 1964 Corvair Monza. The car was all he had left. He’d been so ashamed a month ago when his infidelity was exposed and he was fired that he’d slipped into the house without speaking to Mary, packed everything he could into the Corvair, and drove away. He’d driven to Flint where an old friend was an attorney and filed for divorce. It was the only thing he felt he could do. Now, after more than a month mostly living in his car or a couple of nights a week at the YMCA, his world had narrowed to what he saw around him.
Clothes—not much. He’d always worn a suit and occasionally dungarees. His bat, ball, and glove. He’d probably never need those again; they just happened to be in the car when he left. His days of coaching the church softball team were past. A box of books, his prized possessions. He’d always loved books, but he limited himself to packing a single box to overflowing with his most loved volumes. The box was open and stacked above the top, but no one was going to take his father’s poetry books from him. It was all he had of his father’s.
There were a few photos in a shoebox, a hat and gloves for cold weather, his typewriter and paper, his Bible, and a coffee cup. Basically, it was the detritus of a life misspent. This morning, he had to check in with his lawyer and then see his doctor. Then, if he had the energy, he’d stand at the home improvement store with a sign that said simply, “Will work.”
He reflexively clutched at a pendant he wore—had worn for the past year since he found out about the girl who made it for him. One more loss in his life.
He thought maybe he should register with a temp agency and see if he could find a job typing somewhere. Or maybe he could just find a place to curl up in a ball and die. He was tired. His world had come to an end. He’d left everything behind and had nowhere to go.
Except the lawyer’s office. There was only one reason he needed a lawyer. Even so, he waited for nearly an hour in the reception area before Ron called him into his office.
“You look like hell, Eugene,” Ron said.
“Thanks. You, too.”
“Nice. You know why we’re here. I was just waiting for the courier. I’ll need your signature on all three copies.”
Eugene took the papers, noting all three had been signed by Mary and witnessed the day before. He signed where directed and Ron witnessed them and stamped them with his notary seal. Ron’s secretary came in with a cup of coffee for each of them, which Eugene gratefully sipped. He hadn’t had anything to eat or drink this morning. Ron folded one copy and put it in an envelope to hand to Eugene.
“That’s all?” Eugene asked.
“That’s it,” Ron answered. “You’re officially divorced and are now a single man.”
Eugene stared at the envelope without seeing it.
“I’m sorry, Eugene,” Ron said. “You didn’t contest anything, just signed everything over to her. Do you even have any money?”
“A couple hundred dollars. I’ve been doing day labor. I need to find regular employment of some sort and a place to live. The car is getting cramped and beginning to smell a little,” Eugene said.
“No doubt. Hey, that pollster group just opened a phone office downstairs. You’ve got a good voice. You could try them.”
“Sure. I’ll go over to the Y and get a shower and shave first. I should wash my clothes, too.” He heaved a deep sigh.
“Eugene, it doesn’t have to be the end of your life, you know. People get divorced every day. It’s part of life,” Ron said.
“All those people don’t cause it. I couldn’t even look Mary in the face. I moved in the middle of the night and ran away. She has every right to hate me. I cheated on her. I broke our vows. I broke the vows I made to the church. What difference does it make if I live or die?”
“Don’t, Eugene. Don’t get suicidal on me. Look to a brighter future. One that is better than anything you had in the past. Stay with us,” Ron said intensely.
“Yeah. I’m not going to kill myself. I just won’t stop anyone else from killing me if the opportunity arises,” Eugene said. He swallowed the last of the coffee and stood to leave.
“Take care, Eugene,” Ron said. “And see those people downstairs about a job. It will help you get back on your feet.”
“Thanks for everything,” Eugene said.
He still had three hours to kill before his doctor’s appointment. He hadn’t eaten anything but didn’t figure he could keep anything down anyway. The pains in his gut had gotten steadily worse since he moved out of the house and into the car. ‘Guilt pangs,’ he thought. God’s punishment visited upon the wicked. He’d been to the doctor twice and they ran a battery of tests, extracting blood for analysis, fluid for a biopsy, and running him through an MRI.
He managed another cup of coffee from a vending machine at the clinic as he waited for Dr. Roberts to finally see him.
“Mr. Holbrook? The doctor will see you now. This way, please.”
The nurse led him to an exam room and told him to just sit and wait. No dressing in a backless gown this time. He was surprised the doctor even ran the number of tests he did. He’d paid twenty dollars the first time and hadn’t been asked for more. It was supposed to be a free clinic. He wasn’t really sure why he was back for this appointment. He couldn’t afford medication. Not that medication could help a guilty conscience.
“Eugene,” Dr. Roberts said when he came through the door and closed it tightly behind him. “Sorry it took me so long. We’ve had a rush of emergencies. You’d think people would be through with the holiday chaos by now. Apparently, some still think Memorial Day is on the 31st instead of the last Monday. Weird, isn’t it? We spent all our lives with the holiday on May 31st and then they just pass a law and suddenly the dates change every year.”
“Yeah. Sorry to interrupt your busy day,” Euguene said. Something else that was his fault. There were people who needed a doctor and he was taking up space.
“A bit dramatic, isn’t it?” Roberts said. “How are you feeling today?”
“No better. I haven’t been able to keep any food down lately. I guess that means I’m saving money,” Eugene said.
“It’s not going to get better, Eugene. I’m sorry to have to say that. There’s a tumor in the small intestine, right below the stomach. It’s malignant.”
“I can’t afford surgery,” Eugene said.
“I’m afraid it wouldn’t make a difference. It’s metastasized. We found cancer cells in your bloodstream with markers for your kidney, liver, and bladder. That probably means it’s other places we didn’t test, too.”
“What are you saying?” Eugene asked, trying to focus on the doctor’s words.
“It’s terminal, Eugene. You need to put your affairs in order.”
“How long?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was as if it was happening to someone else.
“Three months at best. If you can’t eat, it could be faster.”
Put his affairs in order. What an appropriate way to phrase it. It was his affair that caused the chaos in his life. If he’d kept his pants zipped, he’d be sharing this news with Mary and she’d comfort him. At least she didn’t have to put up with her husband dying on her. He missed most of what Dr. Roberts was saying to him as he plunged into self-pity.
“We can get you into hospice care,” the doctor said. “It will include pain management, but no real treatment for the cancer. It would give you a place to live. Not elaborate, but clean, with food. A TV. Friends could come and visit. We’ll make you as comfortable as possible.”
“Oh. I… don’t know. I’ll think about it.”
“Let’s make an appointment for two weeks from now, but if you make a decision before then, call and we’ll get you right in.”
“Thank you. I guess… I’ll see you in two weeks.”
He stopped at the reception desk for an appointment card for June 15. Maybe he could die by then.
He walked out of the clinic and got in his car. He was numb. Divorced, unemployed, homeless, and diagnosed with terminal cancer. His stomach wouldn’t stop hurting and he constantly felt like he was going to throw up. He drove sixty-five miles out to the overlook and watched the boats on the river for a while. He wasn’t paying attention to what he was seeing.
Barges, cruisers, pleasure craft. It looked like it would be a great weekend, and people were headed out to take advantage of the good weather. In the Detroit area, that could all change at a moment’s notice. The St. Clair River divided the United States and Canada. He’d crossed it once. His one big trip out of the United States. He’d thought one day he’d travel the world, but he guessed that was all a pipe dream. He’d travel wherever his casket took him. He supposed they’d find someplace to bury him. A potter’s field.
It was dark by the time Eugene returned to his senses. He turned the car to drive west, back to Flint. There was a place he’d driven past many times. This time, he pulled into the parking lot behind the bar. The entrance was in front and he needed to step around a smelly dumpster. There weren’t many people in the bar. The Friday night crowd hadn’t yet gotten started. That suited him just fine.
Eugene had never really been in a bar before. It smelled of smoke. The floor felt sticky. There were both men and women, so he figured it must be pretty safe, even though it was dimly lit. He walked up to the bar and leaned against it as if he knew what he was doing. Some women at a table with the remains of dinner on it started laughing. Eugene glanced at them but didn’t think they’d singled him out to laugh at. A bartender eventually made his way to Eugene.
“What’ll it be?” he asked.
“Do you sell bottles of liquor here?” Eugene asked.
“Of course. But only for consumption on the premises. What would you like?”
“What’s cheap?” he asked.
The bartender scowled, sizing him up. He turned away from the bar and grabbed a bottle that had already been opened and was about three-quarters full. He put it on the bar so Eugene could see it. Canadian Mist.
“Can I have a glass?”
The bartender pulled a short glass and filled it with ice.
“Ten bucks,” the bartender said before letting go of the glass.
“Oh.” Eugene dug in his wallet and pulled out a five and five ones to give him.
“That table where you’re out of the way,” the bartender said, pointing to a small table near a sign that said ‘restrooms.’
Eugene took the bottle and the glass of ice to the table and sat staring at it. He’d had a glass of wine on a couple of special occasions, but he’d never really had hard liquor. He filled the glass right up to the edge. After screwing the cap back on the bottle, he bent over the glass and slurped from it without picking it up. He didn’t want to spill any of it. It was too expensive to waste.
Instead, he choked and sprayed it out his nose. The women at the table turned to look at him and laughed. Definitely directed at him this time. Their laughter drew the attention of some of the men who had come in, and they started circling the women. Eugene ignored them.
Having gotten past the initial shock of the whiskey burning his throat and eyes and nose, he took another cautious sip. It still made his eyes water, but he managed to get it down without choking again. He waited to see if his stomach would reject it, but it seemed to stay down. He could only drink it slowly, but he approached it with determination.
It took a while. He’d been in the bar an hour before he’d finished his third glass. The fourth had no ice in it at all. He just sat there staring at it and took little sips, trying not to think about the shambles of his life. There was still a little left in the bottle, and he intended to get through it all.
The noise as the bar filled with people and music was turned up blended into a dull roar in Eugene’s mind. The smell of hopelessness. The memories. How his life of service became a self-centered quest for carnal pleasure. How he wanted so desperately to forget everything and just die.
Sometime into his fifth and final glass, a woman plopped in the seat across the table from him and reached out to take his hand. He squinted at her. He thought she was one of the women who had been eating and drinking at a nearby table. Now there was a different group there.
“Sorry I kept you waiting, honey,” she said. She looked a little tipsy herself. She leaned across the table. “Please help me. My friends abandoned me while I was in the restroom and those guys at the bar have been pestering me to leave with them. Could you just walk me out and to the bus stop?”
“Walk. Out.” Eugene parsed the statement, a glimmer of clarity crossing his mind. He decided to be polite. “I’m Eugene.”
“Yeah. Okay. I’m Lynn. Doesn’t make any difference. Just get me out of here and I’ll be out of your hair, okay?”
Eugene tipped back the rest of his drink and nodded. He didn’t feel all that well. He was sure his stomach was finally ready to rebel again. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten. He followed the woman toward the door, not really certain what she looked like, but she had a red jacket on.
Perhaps there was a crack in the floor or a loose floorboard or maybe someone tripped him. The next moment his nose smashed into the floor and he passed out.
“All right, pal. You were just leaving. Let’s get you on your feet and get out of here,” the bartender said. Eugene’s face was wet and he was in a puddle of water, dumped on him by the bartender, the pitcher still in his hand. The burly guy pulled Eugene to his feet and put the pitcher on the bar.
“I was…” Eugene tried to retrace his steps in his mind. He’d been drinking. That was right. He wiped at his face and saw blood from his nose on his hand.
“You was just about to leave,” the bartender said. “Don’t come back. I don’t need dead drunks on my floor.”
“I’m a paying customer!” Eugene managed to yell. People in the bar looked at him, shaking their heads.
“You paid. You drank. You’re done,” the bartender snarled, wadding Eugene’s shirt in his fist. “Now get out.”
Eugene stumbled all the way to the door as the bartender strongarmed him. He hit his knees just outside the bar. What had been pleasant June weather hit him with a blast of cold air after the heat of the bar. He struggled back to his feet and felt along the wall to the corner of the building. The parking lot was behind the bar and that was where his car was. He kept a hand against the wall to steady himself.
When he rounded the corner, the smell of the dumpster overwhelmed him and he doubled over vomiting. He felt his entire insides were coming out of his mouth and after there was nothing left to vomit, he continued to heave, spitting blood onto the mess. He stumbled around the dumpster to find two men in front of him. Beyond them, a third man was on top of a woman whose red jacket was torn from her still body. She was exposed to his groping hands and just lay there unmoving.
“Hey!” Eugene yelled. “Stop!”
“You didn’t see anything,” one of the men in front of him growled. With that, a fist hit him in the face. Eugene flailed back, but they were on him with a vengeance. They hit him in the face, the stomach, and the balls. When he doubled over, they hit him with their knees and then kicked him as he fell to the ground. His head hit the pavement, and he could feel his brain splitting. It had been so easy to pass out in the bar, but it seemed to take forever and a million punches and kicks before he finally lost consciousness in the parking lot.
“What a fuckup. All he had to do was delay them five minutes and she’d have made it to safety. Instead, he arrives five minutes too late. It wasn’t supposed to be that way. She has to live. I have to send him back.”
Eugene didn’t really think he was being spoken to. It was more like someone talking to himself. It smelled a little like he was in a hospital. Instead of a bed, though, he was strapped down in what felt like a barber’s or dentist’s chair. Only the area immediately around him was in a pool of light. He couldn’t move his head, but he could see a shadow of a man in his peripheral vision. His eyes were remarkably clear, even though his mouth was dry as a bone.
“That girl,” Eugene croaked.
A man in a white lab coat spun to look at him. He had the instant presence of a doctor.
“You’re awake. It’s about time. We don’t have a long window to make the change. The longer we wait, the more things get messed up.”
“Window? Change? What are you talking about? What happened to Lynn?” Eugene sputtered. He didn’t like the feeling of being strapped in place.
“She’s dead, you idiot. You were supposed to follow her out of the bar and distract her murderers long enough for her to get away. Instead, you arrived after she was already unconscious and being raped. She didn’t survive it,” the doctor said bitterly.
“Supposed to? I started out. Fell. Next thing I knew, I was being shoved out the door and then I threw up and they beat me until I was unconscious again,” Eugene tried to explain. He wasn’t completely clear about the details. He just remembered seeing Lynn with her red jacket stripped away.
“I’m not omniscient. I just know she needed to survive. It’s critical. You could have been the reason she lived,” the doctor said.
“How long have I been here?” Eugene asked.
“Here? A couple of hours. Long enough for me to drain the alcohol from your bloodstream, knit the broken bones together, and repair the hematoma on your brain.”
“Why? You should have let me die. It would be better.”
“For you, maybe. But you aren’t important. You are generally unimportant as a human being. If you’d stopped the attack, I’d have let you die. But what’s important is the woman. I’ve repaired your body enough so you can go back and make it right. Delay the rapists so she can get away.”
The straps were released from Eugene’s arms and the clamp from his head. He turned to look at the doctor more fully. He still couldn’t see much of the hospital room. Near the doctor was a table with unidentified instruments and a television on it.
“How?” he asked. “For that matter, where the hell am I?”
“You’re between—a place where I’m stuck, but I can manipulate where you are. I pulled you out of your timeline and brought you here so I could fix you and send you back. You need to stop the assault that cost Lynn Dorsey her life.”
Eugene tried to comprehend what the doctor was saying. It already happened. His slacks were torn where he hit the ground. There was dried vomit on his shirt sleeve. He’d been beaten half to death while he was drunk. Yet he felt clear-headed and at least as healthy as he’d been earlier in the day. How was he supposed to stop an attack that already happened?
“Send me back? In time? You can send me back to before those guys beat us?”
“Yes, but it’s tricky. Sending a person back to a time he’s already in can create a paradox if he encounters himself. You need to stop the attack, get Lynn free, and disappear before your drunk-ass-self comes around the edge of that dumpster. You’ve been gone only a couple of minutes in your timeline. I’ll send you back about ten minutes so you are there in time to stop them.”
Eleven minutes and twenty seconds.
“Eleven minutes and twenty seconds,” Eugene muttered.
“Is that what he said?”
“He who?”
“Galahad. He is the brain in the time-chip I implanted in you.”
Let’s get going.
“How am I supposed to stop them?”
“The same way you did the last time, but earlier. Rush in and distract them.”
“Get beat up? Again?”
“You’re sober this time. It should take them longer. Regardless, it doesn’t make a difference. If you had done it right the first time, you’d be dead and she’d be alive.”
“I don’t want to get beaten up again!”
“In your worthless life, when has what you wanted actually made a difference?” the doctor said. “Listen to me, Eugene Holbrook. It is vital to the survival of humanity that Lynn Dorsey survives. No one cares if you do. Go save her. If you are still alive afterward, I’ll bring you back here and patch you up again so you can go back to your insignificant and worthless life.”
“Shit!”
Shit with a bit of hope attached.
“Good luck.”
“But…”
Eugene felt a sudden disorientation and was no longer in the hospital.
Please feel free to send comments to the author at devon@devonlayne.com.
