smiling at him, staring at him. Harlan has waited so, so long. And he will keep waiting, until it’s Tuesday afternoon again.
Distinctly, Harlan hears a voice say, “May 19.”
“Mr. Harlan?”
Harlan does not hear Nathan. Instead, the faces Father Time so graciously blurred sharpen in his mind’s eye.
One name escapes his mouth, as the memories crash down like discordant music:
“Michael.”
Part I
August 14, 2009 — May 19, 2010
1
August 14, 2009
Driving through the southern edge of Bucks County, Pennsylvania, greatness grows in secret. Majesty inhabits the fields of the area’s farmers, in the faces of parents whose children graduate from the local high schools, every hope and dream nestled into opportunity. Some people claim the only way to find a great life is to leave the small towns, but the truly knowledgeable understand the value of simplicity. In one particular town, nestled into an area about 40 minutes north of Philadelphia, happiness is a rich crop, only harvestable by those with observant vision.
It is August. September has not yet awakened from its slumber to steal the children off to school again. The leaves on the trees are still as flush as emeralds. The agrarian land has weathered countless storms. There’s a spirit intrinsic to the farmhouses, built into the wood and sewn into the pastures. Those who discover the soul of the land are rarely apt to stray.
History and influence have touched the area. Time brushes past people, turning their skin softer, aging their minds, and whitening their hair. It brushes past places, turning stones and scripts to particles of dust. The universe eventually reclaims all it bears. Time has turned the soil, cut down the trees, but also cultivates futures on the foundation of the years.
Route 309 runs for 134 miles through the state of Pennsylvania. It starts near Philadelphia and ends in Bowman Creek, near a town called Wilkes Barre. A town sits at a point equidistant between the two aforementioned markers. The nature of the town is a dichotomy of agrarian farms and the commercial world, referred to as a place called Quakertown. The highway runs through the town center; cars each tell their own story in every spin of their tires or blare of their horns.
Shops line the sides of the highways in clusters: a TGI Fridays, a McDonald’s, the obligatory Wendy’s. The Family Diner sits in the same section as the local Giant Food Store, joined by a set of connecting stairs. More people eventually gravitate to industry, creating sustainable livings. They are farmers of the land by a different method.
Off the Turnpike entrance, one comes into Quakertown via a transition. The scene changes from a National Geographic film to a sudden burst of small civilization. Frequent visitors will not mark such a change, but the residents have noticed the shifts.
From the turnpike entrance comes a 1970’s red Chevy Impala. It is dark, glinting with both a classical sheen and whisky-aged beauty. The whistles of passersby appreciate its nearly pristine condition. The man behind the wheel of the car eases to the stoplight. Music drifts gently from the car radio, fusing with the notes of the world’s breeze.
A translucent guitar strums; a piano plays softly. A voice cracks the air as it tries to pry itself from the speakers.
In the passenger seat of the car, a woman sits reading a book. 19 Minutes by Jodi Picoult, the blue cover contrasting the warmness of her dress. The creases of the pages almost match the folds on her skin. A pair of modest earrings frame the sides of her face. Her eyes focus down on the text in her lap. Like the man’s, her eyes look through glasses. If peoples’ items could speak, the woman’s possessions would attest to a life well lived.
As the car rolls to a stop in front of the light, she raises her head.
“Harlan,” she asks in a voice of aged velvet.
“Yes, dear?” The man replies.
“Should we say anything once we get there?’
Harlan lets out a breath.
“There is a time and place for everything, right? I don’t think it’ll be constructive if we do.”
The woman nods, silent. She turns back to the book in her lap. The ring on her right hand gently glides across the page.
The light turns green. The impala rumbles in delight, ready to move, a model on a catwalk of pavement.
The radio fills the conversation eagerly, a parched animal lapping from a pond.
The woman glances up from her book. She frowns, her brown eyes and eyebrows in tune.
“Is this still U2?” she asks.
“Yes, darling. The Joshua Tree.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard this one before.” She grins, looking at him. Even in his age, he is handsome, his complexion darkened from the sun’s kiss.
Harlan returns the grin. “I think you might just have forgotten. I played it the last time we were on our way up here.”
“I don’t forget anything.” The woman says, turning back to her book.
“I’m surprised you don’t need a nametag to keep you straight some mornings.” Harlan chuckles. They roll to a stop again.
“I’ll build it for you myself. Cynthia Joy McGregor, hang it right above the bathroom door.” Harlan turns to look at her now. His humor pauses, just like his heart every time he looks in her direction.
There sits his wife, peering down at the book in her lap. Some people get sick of each other, but their thirty-six years still feels like a first date. All secrets are shared. She’s looking at the page, but isn’t reading a word.
Harlan reaches over and turns the music down. The traffic light is long to change.
“What’s eating at you, my love?” Harlan wonders, retaining his cheeriness while his words cut like a fish through water.
Cynthia does not sigh, but her breath indicates an escaping thought.
“I’m worried about our son. And his wife. And our grandson.”
Harlan nods, turning his focus back to the road.
“I am too. I don’t think it’s much of our business.”
Minutes pass; the song finishes. Harlan reaches a hand out and adjusts the track, hitting the ‘up’ button four times. Track nine is his favorite. As the music starts once again, the car drifts from the commercial center and into the nucleus of town, the other half of the coin on which Quakertown is printed. One side holds the future, and the other the past. While the highway has been apt to travel, the rest of the town is not as eager to change.
Harlan guides the car to a stop, the line of vehicles in front of him at a standstill. He turns to Cynthia, as the song plays out.
Cynthia shifts her view once more from her book, her hands resting upon her place in the paragraph. Her eyes meet her husband’s; a bridge
