Behind Our Lives

Chapter One-1

Chapter One

Lincoln lay on a patch of grass in the sunken yard just outside the Halifax North Memorial Library. Romper snored beside him. It was one of those days when the sky made him dizzy—the way the clouds zoomed on by like that. Racing. Time seemed to stand still, stuck in a world moving far too fast.

But time never stood still. Like the clouds, it raced. The weight of it all a sea upon his chest, he lay there, half-drowned by all the hours still to be lived. The seconds. Minutes. Days.

He breathed deep the scent of truck exhaust; coughed, sputtered, sat up. Romper let out a startled bark. The mutt looked both ways, seemed to roll his eyes at Lincoln, then settled back down.

A woman pushed out of the library door, a large bag and a small boy trailing behind. Her.

She seemed everywhere lately: invading the streets, invading his thoughts. She strode past him with steps that seemed too long, too forceful, on a person so graceful.

The first time he saw her, he'd thought, 'Foxy Brown.'

Was that racist?

He was a fourth black after all, though no one would know to look at him. So, racist to say it, but not to think it.

The woman raised a hand to someone across the street—barely an acknowledgement, barely a smile—and walked on.

Lincoln had been wrong. Not Foxy Brown—a Nubian goddess of ancient times. Transported here, to Gottingen Street, to the year two thousand and fifteen.

He collapsed again, but a relaxed fall this time. The grass seemed friendlier. Welcoming. If she could transport to another time and place, maybe he could too. Escape.

Beautiful. Clean. With no guilt or uncertainty. Without hurting anyone.

Lincoln ran his fingers through his beard, scratching, pulling, contemplating. He could go inside or stay here. Return home or stay here. Close his eyes and be swept away. He'd stay, just a little longer. He had time.

When Lincoln opened his eyes he convulsed. His hands were damp. His clothes. The sky had darkened. The clouds stood still. He propelled himself forward—up the steps, over the railing—and leapt toward the library doors. Locked. How long had he slept? Hours, obviously. The library closed at nine p.m.

Stupid. A waste.

With his hands against the glass, Lincoln caught a movement. Cheryl. He pounded three times. She jumped and turned, her brow furrowed.

Lincoln grinned.

She pointed to the clock above the desk. 9:01.

“It's fast,” Lincoln shouted. “I swear.”

She turned her wrist. Shook her head. Pointed to the watch.

“Please.” The grin again. He always put a grin on for Cheryl, and it always worked.

She walked to the door and stood staring, her hands on those big ol' hips. But he saw the twinkle in her eye. Lincoln turned to Romper, who had sidled up beside him, and gave the dog a nod. Stay. Romper looked away with a huff and settled onto his front paws.

Cheryl turned the lock and opened the door. She didn't step aside. “You know our hours.”

“I don't have a watch.”

“And that's my fault?”

“I fell asleep on the lawn.”

“You fell—?” She shook her head. “Lincoln, we're closed.”

“But the door is open.” He pushed past her to the stacks. “My stuff is on hold. I'll be 20 seconds.”

“Ten.”

“Ten. Okay.”

A minute later Lincoln dropped a pile of books on the desk. Cheryl jumped, then reached for the first. “You don't deserve this.”

Lincoln nodded.

“What are you doing, anyway? All this stuff ... architecture, woodworking, solar energy?”

Lincoln beamed. “Learning.”

“I know, but—” She shook her head, her gaze on the books, and then at Lincoln. “What are you up—?”

“Your husband's waiting, isn't he? John, is it?”

Cheryl huffed and scanned the books. She pushed them to Lincoln, her brow furrowed once more. “Go on, then. Get.”

He grinned and stepped outside. The night wouldn't be wasted. He would dive into these books, devour them, then go through again slowly, making sure he understood every concept and had thought through every application and possibility. He c****d his head at Romper and turned toward home.

No, not home. Home was a ten-minute drive. A forty-seven-minute walk. A thirty-minute bus ride, with transfer. Not that knowing these numbers mattered. In eight months he hadn't made the trip once. Hadn't even told his family he'd returned.

Lincoln walked past the community garden, the church that had been there longer than anything he could see, the greenhouse the local kids were so proud of.

Halifax wasn't a big city. But it was one you could get lost in—if you wanted. And where he was headed wasn't home. It was just a place to be lost.

***