Stories
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What if a person had no idea that his actions would push and pull the waves of energy to actually change the world around them? Here is a glimpse into what he might consider a normal day.
—
7:13 AM
Spruce Drive
The morning had a weight to it. Margaret Richardson couldn’t explain why. She moved about the kitchen, setting plates, buttering toast, but the air seemed thick, as if she were moving through water.
At the window, she paused, hand resting on the sill. For just a moment, she thought she saw her reflection move separately from her, like it was slower to catch up. She blinked hard and pressed her palm against the cool glass.
“Mommy?”
She turned, startled. Her daughter, Kathy, stood in the doorway, holding her doll.
“Mr. Collins is here.”
Margaret frowned. “Huh?”
“The milkman.”
“Oh. Right.” She tried to laugh it off, to shake the strangeness from her chest. “Of course, the milkman.”
Through the window, she could see Earl’s truck parked at the curb. He lifted the bottles carefully, set them down on the step, then tipped his cap toward the house.
She turned and started at the chair where her husband, Steve, would soon be sitting for breakfast, and that chill remained, coiled low in her stomach.
—
9:29 AM
Corner of Vine Avenue and Bellwether Street
Bobby Miller tore down the sidewalk on his red-and-white Schwinn, the one he’d gotten last Christmas. He leaned hard into the corner by the corner store, trying to see how fast he could make the pedals spin before he got home.
The front tire caught a crack.
The bike shuddered, then bucked. Bobby went flying, skidding across the pavement. His palms stung raw, his knee split open with a sharp bite of pain.
He sat up fast, blinking tears, more angry than hurt. The Schwinn clattered onto its side, the bell giving a single pathetic ding.
From mean old Mr Wilkinson’s house he saw a figure moving quickly towards him.
The milkman, Mr Collins squatted down and asked “Are you alright?”
Bobby wiped his face on his sleeve and looked up.
Earl looked him over and said “I'll be right back,” and hurried off. The milk truck was parked a couple of houses down.
Bobby picked gravel out of his knees and winced. He watched Mr Collins reach in the cab and pull out a metal box.
He hurried back and opened a battered first aid tin from behind the seat. He cleaned the scrape with practiced hands, taped Bobby’s knee, and gave the boy a quiet pat on the shoulder.
“Better?” Earl said.
Bobby nodded but didn't really feel it.
He climbed back on his bike and pedaled off, not thinking much of it. Just a scrape.
—
12:31 PM
Canyon Drive
Mr. Calhoun checked his watch again, frowning as the second hand made it 12:31 PM. Lunch had ended half an hour ago, and the milkman was still nowhere in sight. He liked things running on time.
Always had, and he needs milk.
He stepped out onto his front door and onto the sidewalk, muttering under his breath about wasted minutes. The sun was arching, shadows sliding toward the other side of the elm tree.
Halfway down the block, he sees the very late milk truck. He glared as it passed, then his hand clutched his chest. A sharp pain knifed through him. He dropped to the pavement, eyes wide, breath coming in gasps.
—
2:11 PM
Main Street
Horace Reynolds pulled his Corvette out of the Post Office parking lot and onto Main Street. He pressed the accelerator a little too hard just to hear the V8 roar.
Turning onto 4th Street, he saw a milk truck backing out of a driveway. He slammed on the brakes but the gravel gave way. He yanked the wheel and barely missed the truck, but the car parked on the street did not escape. He scraped the side, ripping off the passenger side mirror. Finally he stopped, a foot away from another car.
Earl did not see any of this and calmly pulled onto Main Street.
—
2:52 PM
It hasn't been a good day for Sarah Yates. The telephone operator job didn't work out. She doesn't really need the money; it just gives her something to do instead of sitting at home. Her husband, a US Navy chief on a battleship deployed in the Mediterranean, will be home in a couple of months.
She is walking down 4th Street when she sees a couple of crashed cars right in front of her house. A man is standing there, waving his arms and yelling about his brand new car getting destroyed. He said something about a truck backing out taking up the whole road. A police officer is just writing everything down.
Sarah steps to the side and almost bumps into someone.
“Sarah?” a familiar voice calls.
She looks up. Jenny, an old friend from high school, is standing there, frozen for a moment in the commotion.
“Jenny? Oh my, it’s been years," Sarah says.
“How have you been?” Jenny asks.
“Well, to be honest, kind of lonely these days,” Sarah admits.
Jenny smiles. “Let’s fix that. Come on, let’s go to lunch.”
It’s nearly three o’clock, but they find a small diner around the corner. They sit and talk, laughing, sharing old stories. Hours slip by without them noticing.
—
6:18 PM
Glendale Road Railroad Crossing
Shirley Whittaker’s candy-apple red ’57 Bel Air lurched onto the railroad tracks, engine sputtering. She tried a few times to get it started, hands white on the wheel, but the car wouldn’t budge. With a deep breath, she did the only thing she could, she stepped out.
Earl Collins came by on the milk truck and stopped. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“My car won’t start,” Shirley said, voice tight, glancing down the tracks. The whistle blew faintly in the distance.
Earl leaned over, trying the ignition himself. Nothing. He could hear the train’s horn getting closer. For a second, he simply looked at the car, then acted.
He threw it into neutral and sprinted back to his truck, heart hammering. The train rounded the bend just as he aligned the truck with the stalled Bel Air. With a groan of metal and effort, he pushed the car off the tracks. He closed his eyes, bracing for impact. The rear bumper of the truck caught the side of the train, tearing free, but the vehicle kept moving.
The Bel Air ended up resting against a light pole. Shirley’s hands went to his shoulders, gripping tight. “Oh my God! Thank you!”
Earl stepped back, flushed. “Glad to help,” he said, voice low, embarrassed. Without another word, he climbed back into the milk truck and drove on.
—
7:03 PM
Spruce Drive
The front door opened and Margaret looked up. Her husband stepped inside, brushing the cold from his coat.
For a second she could not speak. He should not have been there. Something deep and irrational told her it was impossible.
“You won’t believe it,” he said, grinning wide. “On the way back from the city, at the station, Earl Collins, the milkman, you know him, he pushed a woman’s car off the tracks. The train barreled through not ten seconds later. If he hadn’t…” He shook his head, still caught between relief and awe. “He might have saved my life, Maggie.”
Margaret’s hand tightened on the back of the chair. The room felt unsteady, like the house itself was breathing. Her husband was alive, smiling, coat still damp from the cold.
She moved toward the kitchen drawer, the butcher knife resting just inside, and paused.
—
We assume that fate is predetermined, set in motion by something outside our control. What if it is more malleable than that? What if that movement is considered by these outside forces, and fate is inevitable?