PROCONNESUS

He woke up slowly and lay relaxed for a moment before opening his eyes. He blinked blearily a couple of times and looked around.

   He was lying on his sofa, ankles crossed, in his darkened living room. In the gloom he could make out the dim but familiar shapes of his furniture, low and simple, their graceful silhouettes dark on dark. His clock glowed gently, reading 17:03. Late afternoon.

   His shoes lay discarded, still laced, one on the floor and one at the end of the sofa next to his feet. His back felt stiff. He arched to stretch out his muscles and rotated his head around on his shoulders. He heard faint satisfying crackles and pops. Yawning widely, he combed his fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp.

   The room was quiet, but he could hear a tap dripping gently somewhere. The faint plops echoed quietly, soothing and metronomic. For a few seconds he lay listening contentedly, then swung his feet onto the floor and sat up. The newspaper, which had been lying open on his chest, slid off and landed in his lap. He reached over and clicked on the nearest lamp, and its soft light fell over him.

   He glanced at the newspaper. It was dated March 5th. His birthday. “How about that?” he thought, and grinned. He tossed the paper onto the coffee table and stood up, wiggled his toes on the cool wood floor, stretched again.

   He glanced around, searching for his cellphone. He couldn’t see it anywhere. It must be in the desk drawer.

   On the dresser, his goldfish, Nemo, swam infinity signs in his small bowl. The fish’s gold and orange hues flashed intermittently in the dim light, its shadow gliding distorted on the wall behind.

   His prints on the wall, Kandinsky’s Red Yellow Blue and Hopper’s Nighthawks, were shrouded in darkness, their colors muted. But the living room window was a large pale rectangle. He walked over to it and took a quick look outside. In the dusk, he could just make out a heavy mist hovering at the edge of his garden. His neighbors’ houses were not visible beyond.

   In the center of the lawn, his Japanese maple, his pride and joy, was in the midst of shedding its leaves. A deep vibrant red, they had peppered the ground beneath the branches, and were swirling across the grass in a gentle breeze. He stood for a moment, watching their antics, enjoying the randomness of their patterns, their unpredictable stop-start circles.

   He could still hear the tap dripping faintly, right at the edge of his perception. “I must fix that,” he thought.

   He realized he was hungry and tried to remember what was in the fridge. Eggs? Maybe. There definitely had been some, but he might have eaten them all. Milk? Probably, if it hadn’t already gone bad. He had a habit of buying too much milk, and then not drinking it quickly enough and having to pour it out. Anyway, he was feeling self-indulgent today, so what about something a little more decadent? Maybe ice cream? Surely he must have ice cream. He didn’t eat ice cream often, so likely there was still some left in the freezer.

   He turned from the window and padded in his bare feet toward the kitchen.

   The sound of the dripping tap faded as he stepped through into the kitchen. “Not the kitchen sink then,” he thought, “it must be the bathroom.” And he reminded himself again to tighten the faucet.

   He crossed the smooth tiles to the fridge, opened the door, and stooped to peer in. The fridge’s interior was bright, smooth and clean. Not a speck of dirt marred the white surfaces, he noted with pride, no flecks of dried herb, no onion skins or carrot fronds.

   His fridge contained one item only. Sitting alone on the middle shelf was a large carton of 2% milk. Its cardboard top had been opened and then squeezed back together. He leaned in and picked up the milk carton. It was cold in his hand, and its contents sloshed heavily. He looked for the sell-by date, and found it impressed upon the tab. It read March 3rd. “Bugger,” he thought, “two days too late.” But sell-by dates are approximate, he knew, and goods often retain their freshness afterwards. He raised the carton warily to his nose, took a tentative sniff, and immediately reeled backwards at the rank acrid odor of vinegar. No good.

   He stood the milk carton on the kitchen counter, closed the fridge door, and made a mental note to dispose of the milk later. “Ice cream first,” he thought.

   He placed his hand upon the handle to the freezer, and paused, thinking. He was two for two in his guesses. No eggs: check. Spoiled milk: check. Could he go three for three? Would there be ice cream? He hauled open the freezer door and looked expectantly inside. The freezer also contained one item only - a large tub of vanilla ice cream. He smiled, victorious.

   He grabbed the tub of ice cream and slid the freezer door closed. He pried the lid off the container and tossed it into the sink, then stepped to the cutlery drawer for a spoon. He selected the biggest he could see, dug himself a large spoonful of ice cream, and crammed it into his mouth. Delicious!

   Chewing slowly, he carried tub and spoon back to the living room window and looked out again. The bright crimson leaves from his beautiful Japanese maple were still scattered across the lawn, still tumbling gently in soft breaths of wind. The grey mist still hovered at the edge of his garden, obscuring all beyond. He stood and watched the scene idly for a moment, swirling the ice cream around his mouth, enjoying its creamy sweetness and the floral taste of the vanilla, and slowly began to realize that something wasn’t quite right. He frowned. There was definitely something wrong with this picture. There was a breeze blowing the leaves across his lawn, but the mist on the street wasn’t moving at all. He watched as several more leaves detached themselves from the tree and tumbled to join their comrades on the ground. A brief gust swept them all into the air, and then they settled raggedly across the lawn once more. Meanwhile, the mist beyond remained solid and opaque, immobile. He asked himself how there could be a strong enough movement of air to blow foliage around his garden yet not affect the mist a little farther away.

   He scooped another spoonful of ice cream out of the tub and raised it high. “Happy Birthday,” he said, and toasted himself with the spoon. He started to bring the ice cream to his lips, and then stopped. Something else had occurred to him, an idea dancing at the edge of his mind. “March 5th?” he asked himself and cocked his head to the side. The idea was elusive, slippery, but there. He reached out with his mind and was just about to grasp it when the doorbell rang.

   For a moment he didn’t recognize the sound, the trill of the hammer beating on the bell. It was so long since he had heard it. Surprised, he turned to look at his front door. Nowadays nobody ever stopped by; everyone would call or text instead. And he would have seen someone approaching. He’d been standing looking outside for the last few minutes. Or could someone have walked up the path while he was in the kitchen, and then waited silently outside for these last few moments? He glanced back outside: no cars parked in his driveway.

   The bell rang again, short but insistent. He realized he had to answer it. He dropped the spoon into the ice cream, balanced the tub on the windowsill, and crossed to the front door. He seized the door handle, twisted it, and pulled the door open.

   Peterson was standing outside. He was wearing an anonymous grey suit and the same tie he had been wearing at the Proconnesus office; the light blue one.

   “Nice going,” thought Cole, “you’ve worn the same tie two days in a row.”

   But what was Peterson doing here? Surely Proconnesus executives didn’t make house calls. A suspicion began to dawn upon Cole that Peterson had probably come on a follow-up visit because Proconnesus wasn’t going to accept his refusal so easily. He felt an immediate irritation, and he determined not to waver under any hard sell.

   He realized the seconds were passing in silence, he standing inside with the door half open, Peterson still standing on the doorstep.

   Finally, Peterson spoke. “Good evening, Mr. Cole. May I come in?”

   Cole was reluctant. If he let Peterson in, it would have to be quick. In and out as fast as possible. Listen to what he had to say, then get him out quickly. Or . . . better to stop him right here at the door? He hesitated, and eventually his innate politeness prevailed. He stepped back, opened the door wide, and motioned his visitor inside. Peterson stepped across the threshold and walked with long strides to the middle of the room.

   Cole thought Peterson's suit fit rather well.

   Peterson turned around expectantly, and Cole, irritated but not yet showing it, pointed him to an armchair. Peterson sat down stiffly, and Cole took the armchair opposite him. He sat back in the cushions and folded his arms.

   Cole said nothing. He had not spoken at all; he felt that coolness was probably the best way to show his displeasure at this unsolicited visit.

   Peterson was sitting up straight. He said, “I expect you are wondering why I am here.” Still as formal as ever.

   “Nope,” said Cole, “I know why you’re here. You’re here to try to convince me I was mistaken. To try to convince me Proconnesus really is for me. To convince me to sign on the dotted line.”

   “No sir,” answered Peterson. He fixed his eyes on Cole and said, “I am here to thank you for joining the Proconnesus family, and to explain the next steps to you.”

   Cole sighed exaggeratedly, and answered, “As you well know, I didn’t join anything. I didn’t sign anything. I left your office without putting pen to paper. I decided against the service.” Peterson was still sitting rigidly. “Indeed you did, Mr. Cole. You did decide against the service. . . “

   Before he could say more, Cole interrupted him, “Well, my mind’s made up. You’ve wasted your time coming to see me. I’m not interested.”

   Peterson paused, and remained absolutely motionless for a few seconds. In the quiet, Cole could still hear his bathroom tap dripping faintly. Then Peterson repeated his words exactly, “Indeed you did, Mr. Cole. You did decide against the service,” and Cole noticed how in the repetition Peterson’s voice and intonation were identical in every respect to the original. This time he didn’t interrupt, and Peterson continued. “On your first visit to our office you left without signing. But on your second visit to our office you subscribed for the full service.”

   Cole felt his patience draining quickly. He smiled wryly, and said “Nice try, but as you and I both know very well, I only made one visit to your office.”

   Peterson said, “I understand that you only remember making one trip to the Proconnesus office. But let me assure you that you did indeed make a second trip.”

   Cole’s impatience was now growing into anger. He leaned forward. “Look,” he said, “We met once, just once, and you spent a long time explaining everything to me. I didn’t like the next steps. That’s why I said no.”

   Peterson shook his head slowly and said, “I am not referring to the preparation process, I am referring to the situation today. There have been some new developments. And I have been chosen to explain the situation to you. It is felt that my presence at this moment is optimal for your comfort.”

   “Optimal for my comfort?” repeated Cole. The words were not at all comforting.

   “Indeed”, said Peterson, “I have been chosen to explain the situation to you because you are familiar with me as a knowledgeable and senior member within Proconnesus.”

   Cole noticed the use of the word situation again. He didn’t like it. He decided the conversation had taken a turn in the wrong direction, and he said, “This has gone far enough. I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.”

   Peterson did not move an inch. Instead, he said, “Mr. Cole. I have some news for you. Some rather alarming news.”

   A sudden sweat broke out on Cole’s forehead. Whatever situation Peterson had in mind, he didn’t want to hear about it, but he had the feeling of being trapped in a long tunnel with no way out. He cleared his throat and said weakly, “Please leave.”

   Peterson still did not move. He simply answered, “I am afraid it is too late for that.”

   Cole’s heart started beating louder in his chest. “What do you mean ‘too late’?”

   For the first time, Peterson looked around the room, his head rotating slowly left and right. When his gaze reached the window, he paused for a second, and then his head returned to center. He asked, “Mr. Cole, does anything seem unusual to you today?”

   “Like what?” asked Cole.

   “Like the weather, for instance,” said Peterson.

   “Well, the breeze seems a little odd, I must admit, but no big deal. There are often eddies and currents in the wind.” It sounded hollow even as he said it.

   Peterson nodded his head once, down and up, clinically. “Yes,” he said, “but in your heart you know something is wrong.”

   Cole said nothing. He was really starting to get a bad feeling.

   “Have you noticed anything else unusual?” asked Peterson.

   “No,” lied Cole.

   Peterson paused for a moment and then asked, “Does it not strike you as odd, Mr. Cole, that your beautiful tree should be shedding its leaves during the month of March? During the springtime?”

   Again, Cole said nothing. Yes, it was odd. That was what had confused him. Not just the strange hovering mist, but also the timing of the falling leaves. And he definitely did feel a little bit off today. A little fuzzy, somehow. Maybe he hadn’t slept well enough. Maybe he hadn’t slept long enough.

   “Okay, what’s going on?” he asked shakily, and rubbed a hand across his forehead. He realized he was becoming more animated. Peterson, on the other hand, was his usual inscrutable self. If anything, Peterson was even more composed than ever.

   “Mr. Cole,” continued Peterson, “I have some news for you. News that will initially shock you.”

   And Cole suddenly knew that something bad, something very very bad, was coming his way. His heart was now hammering. He looked at his hands and saw they were shaking.

   “Oh?” was all he could say.

   Despite Cole’s agitation, Peterson continued to speak, “I need you to remain calm. What I am going to tell you will confuse and frighten you at first. But please let me assure you that in time you will come to realize it is good news.”

   Cole’s mouth was dry. He said nothing, just stared at Peterson.

   Peterson paused again, as if to allow Cole time to catch up. “Mr. Cole, how long do you think it is since we met in the Proconnesus office?”

   Cole could feel a tightening in his chest. He couldn’t speak. 

   Peterson answered for him, “You believe it was yesterday.”

   Suddenly Cole knew what Peterson was going to say, and he didn’t want to hear it. He wanted to clap his hands over his ears and scream “No!” He desperately wanted Peterson to walk out the door and never come back. But he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. He was paralyzed with terror.

   Then Peterson said it. And it was worse even than Cole had feared. “Mr. Cole, I am here to tell you that the elapsed time since we first met is seventy-six years.”