Thomas and Jessica Shane lived in an alabaster-white bungalow on a quarter acre of landscaped property towards the end of the little street. Jim pulled to a stop outside their home with a squeal of objecting brakes. Resting with one foot on a pedal and the other against the raised curb, he could see that the house was just as he remembered it. Its green lawn so well manicured it looked sprayed into place rather than planted. The drive leading to the two-car garage was spotless, the rose bushes and flower beds glowed in luxurious color accenting the crazy-paved path that led up to their front door.
Jessica Shane had always loved her roses. Her death had left a vacuum in all their lives. When she died, Thomas had been heart-broken but he had taken-on caring for her flowers. He had told Jim in one uncharacteristic moment of vulnerability that it made him feel close to his wife, to be able to continue to do something for her, to continue to raise the flowers she had thought of as her surrogate children.
Jessica had been a truly wonderful woman. When first introduced to her Jim felt an instant rapport with this gentle, caring woman. He could see where Simone got her beauty. When he heard the news of her death back in ’33 it had hit him hard.
Standing on the porch of their home, he could not help but remember the great times they had all shared here before everything went to Hell. Jim counted himself lucky; it wasn’t every man who could truly call his wife’s parents friends.
Thomas had carried on his life. But after his wife’s passing he had always seemed less than whole, uncompleted, and Jim had the impression that life no longer held any sparkle for Thomas Shane. Simone had tried to fill the void but her father had taken her aside one spring day and gently told her that he appreciated her kindness and that he loved her very much but she could not replace the woman he had spent the last thirty-eight years with and that she shouldn’t try. Simone had been upset but Thomas hugged her close knowing that the emptiness he felt was as great for his child as it was for him.
Casting those memories aside, Jim rapped gently on the front door and waited, illuminated in the dull glow of the twin lamps fixed to either side of the entranceway. There was no sound or sign of movement from inside the house and Jim knocked once more, this time a little harder. His hand raised to try one more time; he caught a hint of movement out of the corner of his right eye. The blinds that hung in the front room window had moved, he was sure of it and he turned to face whoever might be watching, stepping a little further into the light so they would have a clearer view of him.
“Thomas. It’s Jim… Jim Baston,” he hissed. His voice barely above a whisper.
The slats of the blinds parted, two fingers pushing them apart. There was a pause while whoever stood on the other side of the window took a good look at him, then the fingers disappeared and Jim heard footsteps coming to the door.
“Step back from the door,” demanded a stern voice.
“Thomas, it’s Jim,” he reiterated.
“I don’t care who the Hell you say you are. Step back from the door.”
Jim did as the voice demanded. Stepping off the porch and back slightly into the shadows. He heard the sound of deadbolts sliding back on the other side of the door. It opened with a slight creak of unoiled hinges.
Thomas Shane stood in the doorway — at least Jim assumed the dark silhouette was Thomas — an efficient looking pistol in his hand, leveled at Jim’s chest.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” the figure demanded, the usually gentle mid-western voice now sharp and commanding.
Thomas Shane had been a big man in his prime. He stood six-two and had the build of a professional athlete. When Jim had last seen him he was in his late seventies and time had taken its toll on the man. But, as his ex-father-in-law stepped out of the shadow and into the meager light cast by the exterior lamps, Jim could see that the same strangeness that had returned his youth had also worked its bizarre magic on Simone’s Father.
Here stood a much younger Thomas than the one Jim had last seen all those years ago. All signs of decrepitness had evaporated. Blue eyes peered at him from beneath a full head of gray hair. He was still muscular but had a slight paunch that hung over his belt.
Thomas had been a cop in LA for most of his life; he had a quick intelligence and a sharpness of insight that allowed him to sum up people’s character with a single glance. Jim could feel that intuitive skill now as Thomas’ gaze swept over him.
Jim caught sight of his own hands. They were black with soot and grime, a cut on his left hand — he couldn’t even remember where he had gotten it — had congealed into an ugly looking scab. His clothes he realized were in no better state, dirty and torn, and Jim guessed that his face was just as messed up. He figured he probably looked like a collier who’d just left the coalface.
“Thomas. It’s James,” he said.
Apart from his vehicle’s AI, Jim’s father-in-law was the only other person who called him James. Thomas was a stickler for using full names, he hated anyone calling him Tom, or Tommy or any other contraction of his own name, and he believed in affording others the same courtesy that he demanded. So, from the first day they had met, no matter how often he had hinted that his father-in-law should call him by his preferred moniker, he had remained James.
Thomas took a step forward and scrutinized Jim even more closely. A smile of recognition spread across his face as he closed the gap between them, throwing his arms around him in a fatherly hug.
“Boy, you look like shit,” said the big man. “Come on into the house, let’s get you cleaned up.”
“Is Simone here,” asked Jim as he stepped into the Shane’s home.
Thomas regarded Jim with barely hidden distress before answering. “I had hoped that she was with you when—” he seemed to be searching for the right word “—the miracle happened.”
“No. I found myself in a store. I thought — hoped — that I would find her here.”
Jim knew that his Father-in-law was not an overly religious man. He attended church on all the right holidays, had raised his daughter with a respect for religion but encouraged her to find her own path to God. The use of the word ‘miracle’ did not jive with the horror and cataclysm that he had just experienced on his bike trip.
Thousand Oaks seemed to be an oasis in a sea of destruction; perhaps Thomas had not ventured very far from the house and had not seen the awfulness of the highways or the distant pillars of smoke rising from the burning city of Los Angeles.
Thomas rested his hand reassuringly on Jim’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. Simone’s tough. If she’s caught up in all this, she will find a way to get to us.”
“I wish I had your optimism. If you had seen what I have today you might think a little differently,” he said, unable to keep the weariness from his voice.
“Come with me. I need to show you something.” Thomas laid a gentle hand on Jim’s shoulder and led him down the hallway, past the kitchen area and into their comfortable living room.
“Hello Jim, Dear,” said a familiar female voice.
Sitting pensively on her favorite easy chair was Jessica Shane, pale but most definitely alive, despite the fact that she had been dead for the past twelve years.