Kev (2 page)

This time, the voice said nothing. It had
departed, but for how long it would be gone I did not know.

I continued writing, “Do I know Clive? If
not, when will I meet him? Should I beware of him, or is the voice
playing a trick on me?”

I paused for a moment, trying to remember
other things the voice had told me, remembering something rather
odd. I remembered the voice telling me who Clive was. I couldn’t
believe it, putting my pen to paper and writing, “Clive is,” and
then pausing, pausing because I couldn’t remember who the voice had
said Clive was.

After a few minutes trying to recover the
memory, I gave up, realizing I would not remember by trying to
remember. I almost never remembered things I tried to remember.
Frustrated and in no mood to continue writing, I decided to go to
my room.

As I left my fort, I noticed two small cubes
on the ground, a red one and a black one. I picked them up and
examined them. The red one had no markings of any kind. The black
one had a small blue button and a digital display that read,
“2005,” which happened to be the current year. The two cubes were
identical in size to my clear cube. Who had left these cubes on the
ground? Had I? “What are these cubes?” I said to the voice. I
received no answer.

I pressed the button on the black cube once
and let go. Nothing happened. I pressed it twice and nothing
happened, and then, figuring it was just some useless toy I had
previously discarded, possibly something Aunt Helen had given me, I
put it and the red cube in my pocket.

I returned to my room to continue work on my
airplane, now almost completely disassembled. How many times had I
taken it apart and put it back together? It seemed like an infinite
number of times, though I knew that wasn’t possible, or at least
not probable, although I harbored some amount of suspicion that I
had, in fact, taken it apart and put it back together a near
infinite number of times, a strange thought for a young boy to
have, perhaps, but the thought I had.

Some time later, my mother called out to me.
It was time for the party. I went into the kitchen and saw my
mother and two kids I recognized, although I couldn’t put names to
their faces. Of course, they knew I wouldn’t remember and had a
little fun with me, claiming to be Smelly Pockets and Dung Beetle.
We went outside and started a game of pig. Soon after that, the
rest of the guests arrived, including Uncle Joe and Aunt Helen.

A truck pulling a horse trailer pulled into
the driveway, and the driver and another guy unloaded two ponies,
leading them out into the front yard. Both of the guys unloading
the ponies wore black t-shirts imprinted with red maple leafs.
Printed on the backs of the shirts were what I presumed were their
names, Bob and Doug. I looked at the ponies as one of them relieved
itself on the lawn, and in that moment, I saw that event played
over and over countless times. I turned and looked at my parents
who were chatting with Uncle Joe and Aunt Helen. How many times had
they had that conversation? What were they talking about? Was it
the same every time? Uncle Joe saw me and waved for me to come
over, which I dutifully did.

“Kev Kev Bo Bev,” cried Uncle Joe reaching
out to give me a hug. “How you doing, buddy?”

“Good,” I said.

“Just good?” said Uncle Joe, a playful frown
on his face.

“Better than good,” I said. “Are those men
going to clean the poop up?” I pointed to the men who had brought
the ponies.

“No, you’re going to have to clean it up,
Kev,” said Aunt Helen in her serious silly voice, the voice she
used when she made some wisecrack.

“Really?” I said, remembering having this
conversation before, but thinking that not possible. Déjà vu to the
infinite degree, it seemed. .

The party commenced, all the kids taking
turns riding the ponies, the other kids chasing around in the yard
or playing basketball. I took my turn on one of the ponies and was
immediately bucked off. How many times had I been bucked off that
pony?

After a while, we all sat down to lunch,
another favorite, barbequed chicken and rice. Some of the kids had
hoped for pizza, a regular enough offering for a birthday party,
but I didn’t really like pizza.

After lunch, my mom brought out the cake,
candles lit. Everyone sang the obligatory song, and then I blew out
the candles, forgetting to make a wish when I did.

I heard something and looked up, just in time
to see a large object falling from the sky, trailing a long
contrail of smoke, fast approaching and heading our way. I
remembered something and froze, unable to say the words that might
have made a difference.

Seconds later, the body of the airplane
crashed onto our next door neighbor’s house, and the tail of the
plane landed on my parents, who had been off to the side talking,
killing them instantly. Images of this event in an infinity of
forms flashed through my head, and then my mind shut down.

What followed, confusion, chaos, screaming
people and, eventually, police cars and fire trucks, was lost on
me. Uncle Joe and Aunt Helen had taken me inside my house, perhaps
to protect me, and were doing their best to reassure me that
everything would be all right, although I didn’t understand why
they were acting this way, given that I had completely forgotten
what had happened.

The next day, I still didn’t remember what
had happened, and didn’t remember my parents. Uncle Joe and Aunt
Helen didn’t tell me what had happened, nor did they tell me
anything when I asked why I would be living with Aunt Helen going
forward. Despite the fact that I had completely forgotten my
parents, I had not forgotten my home and thought it strange that I
would leave it behind.

Clive and the girl

I moved in with my aunt, although I would have
preferred to live with Uncle Joe on his farm. Sometimes, I wondered
where my parents were, or more precisely, wondered who they were,
but most of the time I didn’t think about them at all. The few
times I asked my aunt about them, she simply told me they lived in
heaven, a place she said all good people went to in the
afterlife.

All of my friends, the friends I didn’t
usually remember, would come over to play, but all of them had been
instructed not to mention anything about my parents or anything
else I might have forgotten.

My aunt, a strange lady by all accounts, did
her best to take care of me, but she had problems of her own. I
would often hear her talking to herself, often saying things like,
“Why can’t it end? Why can’t we all do something else? Why can’t he
remember?” She had taken to drinking and often drank too much,
often saying things like, “Do you think you are going to figure it
out, Kev?” or “I would tell you, but you would just forget. You’ll
never remember. You’ll never win,” after a few drinks, even if I
said nothing to prompt her.

We would go to movies, often movies too
mature for me, would go to a nearby park to feed the ducks, and
would sometimes go on adventures to distant places, some beyond
strange, alien worlds far, far away, places Aunt Helen told me I
had been to before. Aunt Helen did quite a bit with me and showed
great love for me. That said, I can’t say I was unhappy. In fact, I
think I was happy, although at times, I felt more than a little
confused and more than a little concerned for my aunt.

Summer came, the school year finished, and
Aunt Helen sent me away to camp for the most of the summer, my
idea, although I knew not why.

There I met Clive, one of my bunkmates. A
tall, thick, brown skinned boy, nine years old, Clive lived in
Hawaii. He and I immediately hit it off, spending all of our free
time together.

Clive liked to play games, and had made up a
game called The Show. I was the contestant on The Show, a
sometimes-unwilling contestant, given that the challenges on The
Show usually led to injury. However, I always healed and healed
quickly, which often led to Clive saying things like, “Do you get
it?” or “Is it sinking in yet?”

On the last day of camp, Clive thought up a
strange challenge, one he called, “Choke Hold.”

“So, you sit there and I’ll get behind you
and put you in a choke hold. All you have to do is break free and
you win,” said Clive.

“What if I don’t break free?” I said. Clive
was much larger than me and I knew I stood no chance of breaking
free.

“Then you die,” said Clive.

“Tell you what,” I said. “How about you go
drown yourself?”

“Funny. Are you going to play or what?” said
Clive.

How many times had I broken my arm that
summer, only to heal seconds later? Three times, I thought. I had
also broken my nose and my shinbone, had split my skull open and
punctured my abdomen after falling on a pointy stick. Each time I
had healed in a matter of seconds and each time I forgot the pain
and eventually the injury.

“Fine, I’ll play.”

Clive got behind me and put me in a
chokehold, squeezing as tight as he could. I punched and kicked and
tried to scream, but he would not let go. Eventually, I blacked
out, saw a flash of light and then found myself on the ground,
staring up at Clive, a sick grin on his face.

“What happened?” I said.

“You tell me,” was all he would say.

On our last day at camp we exchanged numbers
and email addresses. Clive told me he would be attending a private
school called Baker, a school not far from my home. I told him I
would try to get my aunt to send me there.

I never forgot who Clive was that entire
summer, although I could barely remember the names of any of the
other kids I met while at that camp.

Three days after returned to my aunt’s home,
Uncle Joe flew up to Connecticut in his airplane and brought me
down to Macon, Georgia, to his farm. I had vague memories of that
place, and of a nearby park. I remembered an abandoned farm across
from the park and a girl, although I couldn’t remember her
name.

On the first day with Uncle Joe, he took me
to the park and played with me. He brought a remote controlled
helicopter that we flew, although I crashed it a few times,
eventually breaking it beyond repair. The whole time, I had my eyes
on the barn on the abandoned farm, but for what reason I did not
know.

The next day, I went to the park by myself.
In the center of the park stood a large wooden fort. I climbed to
the top of it and stared out at the abandoned farm, perhaps
expecting someone, soon seeing a young girl poke her head out of
the half-opened barn door.

I saw her come out of the barn, running
toward me. I knew her, but did not know how, and wondered if I
would ever know.

She stopped at the bottom of the fort and
called out, “What are you doing up there, dummy?”

I fell in love.

She wore ratty, torn and soiled jeans and a
dirty white shirt. Her shoes were mismatched and untied and she had
a big grin on her face. Her black hair looked like it hadn’t been
brushed in months and she had two missing front teeth.

“Waiting for you, I think,” I said, knowing,
in that moment, that was exactly what I had been doing.

She climbed to the top of the fort, gave me a
playful punch on the shoulder, and then said, “You don’t remember,
do you?”

“No.”

“That’s okay. You will eventually. So, are
you going to ask me to marry you?”

“What’s your name?” I said.

“I don’t think I know you well enough to tell
you that, Kev,” she said, the grin still on her face. “So are you
going to ask me to marry you?”

“Um, will you marry me?”

“Not like that, dummy. You have to get down
on your knees.”

I dropped to my knees and asked again. Her
face turned serious, and she said, “I accept.” She leaned down and
gave me a kiss and then pulled me up to my feet.

“Why don’t I remember you?” I said.

“You don’t remember many things,” she said.
“Do you want to go somewhere far away for our honeymoon?”

“Like where?”

“How about Uthio Minor?” she said.

“Where is that?”

“Far, far away. I can take us there. Of
course, if you remembered, you could take us there, but you
don’t.”

“I guess I don’t remember a lot of things,” I
said.

“I know, Kev, but you will.” She grabbed my
hand and for an instant, the world distorted.

We appeared on a wide beach, hundred foot
tall palm trees lining the shore. Off in the distance I saw a hut
of some sort, perhaps an outdoor bar. I saw a creature behind the
bar, bug-like and dark. Nearby, I saw a house with a thatched roof
and bamboo walls. The girl led me to the house and took me
inside.

I remembered this house and had vague
memories of living in it, but living in it while older. I
remembered children playing in the house with an older version of
me, and thought I was remembering some strange dream.

“This is our home,” she said.

“Where are we?” I said, an unnecessary
question, given that I did in some strange way know where I was. I
just couldn’t believe it. How was this possible?

“Uthio Minor,” she said.

“Is this a dream?”

“No, dummy. This is our home. Come on, let’s
get some green tea,” she said. “Maybe that will help you
remember.”

She led me out of the house and down the
beach to the hut, which was, in fact, a bar. We climbed up onto two
stools. I looked at the bug-like creature that was staring at
me.

“Hey, Kev,” it said.

“Uh,” I said.

“He doesn’t remember, does he?” said the
bug-like creature to the girl.

“Not one thing,” she said.

“I’m Brok,” said Brok.

“You’re a bug,” I said.

“I’ll have you know, I am a Belethian,” said
Brok.

“Okay,” I said, thinking Brok looked like a
cross between an ant and a cricket, although his hands, all six of
them were quite like a human’s and his feet, all four of them,
which I saw when I peered over the edge of the bar, looked much
like those of a bird. Odd.