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Lincoln lay on a patch of grass in the sunken yard just outside the Halifax North Memorial Library. Romper snored beside him. It was one of those days when the sky made him dizzy—the way the clouds zoomed on by like that. Racing. Time seemed to stand still, stuck in a world moving far too fast.
But time never stood still. Like the clouds, it raced. The weight of it all a sea upon his chest, he lay there, half-drowned by all the hours still to be lived. The seconds. Minutes. Days.
He breathed deep the scent of truck exhaust; coughed, sputtered, sat up. Romper let out a startled bark. The mutt looked both ways, seemed to roll his eyes at Lincoln, then settled back down.
A woman pushed out of the library door, a large bag and a small boy trailing behind. Her.
She seemed everywhere lately: invading the streets, invading his thoughts. She strode past him with steps that seemed too long, too forceful, on a person so graceful.
The first time he saw her, he'd thought, 'Foxy Brown.'
Was that racist?
He was a fourth black after all, though no one would know to look at him. So, racist to say it, but not to think it.
The woman raised a hand to someone across the street—barely an acknowledgement, barely a smile—and walked on.
Lincoln had been wrong. Not Foxy Brown—a Nubian goddess of ancient times. Transported here, to Gottingen Street, to the year two thousand and fifteen.
He collapsed again, but a relaxed fall this time. The grass seemed friendlier. Welcoming. If she could transport to another time and place, maybe he could too. Escape.
Beautiful. Clean. With no guilt or uncertainty. Without hurting anyone.
Lincoln ran his fingers through his beard, scratching, pulling, contemplating. He could go inside or stay here. Return home or stay here. Close his eyes and be swept away. He'd stay, just a little longer. He had time.
When Lincoln opened his eyes he convulsed. His hands were damp. His clothes. The sky had darkened. The clouds stood still. He propelled himself forward—up the steps, over the railing—and leapt toward the library doors. Locked. How long had he slept? Hours, obviously. The library closed at nine p.m.
Stupid. A waste.
With his hands against the glass, Lincoln caught a movement. Cheryl. He pounded three times. She jumped and turned, her brow furrowed.
Lincoln grinned.
She pointed to the clock above the desk. 9:01.
“It's fast,” Lincoln shouted. “I swear.”
She turned her wrist. Shook her head. Pointed to the watch.
“Please.” The grin again. He always put a grin on for Cheryl, and it always worked.
She walked to the door and stood staring, her hands on those big ol' hips. But he saw the twinkle in her eye. Lincoln turned to Romper, who had sidled up beside him, and gave the dog a nod. Stay. Romper looked away with a huff and settled onto his front paws.
Cheryl turned the lock and opened the door. She didn't step aside. “You know our hours.”
“I don't have a watch.”
“And that's my fault?”
“I fell asleep on the lawn.”
“You fell—?” She shook her head. “Lincoln, we're closed.”
“But the door is open.” He pushed past her to the stacks. “My stuff is on hold. I'll be 20 seconds.”
“Ten.”
“Ten. Okay.”
A minute later Lincoln dropped a pile of books on the desk. Cheryl jumped, then reached for the first. “You don't deserve this.”
Lincoln nodded.
“What are you doing, anyway? All this stuff ... architecture, woodworking, solar energy?”
Lincoln beamed. “Learning.”
“I know, but—” She shook her head, her gaze on the books, and then at Lincoln. “What are you up—?”
“Your husband's waiting, isn't he? John, is it?”
Cheryl huffed and scanned the books. She pushed them to Lincoln, her brow furrowed once more. “Go on, then. Get.”
He grinned and stepped outside. The night wouldn't be wasted. He would dive into these books, devour them, then go through again slowly, making sure he understood every concept and had thought through every application and possibility. He cocked his head at Romper and turned toward home.
No, not home. Home was a ten-minute drive. A forty-seven-minute walk. A thirty-minute bus ride, with transfer. Not that knowing these numbers mattered. In eight months he hadn't made the trip once. Hadn't even told his family he'd returned.
Lincoln walked past the community garden, the church that had been there longer than anything he could see, the greenhouse the local kids were so proud of.
Halifax wasn't a big city. But it was one you could get lost in—if you wanted. And where he was headed wasn't home. It was just a place to be lost.
***
ONE-TWO-THREE, FIVE-six-seven. One-two-three, five-six-seven. Clomp-clomp-clomp, clomp-clomp-clomp. Lincoln was at least four buildings away and already he could hear the words and sounds that filled his life, invaded it. Five evenings a week and every other weekday afternoon.
He hoped the music would start soon—drown out the incessant sound of those heels, of the instructor's booming voice. The music, though not his style, was a reprieve after the clomping. A gift ... for the first few minutes.
Several women in dresses with swishing skirts and high heels rushed past Lincoln, chatting with high pitched, laughing voices.
He couldn't figure out the appeal. The dance? He doubted it. Salsa was supposed to be passionate, freeing, not this regimented counting and clomping the studio seemed to advocate.
Didn't the women get that?
More likely it was the idea of the dance. The idea of something exotic and freeing and full of life. That, he supposed, he could understand.
Maybe he'd pop in one night. Get a closer look at who, exactly, had the wool pulled over their eyes. New lovers awkwardly trying to impress each other? Seasoned lovers aching to fill the empty, silent hours of knowing everything there was to know and yet still being strangers? Or singles?
A man strode past in khaki's and a tucked in dress shirt; he flipped his key fob then clicked it. A horn sounded just behind Lincoln, making him jump. He shook his head, then followed the man with his gaze.
The studio accepted singles, a big sign made sure no one missed the announcement. Hello, lonely soul. This too, is for you.
The man jogged up the studio steps.
Maybe it was all singles, a myriad of people hoping there'd be some kind of magic in those numbers, those steps—one-two-three, five-six-seven—that would mean they didn't have to be alone anymore. Two buildings away now, the sound dominated the street.
Lincoln held the library books to his chest, envisioning their promise—silence, solitude, a life apart.
He felt sorry for the dancers. For their blindness, their searching after something they could never have. We were all alone. That was the truth. Born that way, we die that way. The big lie was that the years in between could change that.
One building away, and he could feel the music thumping in his chest.
All the windows were open. That's why the sound had travelled so far. Warmer weather. The window would be open all the time now. Lincoln sighed.
A slew of hopefuls poured down the studio steps. Laughing. Chatting. Arm in arm. He walked past them, through them. They spread wide as if he were Moses parting the sea.
Almost there. Almost home. He'd close his windows, no matter how hot it was.
Romper ran ahead, past a car in front of Lincoln's steps, past the long toned leg attached to the woman stepping out of it.
Lucy.
Lincoln stood frozen, his back against a tree. Flee? No point; she'd see him run. A door slam. They were here. What could they want? How had they found him?
Lucy laughed as Joseph took her arm. That tinkling laugh. The laugh that made him first notice her, made him turn his head in a crowd and see.
Lucy.
She was beautiful as ever. Slim. Blue eyes flashing under lashes long with mascara that never clumped, not once in their four years together, that never ran or smudged. Not when she cried. Not when she was slick with the sweat of lovemaking.
The mascara of every other woman he'd ever been with had clumped.
Her eyes met his—Lincoln braced himself to say something, anything, but her gaze flitted away. She gripped Joseph's arm tighter. Joseph, who barely looked at him, who walked on as if Lincoln were nothing more than a bum on the street.
Lincoln watched them pass. Her in her red dress and black heels; Joseph in khakis and a wrinkle-free shirt. They weren't here for him. The dance. They were here for the dance.
Lincoln slumped against the tree, his heart thumping against his chest like a mallet. He looked down at his loose and aging clothes. Not the crisp suits and perpetually shined shoes Joseph and Lucy were used to seeing. Instead, Lincoln wore an old flannel button-up and torn jeans. His hair hung in greasy clumps, inches longer than it had ever been.
He raised a hand to his beard. He hadn't intended to grow it, had never had more than stubble before. But in those first few weeks, which quickly turned into those first few months, he couldn't bother shaving. What was the point? Then one day an old classmate approached. Lincoln walked on, dreading each moment the distance between them shortened, the questions that would come, the explanations he'd have to give. He braced himself, steeled himself, readied ... and the classmate walked on with only a casual glance. He hadn’t recognized him. More than that, he dismissed him. In that moment, Lincoln decided the beard would stay. And he hadn't bothered to cut his hair once in the eight long months since he’d seen them. But he never thought ... Joseph. Joseph not recognizing him. Joseph not seeing him.
Lucy had, though. Whether or not she'd known for sure it'd been him, there'd been a flicker of recognition. And then she walked on.
Lincoln kept his back close against the tree. What time was it? After nine? Nine-fifteen, maybe? Classes started on the hour. So they were late. Typical. Of Lucy, at least. That magical mascara took time to apply.
Thursday at nine. He wouldn't be outside at this time again.