Chapter 7

Jimothy Whyte

April

Jimothy Whyte was thin, bony, and awkward, like a skeleton poorly assembled out of mismatching parts. He walked the way a badly managed puppet would walk—in irregular jerky movements that carried him forward whilst keeping onlookers in a state of suspense. He should have been walking carefully on this warm afternoon, watching the sidewalk as Mike always told him, but the world kept distracting him. The grass of well-trimmed lawns flamed green in the sunlight; birds flurried and twittered in the branches of a blossoming tree; an old lady in a denim apron carefully showered her flowerbeds with a shiny cherry-red watering can. The cool breeze brought a distant scent of meat cooking on a grill that made his mouth water.

Jimothy spotted something of interest and came to an abrupt halt. One of his legs received the message too late and continued on in such a way that he ended up sitting down hard on the concrete. He grimaced from side to side to see if anyone had observed his fall. The sunny street, a backwater path lost in the mysterious depths of suburbia, lay deserted. Nothing stirred, and all was quiet on that warm, bright avenue. He sighed and ran a hand through his brown hair. It was starting to get into his eyes again.

Jimothy redirected his attention to the object of interest, a blue rubber ball the size of a small orange. He watched it expectantly, as if waiting for it to begin the conversation. He picked a pebble out of the sole of a sandal. He noticed the fascinating way the sun’s light bloomed off of the dull rubber surface. He became aware of a beetle somehow overturned on the concrete nearby, its little legs wiggling in desperation, and he carefully leaned over to nudge it upright.

At last, satisfied that the ball was not going to make the first move, he got to his feet. This action, for most people a very simple one, was for Jimothy a complex procedure of leverage and balance.

He had taken his eyes off of the ball while he stood. When he stooped to pick it up, he found that the ball had vanished. Puzzled, Jimothy made a thorough inspection of the surrounding terrain. He was happy to see that the beetle was well on its way into the shade of a mailbox. But the ball was nowhere to be seen.

This did not much concern Jimothy. He had forgotten to check the Line, that was all. He should have made sure the ball was real before stopping to try to pick it up. He proceeded down the street, carefully, back toward home.

Spring had descended at last upon the city of Los Angeles. A cool breeze slithered through the neutral air, giving Jim goose-bumps and stirring the budding branches overhead. It smelled like flowers, like Easter. Like light and rain and mystery. A regular pattern of clouds crawled across the sky, which burned with a frightening shade of blue. Somewhere else, across the city, shadows drifted across freshly mown baseball fields. In that same direction, farther, much farther, through falling rain and beyond many mountains, a person was walking in the cold, in the snow, on a barren gravel road between crooked barbed wire fences beneath a cerulean sky. A bird circled far overhead, a hawk or an eagle. The type of bird did not matter, but its presence did. It had to be in the picture.

Jimothy shivered at the cold. It was all clear in his mind: the lighting, the motion, the composition. His fingers twitched with the need to hold paintbrushes, to spread and mix colors over textured canvas. And it was real, what he had just seen. He remembered to check the Line, and it was real. It was in Montana. It probably didn’t mean anything important, though.

Something struck his right foot, and the daydream popped with a sound of sudden silence. He stopped, successfully, and watched as a blue rubber ball rolled to a halt five sidewalk-squares ahead. It came to rest on the indent between two of them.

Jim tilted his head at it. He approached with caution. The ball retreated, rolling over the sidewalk in a disturbingly normal way.

Jim stopped. The ball stopped with him. He gave it a where-do-you-think-you’re-going? look. He checked the Line. The ball was real; he was not imagining it.

When a bouncy ball is dropped, it will bounce in place, progressively lowering with each rebound until at last it does a fast little tap-dance and comes to rest. What happened next in front of Jimothy was exactly like that, only in reverse. The blue rubber ball vibrated on the sidewalk and began bouncing, devoid of apparent cause. Its bounces grew steadily in height until with each bounce it came up to Jimothy’s eye level. A steady thock , thock , thock sound filled the silence which Jimothy suddenly sensed around him. Jimothy noticed the shadow which the ball cast, flickering back and forth like a dark creature scurrying over the ground in sync with the bouncing. For Jimothy, the shadow seemed to reinforce the reality of what he saw, confirming the verdict of the Line.

Without preamble, the ball bounced away down the sidewalk.

Jimothy grinned and chased after it.

He immediately fell on his face.

When he had eventually regained an upright position, the ball was nowhere to be seen. Jimothy Whyte was not concerned.

In some dusty, cobwebbed corner of his brain, he was dimly aware of the implications of what he had just seen. He was, in a way, conscious of the fact that something unprecedented had just occurred. But he’d always, in a way, been expecting something like this.

He suspected that chasing the animate ball would be useless, not to mention harmful to himself. So he continued home.

Jimothy poked his head inside and peered around the door. There was their small living room, right where he’d left it—and there was his older brother on the couch. It was just the two of them in this house now. Mike’s head was hanging over the back so that he looked at Jimothy upside down. His unbound hair hung from his inverted scalp like the tendrils of a black jellyfish.

“You don’t need to creep in here, Jim,” said Michael Whyte. “You live here, you know.”

Jimothy looked around, trying to remember exactly how things had been when he had left their house that morning. All seemed well. Nothing out of place.

“I saw a broken bottle on the sidewalk,” he told Mike. He spoke slowly, and his voice came out slightly slurred. His tongue had a limp, as Eric would say.

Mike raised his head. “Yeah?”

“It was really cool.”

“Hmm.”

“It looked like brown fire.”

“Hmm.”

“Like molasses lava.”

“Hmm.”

“Like—”

“Then go paint it. I’m busy.” Mike was doing something on a laptop. Editing, maybe.

Jimothy paused before telling Mike about the more unusual thing. What if Mike didn’t believe him? But it was important to tell him these things.

“I saw a ball today.”

“And?”

“It was bouncing all by itself.”

“What color was it?”

“Blue.”

“What, cobalt blue?”

“Just blue. The ball was old blue. Old rubber blue.”

“So it was rubber?”

“I think so.”

“Rubber doesn’t bounce all by itself, Jim.”

“I know. But what does?”

Mike shrugged, still bent over whatever occupied him. “Go figure it out. And put something on your face. That could get infected.”

Jim shrugged, although Mike was not looking. “I don’t pay attention to my feet.” He thought for a moment. “And I didn’t take my cane.”

“Well, that explains it, then.”

Jimothy sensed that Mike had just closed the conversation, so he went into the kitchen, obtained a half-empty bag of dry cereal, and retreated to his room upstairs.

His room had a clear two-fold purpose: sleeping and painting. Color was everywhere: on his bed, on the walls and ceiling, stored in a vast assortment of tubes and bottles, and carefully arranged on many prepared canvasses. Jimothy took painting seriously. He owned an array of fine tools and supplies, which he financed by selling his work as concept art to movie and videogame studios in the area. He already made nearly as much money this way as Mike did by working as a fiction editor. Since he didn’t go to school anymore, he could paint as much as he wanted, which was a lot.

He did paintings for his friends too. He put extra work into those.

Jim went to his window and looked down into his backyard. It was full of a crazy Australian shepherd named Hazel. As a dog, Hazel’s defining characteristic was frantic insanity. At the moment, down below, Hazel was circling furiously around a sprinkler. The dog lunged in to bite the spraying water before leaping back and performing swift evasive maneuvers, a black and white blur circling and darting back in to catch the sprinkler off-guard. Hazel sometimes battled the sprinkler for hours. Occasionally, Hazel would leap up, bite a roofing beam protruding from the wooden shed in the back of the yard, and hang there for a few seconds. Mike didn’t allow Hazel in the house anymore because he had a tendency to jump on Jimothy and knock him over. This was hard to argue with, but Jimothy did sometimes miss being randomly surprised by his dog’s aggressive affection.

Hazel reminded him of Elizabeth’s cat, Callie, because they were totally different. Callie carried herself with class and poise, which was unlike Hazel, but a lot like Elizabeth. Jimothy thought for a while about Elizabeth and her birthday party and how much fun it had been to see everyone again. After a few minutes, he came to suspect that he was thinking about Elizabeth because she wanted to talk to him. He checked his phone. Sure enough, she had left him a message.

EE: Hello, Jimothy.

JW: Hello Elizabeth!

He had to wait a few minutes for her to respond. He entertained himself by trying to sketch the broken beer bottle reflecting the sunlight, just as Michael had suggested. It was challenging getting all the reflections and refractions just right. And it needed color, of course. He became so involved that the vibration of his phone surprised him when Elizabeth returned his message.

EE: How are you doing?

JW: Pretty good

JW: Mike was just out of town for a few days, so I was here alone

JW: But he’s back now and I’m doing fine

EE: Where did he go?

JW: Some thing for his publishing company

EE: Is he ascending at last to the heights of editorship?

JW: Uh

JW: Maybe

JW: He didn’t seem too excited about it

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

JW: Did you know he got something from Heidi’s dad?

EE: Mr. Sheppard isn’t her father. But no, I did not know that. What did he receive?

JW: He won’t talk about it, but whatever it is, I don’t think he’s very happy about it

EE: Interesting.

EE: How does Mr. Sheppard know Mike?

JW: No idea

EE: Very interesting.

EE: Have any other strange things been happening over there?

JW: Today I saw a blue rubber ball that was bouncing all by itself.

JW: Out on the street.

EE: Bouncing by itself?

JW: There was no one around.

EE: Maybe it was a prank?

JW: I don’t think so.

JW: I don’t think Mike believed me.

EE: I believe you.

JW: You do?

EE: Of course I do! I live with Callie. What’s an autonomous bouncing ball compared to that?

EE: Keep me apprised of the situation.

JW: What?

EE: Tell me if anything else strange happens.

EE: Anyway, it was nice to meet Mike when you came over.

EE: He certainly seems like an excellent big brother.

JW: Well you have one too!

JW: A big sister, I mean

JW: An excellent one

JW: AJ’s really cool and nice

EE: She is indeed. We lucked out, Jimothy.

JW: Yeah Mike really liked her too

EE: Oh?

JW: Yeah when we were driving back he was telling me all about how funny and pretty she is and how he wants to see her again

EE: Jimothy

EE: Thank you for telling me. But in the future, try to remember that when someone tells you something like that, they might not want you distributing the information to others. You should ask them first.

JW: Oh right! We’ve talked about that

JW: Like an implied secret

JW: sorry

JW: Eric always tells me that stuff

JW: like sometimes you shouldn’t pass along certain compliments

JW: it’s like when he told me that he thought Kate is cute

JW: so like I shouldn’t tell other people he said that, I guess

EE: ...

JW: uh

JW: was that another one?

JW: Can you forget about that one?

EE: Jimothy stop.

EE: I’m laughing.

JW: Is Callie there?

EE: Yes, she is watching me type.

JW: But she doesn’t have any eyes

EE: Good point. She manages.

EE: Speaking of which, and I hate to bring it back to this, but I’m curious. How does Eric know that Kate is cute?

EE: I know she is, since I have seen her. Has he seen her?

JW: He’s been seeing her in his dreams

JW: we both have!

JW: we compared notes to be sure we were seeing the same person

JW: Wait

JW: Was that another thing I shouldn’t have said?

JW: It’s so hard to tell sometimes

JW: Mike says I need to read between the lines

JW: But that doesn’t make any sense at all

JW: There is nothing there

JW: And he should know since all he does is read

EE: I am glad I decided to talk to you today.

JW: Thanks!

EE: Your birthday is coming up soon.

JW: I know!

EE: Do you think you could see fit to provide me, and by extension your entire friend group, with some manner of hint as to what you might desire for said birthday?

JW: Wow, I don’t know

EE: I know you don’t. Just think about it, okay?

JW: Wait, I do know!

EE: Oh? What?

JW: What I want is for us to all be together again

JW: But this time with Kate too

JW: and Heidi

JW: It was so much fun going to your house!

EE: Yes, it was.

EE: Again, I am reminded of a question. It is about the painting you did for me.

JW: Reunion?

EE: Yes, the one depicting a quartet engaged in camaraderie around a campfire amid a fantastic landscape while colored lightning glints in the distance and stars speckle the heavens.

JW: You are so good with words

EE: I was looking at it closely the other day, and...

EE: Are the figures supposed to be us?

JW: Oh, I thought it was obvious

EE: Okay. It was Eric’s headphones that gave it away.

EE: I suppose you did not depict Kate because you don’t know what she looks like.

EE: Or didn’t, at the time.

JW: No, she’s there

EE: But there are only four figures.

JW: Oh man

JW: I guess I should have added more detail

JW: I’m not in the painting! Isaac isn’t there either

JW: It’s you, Kate, Heidi, and Eric

JW: we’re not all there

JW: that’s why it’s kind of sad

JW: can’t you tell that it’s kind of sad?

EE: I can tell.

EE: But Jimothy?

JW: yeah?

EE: Why didn’t you paint yourself or Isaac into this Reunion, thereby significantly reducing its level of sadness?

JW: Well I thought about it

JW: But that just isn’t how I saw it

JW: If I did that, it wouldn’t be right

JW: It would be like lying

JW: Like if you were writing a poem

JW: Oh, I know!

JW: for my birthday, since I gave you a painting

JW: You should write me a poem!

JW: I’ve only read a few of your poems

JW: And they’re so good

JW: They make me feel the same way that a good painting does

EE: Coming from you that is perhaps the greatest compliment my poetry has ever received.

EE: Thank you.