Cross Roads by William P. Young Read Free Book Online Page A

I suppose. Thank God we were on their side.”
    As if to celebrate his sarcasm, the man removed a small pipe from the tweed pocket that covered his heart, inhaled, and slowly blew out the smoke like a sigh of relief. The scent was pleasant and lingered until absorbed by the stronger forest fragrances. Without looking, he offered the pipe to Tony.
    “Would you like to try? Three Nuns sitting cozy in a Tetley Lightweight, another ‘thank you’ to the British.” He bowed slightly as he finished his sentence.
    “Uh, no thank you, I don’t smoke,” Tony answered.
    “Just as well, Mr. Spencer,” the man responded wryly. “I’ve been told it can kill you.”
    With that he slipped it back into his jacket pocket, bowl down, still lit. A piece of unrelated cloth, trouser maybe, had been sewn into the pocket. Most assuredly smoldering embers had eaten away the original.
    “You know me?” asked Tony, trying to place this stranger in his memory, but nothing connected.
    “We all know you, Mr. Spencer. But please, forgive my poor manners. Truly bad form. My name is Jack, and I am honored to finally meet you, face-to-face, that is.” He held out his hand and Tony took it, out of habit if nothing more.
    “Uh, Tony… but you already knew that? How do you know me exactly? Have we met before?”
    “Not directly. It was your mother that first introduced me to you. It is small wonder that you have little recollection. I never considered myself that memorable anyway. Nonetheless, childhood influences have staggering formative consequences, for good and evil, or for life.”
    “But how…,” Tony stammered, confused.
    “As I stated before, we all know you. Knowing is quite layered. Even our own souls we hardly apprehend until the veils are lifted, until we come out of the hiding and into the place of being known.”
    “I’m sorry?” interrupted Tony, feeling rising aggravation. “What you just said makes no sense to me at all and frankly seems utterly irrelevant. I have no idea where I am or even when I am, and you are not being very helpful!”
    “Indeed.” Jack nodded soberly, as if that might comfort.
    Tony buried his head in his hands trying to think, resisting as best he could the irritation he felt growing. They both sat silently looking back up the road.
    “Anthony, you do know me, not well and not truly, but substantially, hence your invitation.” Jack’s voice was sure and measured, and Tony concentrated on what he was saying. “I was an influence on you when you were a young man. That
guidance and perspective
, shall we call it, has undoubtedly faded, but its roots remain.”
    “My invitation? I don’t remember inviting anyone to anything! And you don’t look familiar to me at all,” Tony asserted. “I don’t know who you are! I don’t know Jack from Ireland!”
    Jack’s voice remained calm. “Your invitation was many years ago and probably remains at best but a vague feeling or longing for you. If I had thought to bring a book and you could smell its pages, that most assuredly would help, but I didn’t. We never actually met, at least not in person, until now. Would it surprise you to know that I died a few years before you were born?”
    “Oh, this just gets better,” Tony exploded, standing up a little too quickly. His legs were rubbery, but his anger propelled him a few steps back up the road in the direction from which he had come. He stopped and turned around. “Did you just say that you died a few years before I was born?”
    “I did. On the same day Kennedy was assassinated and Huxley died. Quite the trio turning up, as they say, at the ‘pearly gates’…” He said this using his fingers to form quotation marks. “You should have seen the look on Aldous’s face. Brave new world, indeed!”
    “So then, Jack from Ireland, who says he knows me”—Tony again moved closer, his tone controlled even while he could feel his ire and fear pushing the perimeters of internal