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FREE SHORT STORY Compilation Robert P. Fitton   No Place Like Home     Because of Aunt Greta's violent and sudden death, Murdock knew Veronica feared everything about the house, but he longed for her to see where he had spent his summers as a youth. Aunt Greta died twenty-five years ago and the house, spoils from his cousin's will, needed repair. Veronica would see the house and return to the West Coast while he made ar-rangements to sell the property. He ignored his reoccurring night-mares of thick clouds encircling the house and eerie noises hidden in the moonlit garden. Instead, his mind traveled back to warm summer nights, listening to Aunt Greta's music box melodies on the porch or chasing elusive fireflies with Ritchie and Ralphie Evans. The chirping crickets reverberated in the July twilight as he played hide and go seek with the Crandall kids.   Once they left the highway and rumbled over the rolling rural roads, Veronica made an effort to be pleasant. He should have sent her home to San Francisco instead of dragging her into his past. They drove along the once green farm fields, now staked with tract housing, asphalt roads, and stockade fences. The Evans' tiny wooden corner store had been transformed into a yellow cinder block supermarket. He veered right and over the hill toward Aunt Greta's house.   Time had molded his summer homestead into a dull remnant of its once vital appearance. The deep gray paint hung on sagging clap-boards, and the original century old window glass was replaced by weathered plywood sheets.   Murdock stopped the car and wandered outside. He crossed the cracked sidewalk to the rusted wrought iron gate. The front yard, overgrown with wavy grass, had become a reposi-tory for cans, bottles, and soggy paper. The gate squeaked as Veronica's car door slammed and he crossed the sunken cement slabs.   " Looks like it needs lots of work," she called.   " It's disgusting is what it is." Murdock pushed aside the porch's numerous spider webs below the rotted ceiling boards. " It would look better if the grass was cut. And paint would bring it back to life."   " Just put it on the market and get what you can for it. And then come back home." He stepped onto the loose floorboards. " You're not thinking of fixing this up, are you?"   " I don't know." He turned toward the darkened door glass.   " Donnie, we're going to marry in two weeks. There's nothing left here for you. Hire a realtor and let him worry about unloading the place."   Murdock timed each of his steps over the wood floor-boards and stroked his chin. " Give me ten days. I need to do this, Veronica. Then I'll fly back and we'll forget about Aunt Greta's house forever."   1

Compilation Robert P. Fitton     From the sidewalk she stared at the boarded upper windows as he created a matted trail through the tall grass. He promised to call her periodi-cally during the next ten days and they would be married upon his return to the city. At the front gate Murdock, suitcase at his feet, kissed her good-bye. She got in the car and brought it around. The beeping horn startled him and she quickly disappeared down the hill. As the hot sun dried his pores he walked upright onto the porch and pinched the cooler steel house key. The gray haired man reflected in the dark door window provided ample evidence the narrow shouldered, chestnut haired boy lived in the past.   The door flew open when he turned the key. Sunlight swept across the sheet covered living room furniture as stagnant air escaped outside. Aunt Greta had died here. He peered down the hallway to the Dutch louver kitchen doors and his eyes followed the wooden banister to darkened second floor.   Curling his fingers, he pushed the window plywood. The rusted nails loosened with a mournful wail and the plywood keeled over. Like a madman determined to unleash buried demons, he attacked the adjoining windows and by sunset, plywood sheets were strewn across the yard grass. With his hands on his hips, he anchored himself on the quiet street and sensed he had brought life back Aunt Greta's house.   * * *     At an uncompromising pace through the week Murdock carefully returned the furniture, lamps, and his aunt's novelties to their old locations. With the electricity restored he turned his energies outside. He sharp-ened Aunt Greta's push mower blades and sliced the wispy grass to a buzz cut exactness. Weeds yanked from her rich soil garden re-vealed narrow stemmed orange tiger lilies and a scattering of golden black eyed Susan's. For days he scraped the clap-boards and joyfully applied layer after layer of gray paint as he restored the house match to his boyhood memories. 2

Compilation Robert P. Fitton   * * *     He extended a dinner invitation to the Evans boys. Hefty in frame, with smooth bald heads and they smoked stinky cigars and marveled at his reconstruction. Except for his aunt's old landscape picture over the fireplace, everything looked remarkably like the old days. Ritc-hie detailed events Murdock had long forgotten, while his brother provided spice to the stories. They both wanted to meet Veronica and pleaded with Murdock to stay in the house.   Nearing midnight, as they prepared to leave, something dragged slowly across his aunt's second floor bedroom. Murdock shot up the hallway staircase, flipped the bedroom light switch, but saw nothing. The three men searched upstairs and the attic. An old picture must have fallen or maybe the floor joists had cracked with age.   He accompanied his friends into the balmy summer air. The front gate still needed oil. They moved onto the street and climbed the hill to the supermarket parking lot. The boys headed for their new contempo-rary home across the street, but Murdock ran to the pay phone near the supermarket's automatic doors.   He tapped out Veronica's number and the line rang, but as he turned back toward Aunt Greta's house, the lights blinked out and only the dim street lamp light illuminated the murky facade. Veronica's voice punctuated the answering machine greeting as he glanced back at the house. Aunt Greta's second floor bedroom sud-denly brightened. The answering machine beeped, but he held the receiver loosely and let it dangle.   He jogged across the parking lot and down the road, his eyes fixed to the second floor Tiffany window lamp. He wiped his wet forehead and breathed rapidly as something darted by the window and the lamp went dark. Saturated sweat darkened his pink sports shirt as he raced up the sidewalk. He ran across the porch floor-boards and unlocked the door, but during the next fifteen minutes a complete search of the house, from dusty attic raf-ters down to the humid, dirt floor basement, revealed nothing. He thought Aunt Greta's bedroom had a hint of her lilac scent as cautiously stepped forward, turned on the window light. His aunt's bedtime stories reverberated in his head as he touched her quilted country spread. The brass lamp switch must have loosened.   After locking the house, he retreated up the stairs to his old bedroom with sports wallpaper across from Aunt Greta's room. He turned on the wood veneer floor model radio and while he waited for the tubes to warm, twisted the air condition-er knob. Rock music's beat competed with the air conditioner's chilling fan and he crawled into his boyhood bed. Tomorrow he would call the realtor, forget about the past and move on.   3

Compilation Robert P. Fitton   * * *     He awoke in the morning light's freezing air, checked the realtor's num-ber in his pocket notebook and lumbered downstairs to front door. Fog swirled outside the beveled glass and the door popped like a soda can opening. He pushed through the cloudy mass and staggered into the sunlight's glare, but the porch shook when the door slammed behind him. " What the hell's going on here?"   The town's white haired postman called from the street. " By God, if it doesn't look like it used to."   " Morning, Leo." Murdock glanced at the closed door again and the postman opened the front gate. " I don't suppose any mail is coming to this house."   " Not since Greta died. I hear you're putting the house on the market."   " Today. And then I'm getting married."   " I was surprised you fixed the old place up. Then again, there's a reason for everything we do in this life, isn't there?"   " Yeah, I guess that's true."   Leo wished him luck with his upcoming marriage. Murdock now felt the urge to leave the town and get back to the faster paced city life. He stood on the porch, watching a persistent bulldozer push back the earth near new condos down the hill. His hand covered the dull brass knob, but the inner mechanism stuck. " Come on. What's the matter with this thing?"   He nudged the door, but it flung open with considerable force. The kitchen's table radio blasted through a surrounding icy cold fog. " A fine ballad from a fine artist. WXZ time is approach-ing ten o'clock. And time for news headlines."   Murdock brushed away the fog and edged his way inside. The front door closed and he spun around. The room furniture was moved and the old beige window shades cast a soft glow over the colorful braided rugs. Bare trees cut deep shadows over fallen leaves. Aunt Greta's landscape picture now hung above the fireplace.   " Good morning. Here is the news for Friday November 22, 1963."   " 1963?"   " President Kennedy spoke this morning at a Chamber of Commerce breakfast in Fort Worth Texas. The President stressed Fort Worth's role in America's national securi-ty. Mr. Kennedy is ac-companied by his wife, Jackie, Vice President Lyndon Johnson and Lady Bird, and Governor and Mrs. John Connolly. The party will take a short flight to Dallas where the President will address a mid-day lunch at the Trade Mart in that city..."   " November twenty-second?"   " Donald, is that you?" His aunt's voice came from kitchen and the aroma of bacon and eggs crept through the house.   Murdock, his face pressed into a frightful stare, watched as Aunt Greta, clad in her white sweater, flowery dress and red paisley apron, stood behind the half louver doors.   " Is something wrong, Donald?" She looked over her shoulder for a moment. " You look upset. Breakfast will be ready soon, dear." Then she disappeared into the kitchen. 4

Compilation Robert P. Fitton     Murdock backed against the wallpaper and breathing errati-cally, clutched the door frame. Through the window, he saw Mrs. Bryant's yellow house with bare trees spread across the wide yard. As he bounced from window to win-dow, open fields abounded. Atop the hill huge framed cars with long fins and white wall tires were parked along Evans' Corner Store. The younger Crandall kids arched into the air on a tire swing looped over the wide branch of a magnifi-cent oak tree.   " Donald, it's time for the Today Show. I know how much you like to watch Hugh Downs and Barbara Walters before you go to the factory. I'll bring your breakfast in there."   Murdock bolted for the outside door, but slipped on the hallway throw rug. He yanked and pulled, prodded and pounded, but the door would not budge. Aunt Greta's work shoes tapped against the linoleum and a few seconds later she turned on the parlor televi-sion. Murdock, gripped with tension, moved slowly into the living room as the weatherman presented the Today Show forecast on the bulky black and white box. A brown plastic antenna wire snaked across the floor and out the window casing and on the red calico place mat was a steaming bacon and eggs breakfast and a large moist glass of orange juice.   " This is some kind of damned joke!"   " Donald," she said from the kitchen. " Please, don't be disruptive or I'll have to get your medicine." She carried a plate of toast into the parlor and set it next to the orange juice.   " Who are you?"   " Why, I'm Aunt Greta, of course. Let me get your Pheno-barbital. That will settle you before you go to work."   " Why am I back here on this day?" Film footage of Presi-dent Kennedy in a Texas parade the night before appeared on the screen. Murdock checked for a VCR hook up. " I don't want to be here!"   He looked into his Aunt's serene blue eyes as she returned with a silver tablespoon and a brown glass bottle half filled to the top. Murdock skirted by her and to the kitchen phone. Quickly, he spun the rotary dial, waiting at each turn for Veronica's number to click. But the connection never went through.   Aunt Greta stood in the parlor doorway. " Who are you calling, dear?"   " This is absurd!" He hung up the receiver and rushed to the kitchen door. Fields with yellowed corn stalks appeared behind a row of trees. " Do I have to break this damned glass? Get me out of here!"   " Oh, my God, Donald, you're having another episode."   5

Compilation Robert P. Fitton     Aunt Greta's persistent sobs fostered guilt. Murdock turned and calmly walked across the linoleum. " I'm sorry." He studied her round face and slowly wiped the tears off her rosy cheeks. " I didn't mean to make you cry."   " Is it over, Donald? Are you all right now?"   " You really... are... Aunt Greta." His own eyes moistened. " You're my Aunt Greta... Alive."   " Of course, dear. Of course." She wiped the remaining tears and set the amber bottle and spoon down on the pink Formica.   " Wait, there has to be a reason why I'm here, Aunt Greta. President Kennedy... That's it.".   Murdock then pivoted on the braided rug and scurried di-rectly for the front door. He skidded out of the fog, across the porch and stepped out of the past. The house appeared as he had left it minutes ago, the postman advancing down the sidewalk, only three houses away. But within the confines of his aunt's house, President Kennedy headed for disaster in Dallas. Murdock again entered the swirling fog sauntering across the porch floorboards.   Aunt Greta watched the TV in the parlor. " I'm glad you decided to come back inside, Donald. I was about to call Sergeant Blake. You know how he hates it when you misbehave."   " Sure." He strutted to the kitchen phone as the brass face mantle clock in the parlor clanged nine times. Kennedy's death oc-curred at twelve-thirty, Texas time.   " Who are you calling now, Donald? Work? I've already told them you would be late, dear." She glanced at the Pheno-barbital bottle.   Calling the local people might get him arrested and no word would ever get out to Dallas. He gripped the phone and poignantly understood the ramifica-tions. The FBI might be the logical choice because they could communicate directly to agents in the field. It would not really matter if they arrested him. He simply would run outside into the present.   " Operator, give me the number of the FBI office in Dallas, Texas."   " FBI?" Aunt Greta gasped. " This has gone far enough! Donald, put down hat telephone!"   He spoke with great emotion as he waited for the number. " Aunt Greta, you don't understand. I can't let the President get to Dealy Plaza. I don't know what this place is or why you're alive again, but it's 1963 inside this house."   " Donald, we cannot be threatening our President."   The operator barked out a phone number and Murdock quickly scrawled it onto the chalkboard next to the phone. When he turned, Aunt Greta had left the room, and he hung up the phone.   " Aunt Greta, please... Please come back. I have to explain this to you."   Murdock requested the operator first place a call to Veronica's San Francisco home. He repeatedly looked for Aunt Greta as the phone line rang. A boy answered the phone and Murdock, wondering if he had the wrong number, asked to speak with Veronica. A little girl, claiming to be Veronica, spoke on the phone and she told him how she was coloring with her crayons.   As he looked at the TV, his aunt rounded the corner and pointed his uncle's vintage rifle directly at his head. Quickly, Murdock blurted out Aunt Greta's number and hung up the phone. Aunt Greta's hands shook between deep breaths.   " Donald, maybe you have to go back to the institution... You can't be threat-ening President Kennedy."   Murdock locked his eyes on he steel barrel. " Aunt Greta... please. How will you feel if they kill Kennedy today?"   " Donald, if you had taken your medicine..."   * * * 6

Compilation Robert P. Fitton Murdock looked at the plastic kitchen clock and hit the butt of his hand into his forehead. " Aunt Greta, please. They're going to kill President Kennedy..."   " Everything will be all right, Donald."   " No! Everything will not be all right!" He grabbed the phone again, but she moved forward like a foot soldier and thrust the gun inches from his head. " Oh, come on!"   " You're a sick boy, Donald. I will call Sergeant Blake if you don't put down the phone." She circled left, lifted the eraser to the black chalkboard and obliterated the FBI number. Murdock gripped the receiver tightly and chucked it against the wall. " You stupid..." He gazed at the cracked receiver, colored wires hanging, and the earpiece on the floor. " Oh, no. My one link... My one link." * * *     For the next few hours Murdock attempted to repair the phone. Aunt Greta left him alone and started washing laundry. Just after twelve thirty, he lifted the phone and a clear dial tone burst through. With the FBI number neatly memorized, Murdock asked the operator to connect him to the field office. When Aunt Greta appeared with the gun again, Murdock kept talking. " Is this the FBI office? Okay. Listen carefully." She cocked the trigger. " Don't let the President go through Dealy Plaza. He will be shot and killed. You have at least an hour to stop this." Murdock hung up the phone and closed his eyes.   Aunt Greta slowly lowered the gun and dropped it on the floor. " Oh, what have you done, Donald?"   Murdock inched forward and held her shoulders. " Don't worry, Aunt Greta. Don't worry." * * *   Murdock sipped a cup of coffee from as huge maroon soup mug and ate his third grilled cheese sandwich as he watched the soap opera. The mantle clock chimed at one-thirty. With no reported shots at the Presi-dent, he brought the dishes into the kitchen and put his hand on Aunt Greta's shoulders. " It's all right, Aunt Greta. It really is. You don't know what I just prevented."   She maintained her silence as he went to the icebox and poured himself a tall glass of cold apple cider. He smiled at the kitchen clock and gazed out the window to the backyard where he played as a boy.   " My God!" exclaimed Aunt Greta.   Murdock's smiled dropped. Across the black and white screen flashed the word BULLETIN and he heard the announcer. "... In Dallas, Texas, three shots were fired at President Kennedy's motor-cade in downtown Dallas..." Murdock dropped the glass and ran into the living room. " ... The first reports say President Kennedy has been seriously wounded by the shooting. More details just ar-rived. These details just about the same as previously..." 7

Compilation Robert P. Fitton     He turned, but Aunt Greta had left the kitchen table. The front door opened and three policemen marched by his aunt. Murdock scampered into the kitchen and scooped up the rifle. The police circled through the hall and living room as he thrust the gun into the air.   With their guns drawn, the police stopped, but a plain clothes cop with a yellow checked tie stepped forward." Put down the gun, Donald. Be a good boy and give the rifle to me. Nothing will happen."   " Clear the damned hallway. I'm getting out of here!" Murdock stormed forward and they retreated. He pulled at the immovable doorknob and then fired, but the door glass re-mained intact. The detective swung around into the parlor. " Donald, hold it!"   " No!" He saw Aunt Greta as he lifted the gun and it went off. Then he heard shooting, stinging across his body as he dropped to the floor. The banister spun above him and blurred. In the back-ground he heard the TV fading away. "... From Dallas, Texas, the flash, apparently official, President Kennedy died at one P.M., Central Standard Time. Vice President Lyndon Johnson..." * * *     Veronica panicked when she could not locate him. She slowly shuffled up the dilapi-dated house's front walk, wondering why Donnie had done no renovations. When she pushed open the ply-wood covered door and peered in the darkened foyer, she saw bro-ken glass scattered across the wood floor. Hardened blood, caked under the banister and the ghost covered furniture frightened her as she staggered back to the porch. * * *   She spent the day inquiring about her fiancé and near sun-set, a retired police officer brought her to the town's stone church. They walked under the spreading hillside trees into a hazy old graveyard. The older man moved along the weathered headstones and down the hill. He stopped near a wide maple and gazed at a solid gray granite stone. She sobbed softly at the chiseled inscrip-tion across the polished stone.   GRETA WILSON MURDOCK JANUARY 23, 1897 - NOVEMBER 22, 1963   DONALD KNOWLTON MURDOCK JULY 15, 1933 - NOVEMBER 22, 1963   Veronica reached into her pocketbook, removed a folded coloring book page, and her tears dropped across a crayon smeared telephone number written over a half colored grandfather clock. She cast the paper to the wind, turning away as it tumbled down the hill, aware now that time was not always the healer of all wounds. 8   Unimited Annual Access to all Fitton e-books and PODCAST Episodes $ 6.99   © 2000 - 2007 Fitton Books. All rights reserved.

Other Short Stories and Novellas in this collection: Mr. Greenwald's Tiergarten Fast Forward   The Last Rites of Dottie O'Leary Thinking of You   The Monstrosity In My Image   The Ultimate Salesman Daycare Dei Gratia  The Decision Crossroads Shoot Out at Coldwater Canyon Read Roy His Rights Images Sarge   .       ©2000-2008 Fitton Books. All rights reserved

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