Day Meeting

Brent laid his machete onto the ground. He brushed South-Texas coastal grit from

his forehead, and took stock of his senses. The temperature was in the upper nineties, he

was covered in sweat, and his triceps were locked in a painful cramp. As he relaxed, wind

roared in his ears and sent damp pendants of his hair flapping. It felt wonderful.

His muscles slowly unclenched. The ache didn’t go away, it just retreated deep

inside his joints. Brent could feel his clothes sticking in places where clothes ought not to

stick, and the idea of a hot shower teased briefly at his mind. When he adjusted his

grandfather’s worn leather workgloves on his hands, fresh calluses shouted out their

presence. Despite these little protests, he hefted his machete and put the breeze at his

back.

A few hundred yards to his side, fresh-cut saplings and shredded vines were piled

up on the edge of the field. On the other side, more than a mile of overgrown fenceline

stretched ahead of him. Brent trudged up to the next unlucky sapling and fell back into a

rhythm of clearing the land. He tore into the undergrowth with his machete, pulling the

vines off of branches and out of the ground as he sought tree trunks.

The vines were like spiderwebs, pinning the trees in place. He had to pull the

tendrils taut before each swipe or the blade bounced off harmlessly. When enough space

was free to swing an axe, Brent laid the machete aside and chopped away.

The axehead was dull and wiggled loosely on its handle. It had belonged to

Brent’s grandfather, as did the machete. They had spent the last decade gathering dust on

a tool rack. Yet the axe was solidly made – its weight carried it through trees with a little

persistence. Brent was always surprised by the bright colors it revealed – deep reds and

buttery yellows hidden under weathered bark. Each blow jarred Brent’s shoulders until

the final swing carried through with surprising ease and a crystalline ring of the blade.

As he worked his way down the line, a gray fieldcat crept up to watch. It sat down

in a trough of the field, calculating how many perfect hiding places were being destroyed.

Rather than linger on the past, the cat quickly turned its attention to hunting for dislocated

mice and other snacks in the newly piled brush.

Brent thought of his grandfather as he tore a swathe through the undergrowth. It

was two years since Harry died in a fire, and the farm had slid into disrepair without him.

Harry’s wife had moved to the big city and left the farm for her grandchildren to care for.

Unfortunately, none really felt called to the soil. No one had moved into Nora and Harry’s

house, and the farmland was leased out to a combine that paid slightly more than taxes

cost, or at least it did most years. The land felt empty without Harry around.

Since Brent was attending school nearby, maintaining the place fell to him. When

he was alone, it was easy for Brent to get lost in the work. He sweated into Harry’s old

gloves and overalls as he cut down the same trees that Harry trimmed ten years ago. He

walked in Harry’s footsteps, wearing a pair of rubber boots from the house. At times like

these, it felt as if the old man were still around, just wearing a new body.

Each jumble of vines seemed like camouflage netting piled over some exotic

shape. Brent fantasized about finding a treasure left by Harry, hidden where no one

except a family member would ever look. The lines of two trees pressed together took on

the shape of a racing motorcycle, or of an overgrown treasure chest. This fantasy carried

Brent through whole forests of the thin trunks that were revealed under the vines. They

were a sad sight as the machete sprang them from their burden and they stood tall for the

first and last times in their life.

The trees were growing away from the fence and encroaching on the field, eating

up valuable acreage beyond their value as windbreaks. It wouldn’t do at all for a stray

root to destroy an expensive tilling blade. As each tree died, Brent's imagination was

already picturing the perpetual motion machine stashed away under the next batch of

greenery.

He rocked a downed tree loose from the entangling canopy of vines, and walked it

back to the roadside. As he got near the scrap pile, Brent heard a car drive up on the

lonely country road. Since the ultrastratoway went in twenty miles to the west, the nearby

highway had fallen into disuse. A passing car broke the monotony quite nicely. Brent

looked up, expecting to see a neighbor. Instead, he saw an unfamiliar truck that had seen

its share of rough roads. It pulled up behind his grandfather’s equally battered pickup.

The truck was at least fifty years old, and Brent snatched glances at it while

carefully walking across the soft field. He felt eyes on him as he threw the log next to the

brush pile. Brent waved to the unseen newcomer.

He called out “How’s it going?” and took a swig of warm water from his canteen.

The door of the pickup squealed open and the axles creaked as the driver climbed out.

Instead of answering, he looked Brent over from head to toe. The driver was a similar

height and build to Brent, and he was a mirror image in matching boots and overalls. An

unfriendly expression marked his face.

With the ticking of the pickup’s engine as his only reply, Brent continued “Look

mister, I don’t know you, but we don’t want any hunting around here. Quail season’s

almost over and we don’t put out feed for game around here. Besides, Nora doesn’t like

any lead pellets ending up in the ground.”

The new arrival visibly relaxed. He spoke with the syrupy accent that comes from

the countryside – “So, you know Nora? You must the tha’ hand she hired ta clear this

here out. I been tellin’ her I’d do it all year, and she musta got tired a’ waitin’ on me.

“‘Ah, so this is the new farmer from the combine,’ thought Brent. “Yeah, she asked

me to take care of this jungle. She said it would bring back half an acre of land that’s

wasted by turning the tiller early.”

This got a nod from the interloper. “That’s a truth too.” Then, a pause. “I’m glad

to meet ya. I don’t know what kind a arrangement you made with Nora, but honestly, I’m

glad ta pass this work on. Gotta warn ya', it’s back breakin' and slow goin'.” As an

afterthought, he casually stuck out his hand to shake. “I’m Harry.”

Brent tugged at his work gloves. “Huh. My grandfather was named Harry. I’m

Brent.” He pulled the gloves off and reached for Harry’s hand.

Then, something unexpected happened.

Brent and Harry’s hands passed right through each other. Harry froze, while Brent

had a more violent reaction. “Wha-!”

Harry stared at his hand, fingers and mouth spread wide. “Did ya see that? I never

seen such a thing!”

Brent picked himself up, and scrubbed his palm against his leg. He felt the scrape

of his overalls against fresh calluses and knew that the nerves were working. He felt the

hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up too.

Harry looked at him strangely. “How’d ya do that?”

“Me?! How did you do it?”

Harry put his hands on his hips and his expression hardened. “I don’t care for your

tone. My hand went through yer's, Slick.”

Brent and Harry looked at each other across the ditch with equal parts confusion

and suspicion. Then, they approached each other cautiously.

Brent stuck out his hand once more, and Harry hesitantly reached for it. Their

hands met and then merged again, unmistakably both reaching through the same space.

Brent jerked away as if scalded, and Harry took a few steps back before he gave voice to

his doubts. “This can’t be!”

After a few heartbeats, Brent picked up a can from the ditch and weighed it in his

hand. Harry’s eyes narrowed, and Brent smiled disarmingly. “Something weird is going

on. I know I’m solid, and I can hear the ground crunch when you move. But if my hand

passes through yours... well, here. Take this can.”

Brent dropped the can into Harry's outstretched palms, and Harry closed his

fingers on it. Disturbingly, it went right through Harry’s hands and fell right through his

foot too. Dirt inside the can rattled as it rolled back into the ditch.

Harry sputtered and looked down at his foot. He twisted to look at the can as it

rolled behind him and whistled. “How’d ya pull that trick?”

Brent grew sure of himself. “You’re not really there at all, are you?”

“I’m as solid as you are! I mean - eh - ya' know what I mean! This must be one of

them smoke and mirror tricks. Where you really at?”

“Huh! No tricks here. That trash proved you’re either a figment of my imagination

or some kind of hologram. And trust me, my imagination runs towards busty

supermodels, not grumpy farmers.”

“Hang on one minute! It didn’t prove nothin’! Let’s see here...” Harry bent over

and his fingers found a bottle by the roadside. He held it up with his wrist cocked back.

“This one aint made of smoke. Let’s see if you can catch ‘et.”

The bottle spun lazily from Harry’s hand and flew right at Brent. It should have

given him a black eye, but instead ignored him on its way through his arm and then right

through his head. It smashed on the road with a loud crash.

“See? Who’s a figment now?”

Brent was a bit shaken, but he shrugged off his surprise. “That only proves I can

hallucinate bottles too.”

Harry considered this. He tugged on his ear, and eventually shook his head as if

shaking off an irritating fly. “I don’t have time for this foolishness. And, if you’re just

gettin’ started on the fenceline, you don’t neither.”

‘Typical backwoods attitude,’ thought Brent. ‘If you can’t explain it, ignore it!’

But the non-sequitur startled him. He looked over his shoulder, at the half mile of cleared

brush. “'Just getting started?' What does that mean? When I cut down the last tree, would

you call that ‘halfway done’?”

Harry looked at Brent strangely again. “Slick, there’s not a branch missin' from

when I last looked.”

“Oh yeah? Then where did these come from?” asked Brent, as he gestured at the

pile of saplings and vines.

“What? That one log? I saw you drag it over just now.”

‘Is he blind?’ thought Brent.

‘What nuthouse did this guy get out of? ́ thought Harry.

Brent glanced meaningfully at the pile of branches and deadwood that was

collapsing under its own weight. Then he looked back to Harry, who was leaning against

his truck with his arms crossed. “You’re telling me you can’t see a four foot high pile of

wood?”

“Ah, don’t start that stuff again. I want no part of your daydreams.”

Brent rolled his eyes and moved close beside Harry. “I still don’t understand what

you are.” A thought struck him; “Will you get all distorted if I wave my hand through

you?”

“What?” As Brent got uncomfortably close, Harry backpedaled and said

nervously; “You stay back!” Brent stuck his arm out suddenly, and waved his hand right

through Harry’s chest.

There was no tell-tale flicker, just a twitch from Harry. He ogled at Brent’s wrist

sticking out of his shirt.

Brent’s face lit up. “That’s amazing! Is there a projector in your truck?”

Harry was still looking down at the arm in his ribs. “What’re you talkin' about?”

“Oh, come on. The equipment must be in here...” Brent walked past Harry, who

was relieved to escape his attention.

Brent cupped his hands to his face before leaning toward the truck’s window.

Everything seemed normal. A tool chest and lunch pail sat in the passenger seat, and a

Navajo blanket was draped across the backseat. There was something under the blanket,

and as Brent pressed his face forward for a better look, he got his second big shock.

The window didn’t take his weight. His inner ear registered falling before he

realized what was happening, and Brent had time for a surprised “Hey!” before he fell

through the pickup and all the way to the road.

Harry saw Brent fall into his truck and stepped over to investigate. One moment,

the farmhand with the Yankee accent was leaning against the truck, and the next he was

gone.

Brent’s resigned voice came up from the ground. “Okay, so I’m an idiot. I should

have seen that one coming.”

“You all right?”

“I’m fine. Just a few ego bruises. Did you know your truck is leaking oil?”

“The same truck you just fell through?”

“The very same. And you should get both leaks looked at right away.”

Harry groaned. “Yer havin' a laugh at me now.”

“Oh, that’s ripe! Mr. Practical Joker here is telling me to stop fooling around.”

Brent stood up as he said this, his legs through the floorboard and his shoulders hidden in

the seatbacks. He waded through the truck, as if walking through a darkened room and wary of unseen obstacles. “I’m not sure what your game is, but I’ve made a big enough fool of myself for one day. I’m going back to work.”

Brent matched action to his words and walked away, with his back straight.

“Good riddance!” Harry said as he cautiously leaned against his truck. After being

reassured that it was solid, he realized what he was doing. He shook himself in sudden

disgust at doubting it would support him. When Harry looked up the farmhand was gone.

Brent kept the corner of his eye on the farmer as he walked back to the woodpile.

As he stepped over the log he’d dropped off earlier, Harry and his pickup vanished.

Brent turned and looked at the dusty stretch of road where they’d been. He looked

to either side, but there was no sign. He cocked his head and listened for a moment. There

was... nothing.

Curiosity won out over diligence. Brent changed direction and walked towards the

road again. After a step, Harry and his pickup were back. They appeared like a rainbow

coming into view from just the right angle. Harry had come closer, and was almost as

startled by Brent’s appearance as Brent was by his.

Harry got in the first word. “What the – what are you?!”

“Huh? What do you mean, what am I?”

“You gotta be a ghost! That’s it, aint it?”

Brent rolled his eyes. “That’s ridiculous.”

Harry crossed his arms. “You walk through my truck. Then ya vanish into thin air.

Don’t tell me what’s ridiculous!”

“What a load of... Look, why would a ghost want to talk with you?”

“Are ya’ –-- hauntin’ me?”

“Let’s get something straight here. You’re the one who disappeared when I turned

my back!”

“Bull! When you stepped over there, you vanished.” His voice changed; became

apprehensive. “Is it for muh’ loose ways?!”

Brent wisely ignored the question. “Oh, really? I vanished right over here?”

Harry’s eyes grew wide when Brent gestured, and Brent picked up on it right

away. “What? What did you see?”

“Your arm! It vanished!”

Brent brought the appendage in question to his face and wiggled his fingers.

“Looks fine to me. Are you sure you haven’t been standing downwind of a cow for too

long?”

“No, no! It happened in mid-air just there. Stick yer arm back out.”

Brent followed the direction and slowly extended his arm.

“Stop! Right there!”

Brent looked at his fingers closely. Perhaps it was just his imagination, but it

looked like there was a shadow on the tips of his nails. “So, there’s some kind of... what,

some kind of boundary right here?” He looked at the place closely. A few weeds grew

across the boundary without any signs of concern. “There’s nothing there.”

Brent turned, his back to the mystery place, and backed up a small step at a time.

To Harry, it was like watching someone vanishing into a fogbank. Then Brent stepped

back into view with wonder written on his face.

“What did you see?” asked Harry.

“A better question is ‘What didn’t I see?’. Everything was the same, but you

dissolved. And your truck too.” Brent bent down and started prodding carefully at the

ground. “Is there anything under the field here?”

“Just dirt and more dirt.” Harry looked over Brent’s shoulder. “You sure yer no

ghost?”

“Positive,” he said, with clods of dirt flying from his hands.

“And a ghost wouldn’t say that?” Cynicism aside, Harry moved to investigate. He

reached for the log Brent had dropped off and said “All that’s here is this overgrown

stick.” His hand passed right through the log. As he leaned forward for a closer look, he

went across the boundary and disappeared.

“Harry!” Brent called out. “Come back here!” No response came.

Then, Harry reappeared in mid-sentence “-id you go now? Oh, there you are.

That’s the darndest thing. When I turned around, you were gone.”

Brent shrugged. “I guess it goes both ways. Did you hear me shouting?”

“No, not a whisper.” As the words left his mouth, Harry heard a car’s engine

suddenly loud and nearby. A weird convertible, painted the ugliest shade of yellow he’d

ever seen, was suddenly there in the road, cruising along at a good clip. It raced past, and

then disappeared in the middle of the asphalt.

“Whoa!” said Harry. “Did you see that?”

“The Daewoo Bool? Yeah, the old guy down the road drives one. He tears around

in it almost every day.

“Dye-what?”

“Daewoo. You know...” Seeing that Harry didn’t, Brent continued; “That Korean

car company. When they bought General Motors, they tried to make some luxury cars.

Didn’t work very well, until they –"

“Wait a second! I really got to read the paper more. A Korean company bought

GM? When did this happen? I didn’t get shot in Hungnam so they could buy us out!”

“It was a few years ago. You were... shot? Where did you say you were –“

“In my right shoulder. I caught a richochet – if it had been going faster I might

have lost the arm.”

“But... you couldn’t possibly be that old. My grandfather fought in the Korean

War. He got two oak clusters on his purple heart.”

Harry looked startled. “So did I. The first two were from friendly fire, which aint

as nice as et sounds, and –"

Brent finished the sentence “-and it wasn’t ‘til the Koreans did their best to kill

you that the Army sent you home.” A moment of silence stretched between them. “That’s

what my grandfather said all the time. What’s going on here?”

“How’d ya know I was gonna say that? And, what was your grandfather doing in

Korea?”

Brent looked at Harry with a growing suspicion. He thought ‘Take away half his

muscles, dump a bucket of grey on his skin, and add a few decades worth of wear and

tear... Harry here would look a lot like Grandpa. But that’s crazy, isn’t it?’

“Are you telling me you fought in the Korean War?”

“They didn’t call it a war, but I didn’t get shot on a sightseeing trip if that’s what

yer asking. Didn’t you sign up?”

“Not exactly,” Brent said, and then hesitated while his teeth found his lower lip.

Then he took the plunge. “Harry, this may be nuts, but I think I know what’s going on.

My last name’s Cooper, and I think yours is too.”

Harry looked confused, and Brent drove on. “Your birthday is September 2nd and

your favorite color is blue. Every dog you ever owned was named Bud, and you can’t

stand the taste of wine. Are you my grandfather, or am I wrong?”

In a moment, Harry understood what Brent was saying. His earlier doubts about

Brent being a ghost ironically flashed through his mind. “Yeah, that’s crazy! I am Harry

Cooper, but – but that don’t mean nothin’.” The denial sounded weak to his own ears, and

he tried again. “There’re a lot of Coopers, and just because your granddaddy was named

Harry... Well, it sure don’t mean I’m him.”

“But all the rest is right, isn’t it? Come on Harry!”

The two of them looked at each other differently in that moment. Both of them

had a flash of clarity, as when faint gibberish becomes a familiar song. Brent saw his

grandfather’s eyes and Harry saw his wife’s nose. In that moment, fear made Harry want

to run but wonder kept him rooted in place. Instead of sprinting away, he said “So, I’m

gonna have a grandson? But I don’t have a son yet!”

“Yeah, you ... wait a minute. What year do you think it is?”

“It’s 1955. October tenth, 1955. That mean anything?”

“No, it doesn’t.” Brent paused thoughtfully. “Wait, yes it does! Why don’t you

remember the last sixty years? And, why do you look so young? This isn’t right.”

“Sixty years! Sixty? I never imagined I’d live that long. I thought you were gonna

tell me I died today, and you go and tell me that. Whew!”

“What? But, you’re already dead!”

“Slick, don't sound so sure. As soon as I cross whatever that invisible boundary is,

I can roll around in red paint and go ride a bull if I want to.”

“Or... maybe you’ll just disappear. You think of that?”

“No, that can’t be. From where I’m standin', I can see Nora hangin' out the sheets

to dry. I bet she sees me out here talkin' to myself like usual. ” He pointed off to the west;

“Over there I can see Jimmy Moore crop dustin' his milo. If I bring him a beer, he could

take me up in his Kaydet this afternoon. Or, I could go into town and watch that new

Hitchcock film about the jewel thief.”

Brent had his own perspective. “There’s a lake where you’re pointing - after they

dammed the river twenty years ago, the Bardot reservoir sprang up. Our worlds aren't the

same at all. But, I could tell you about things that would put even Hitchcock’s

imagination to shame. Do you want to walk away from me and miss out on everything I

know?” As he warmed to the subject, he leaned forward conspiratorially. “We could put

bookies out of business, and get you in on the ground floor with all the companies that

stormed the stock market. I could tell you who the big celebrities are going to be before

they’re anybody, set you up as a friend to presidents and prime ministers.”

“Sure, I guess ya could. But, would I stay on this dusty farm if I had piles of

money? Did the grandfather you know rub shoulders with movie stars? I don’t think

you’d be here if I had! Would you vanish in a puff of smoke if I did things differently?”

The gleam in Brent’s eye dimmed, but didn’t go away. “I don’t know. But – you

can still do those things. I’ve got no desire to come undone, or to tell you how to live your

life, but it doesn’t have to be that way. You were always a private person and no one

knew what you were up to. Maybe you had millions of dollars and saw every major world

event from the front row. It won’t mean anything to you, but you've got a chance to see

something called Woodstock I wouldn’t miss for the world. And you could answer all

sorts of questions about what happens in Dallas in 1963. But, there’s certainly something

else to consider!”

“And what’s that?”

“If you walk away, I’ll never hear your stories. You never told me about flying in

a crop duster. You never even told me your version how you met Grandma Nora... or

about your first job, how to fix an engine, who you voted for in 1960, or a thousand other

things! And, I thought I’d never get the chance to ask you.”

Harry looked at Brent and wanted to put an arm on his shoulder. “You know

somethin’? You’re all right.”

Brent’s cheeks flushed at the compliment. With a shy smile, he asked “So, why

don’t you start with Nora? How did the two of you meet?”

Harry leaned back against the door of his truck, warming up to the subject. “Now,

that’s a story! It was summer, and I was out of school lookin' for work in Galveston. I

guess you wouldn’t remember it, but that summer there was something special called VE

Day...”

With that start, the flood gates between Brent and Harry came open. Into the

night, they told stories of what was and of what would be. The sun set on both of their

days and the cool wind blew the same timeless South Texas grit across their skin. It felt wonderful.

by George Morris