Little Treasures

I fingered the ragged edges of the photo.  I could still feel the remnants of tape long since removed - dry and dusty feeling, not tacky in the slightest.  This picture had been handled so much that the edges felt more like cloth than paper and I carefully set it down on the desk in front of me before returning my attention to the person who had handed it to me.

He was tall and slender, carrying himself with his shoulders hunched over like he was apologizing for being tall.  And I do mean tall.  If he didn't top six and a half feet, I'd eat my hat. If I wore hats, which I don't because they just never look good on me. Anyway, tall and slender.  Slender was possibly being overly generous.  He was almost skeletal in his thinness.  I'd bet that he never puts on weight no matter how much he eats. Lucky bastard. Only thin white wisps of hair still clung to his scalp, which was otherwise covered with freckles and age spots.

"None of it was particularly valuable," he was saying. "Just her little treasures - that's what she always called them, her little treasures." I could hear the catch in his voice as he spoke and felt my mouth turn down in a sympathetic frown. "Maybe it seems silly now, but they brought her joy and I expected that I'd find them when I was packing up her stuff, but they were no where." His shoulders slumped just a little bit more.

I half rose from my seat, holding out my hand in an invitation for him to take a seat of his own. "Please, Mister...." I trailed off, realizing that he hadn't identified himself when he entered and handed me the picture. "Jenkins. Willis Jenkins." "Mr. Jenkins.  Please, have a seat." I didn't settle back into my own seat until he had taken the invitation.  The window behind me rattled as a skycar zipped by a smidge too close to the building. "What were you hoping that I could do for you?"

The look he gave me was naked hope, and it made me very discomfited.  "I heard about you," he practically whispered the words. "I heard that you could speak to them. That they sometimes gave you messages. That you were the real deal. Not like those fakes on the vids all the time wanting your money and telling you what you want to hear. I just want to know what happened to her things."

That wasn't what he wanted to know. The desperation in his voice told me that he wanted to know that she was well and content and whatever other feelings people think a good afterlife should inspire. I checked the sigh I wanted to give. "Mr. Jenkins, I'm not sure what people have told you about me, but I don't want to sell you false hope here." I dropped my attention to the picture again, frowning mildly at the over-saturated glow of the candle flame. "Most of what I do is just boring investigative work - following someone's spouse, looking for lost relatives. Stuff that's too unimportant for the Authority to handle. Off the top of my head, just looking at the picture here, I'd say you want to see if you can find the key. Might be to some kind of storage space.  No one much uses locks like that anymore--"

He broke in, voice gone impatient and almost angry. "You can speak to them. People have told me. People I trust. They will tell you things."

I fought the urge to rub my eyes with the palm of my hand, my own shoulders slumping with defeat this time. I kept my voice soft, reasonable and firm, "I don't do that, Mr. Jenkins." At least, I didn't anymore.

He leaned forward, intensity shining in eyes suddenly brimming with tears. "Please, please, Ms. Anderson. She was all I had left in the world and we couldn't afford the stasis when the doctors said she had the Cancer." He pushed the picture closer to me. "This was taken when she was sixteen. She was my wife for seventy-five years. I've outlived everyone. I-I just need to know...." His voice broke on a sob and tears spilled down the delicately thin, wrinkled skin of his face before he covered it with his hands.

I sat in uncomfortable silence.  It wasn't that I didn't sympathize with his loss, or that I lacked the desire to help. It just wasn't safe. It would open doors that were better off left closed. Doors I closed to protect myself.  I closed my eyes, heartily wishing that I hadn't come to work today, and leaned back in my seat. When I opened my eyes again a few minutes later, Mr. Jenkins had composed himself and was looking at me with watery eyes. My heart lodged in my throat as I felt my resolve give way. He could see it on my face when I gave in and the hope flared in his eyes once more. "I'll see what I can," I murmured, rather grudgingly if I must be honest.

"That's all I ask," he assured me, reaching out to grab my hand with his much larger ones.  I could feel the bones through his skin as he gave my hand a grateful squeeze. "That's all I ask."

*     *     *

Her name had been Charity.  Charity Beaumont Jenkins.  My first thought upon learning that had been that no one names their kid Charity anymore. Of course, she was 97 when she died, so it was still true. She had loved slow jazz music and sultry summer evenings by the river.  She wore lace long after lace was so out of style people only saw it in museums. In the modern age of skycars and neural implants, she still believed that a gentleman opened the door for a lady and pulled out her chair for her to sit down. She had lived long enough to see the modern world be born and grow up and to remember when you had to have something called a television to watch vids and that kids used to go door to door for Halloween looking for treats. She had loved Willis from the first day she saw him, working on the barge that went past her finishing school.  She had loved him enough to stand up to her family's objection to his modest origins.  And he had stayed by her side through all the years that her family had cut her out. And stood there still when they finally reconciled .  The first time she'd seen him cry had been the day her daddy told him that he couldn't imagine a man that could have taken better care of his Charity.

I felt all of this and more as a welling up inside of me while I sat in the cool, dimly lit interior room of my officer.  To call it a room was really rather generous, I suppose, since it was barely much more than a closet.  And it held a somewhat musty smell to it, as it had been months since I'd last opened it up to air it out.  I wasn't lying when I said that I didn't do this anymore.  I worked on deep, relaxing breathing techniques designed to let the tension in my muscles slip away and tried not to be aware of the equal parts hope and loss radiating from the outer office where Mr. Jenkins was waiting.  

I sat Indian style in the center of the room, a circle of salt laid around carefully around me.  The picture rested on the floor in front of me and dust motes floating in the air occasionally caught in the single shaft of light that escaped from the blinds covering the small window.  My gaze rested on the image of the photo and I continued my breathing exercises for what felt like an eternity.  I knew that contact would come. I just knew it.  In the deepest parts of me, it happened like that sometimes. Sitting here now, letting down the walls I'd so carefully constructed, I was aware of how much energy I spent every day cutting myself off from that well of knowledge. And how much I missed it.

Slowly the tension slipped away and my breathing evened out and softened.  I knew that anyone who saw me at the moment would think that I was asleep, my head dropped just slightly forward and the backs of my hands resting on my knees with my palms open and fingers slightly curled. Relaxed. Yet, I was never more alert than I was in this state.  I could feel the pressure of hundreds of souls - living and dead - pressing against the barrier the salt represented.  For just a moment, my heartbeat picked up and I fought to hold onto the calm I'd managed to obtain.  When it settled again, I let out a long, slow exhalation and unclenched something deep inside of myself.  You see sometimes those time lapse vids of a flower opening up to the sun.  This felt exactly like that.

I knew how to do this. Had known since practically before I could walk.  I remember my Nana teaching me, her voice gravelly and her English thickly accented.  I remember the feel of her hand touching my solar plexus. "Here, child. They come here. To you." It was easier than breathing. 

And so I reached out, pushing a questing tendril past that barrier, whispering Charity's name with an inner voice and felt the rush when she answered and her soul touched mine.  I drew her in, inviting her into my circle, closing it behind her to keep us safe. "He misses you," was the message I gave her. 

If someone was watching me, they'd have seen the soft candle glow coming from the picture, faint and haunting, that heralded her presence.  Her answer was nothing verbal, though I could interpret it closely enough. Equal pats, "I know," and "I miss him, too." 

My own communication was likewise silent as I formed the thoughts, "He brought me this picture.  He says you called them your little treasures but that he could not find them in your things."

"They are long since gone.  He was always my greatest treasure. These... these are trifling things. They will not bring him the comfort he desires. But he might find the little jar of sand with its tiny map in the little compartment of my secretary desk. The drawer with the flower mostly worn off."  There was a sense of silence long enough that I began to doubt she was still there, even though I could still feel her warm presence. "Tell him I am with him always, and he will be with me again. He is not alone." I could feel her energy start to flicker. Prolonged communication can really take it out of the dead. Not to mention the living recipient. My own energy was flagging in response. 

"Thank you, Charity. I'll let him know. I leave you to travel in peace." The words didn't really matter, though I spoke them by rote. I could have just as easily said that the sun barks at midnight for all the purpose that it served. But it gave the encounter shape and put me into the right frame of mind to open up the way through the barrier once more so that I we could relinquish the mutual hold we had on each other and Charity could return to... whatever or wherever it was that Charity would go.  Her presence melted away slowly until I could no longer feel even the faintest trace of it.  

I felt winded, like a runner who has been out of the sport too long and expects to start up right where she left off.  I held myself still for too long after she faded, left that tiny opening in place just a bit beyond what I should. I was tired, and heart-sore, and not looking forward to passing on my message to Mr. Jenkins at all. I was distracted.  I didn't notice the first tentative pushes at that tiny fracture.  I didn't feel the dark, growing pressure just beyond the fragile barrier. I didn't feel it until it drew itself up and lashed out.  It was almost as if I could see it coming and I frantically poured myself into holding the barrier closed.  It hit like a sonic boom and my vision exploded into stars, like I'd taken a blow to the head.  My body, which was still in its limp, relaxed pose, abruptly jerked back and landed in a sprawl on the floor. 

I held myself still, trying to catch my breath and waiting for the spots in my vision to fade away.  Every muscle in my body ached.  As did that talent inside of me which had allowed me to communicate with Charity. I reached out with it tentatively, groping blinding for the barrier I'd set and felt it there - wispy but still in place - and let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. I closed my eyes and put my walls back in place brick by painful brick before I let go of my hold on the barrier and let it slip away entirely. 

A groan escaped me as I levered myself to my feet and reached out a hand to steady myself against the wall.  Once the world stopped spinning, I tried to take stock of myself. Except for the soreness and a certain amount of mental rawness, everything seemed to be in place. With one hand rubbing the back of my neck, I stepped out of the circle and reached to open the door. 

A static shock strong enough to be visible jumped from the old metal doorknob to my fingertips, leaving them tingling in response.  I jerked back my hand and bit off a curse, shaking out my fingers. It felt like my hair should be standing on end, though a quick shake of my head assured me that it was still secured in a bun so I reached out - much more tentatively this time - to open the door again.  This time I was able to step out without risking defibrillation. 

I knew I must've looked about as exhausted as I felt by the sudden expression of apprehension in Mr. Jenkins' eyes when he looked up at my entrance.  I pasted on a tired smile and let myself sink into my desk chair once more. I didn't have the energy to drag it out, so I didn't even wait for him to ask. "I contacted Charity." I closed my eyes when I saw tears spring into his. "She said you won't find those things. They've been gone for a long time. But look in the drawer with the faded flower on the secretary and you'll find the little jar with the map." 

He reached out and touched the back of my hand, startling me and making me open my eyes again.  The gratitude shining through his features was a bit of balm to my tired and bruised soul. "She's waiting for you," I felt compelled to add. "You'll be together again." 

"Thank you, Ms. Anderson. From the bottom of my heart, thank you." He fumbled at his pocket for his cred stick and I waved away the gesture, "You don't owe me anything, Mr. Jenkins. Just go and be well with the knowledge you've gained." 

He hesitated, squeezing my hand again before reluctantly turning to make his way to the exit.  Just as he was ready to step through the door, I said, "And please, dear god, don't tell anyone I did this for you." He looked back over his shoulder at me, surprised. He gave a simple nod in response and stepped out to the hall.  The door slide closed behind him.

I sat there in the silence of my office, listening to the sound of my heart beating. Fifteen minutes probably went by before I remembered the photograph still on the floor in the other room. I rose to go retrieve it so I could have it sent back to Mr. Jenkins, and a shiver passed through me as I heard a faint, dark chuckle that came from nowhere and every where.

"Oh, shit." There's a reason why I didn't do this anymore.

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I'm pretty sure this doesn't /really/ count as a ficlet because of its length. This one is loooong.  Because of word wars. Yay for word wars! Yay for msagara!  I'm actually pretty pleased with it, though I'm sure it's very rough because it's effectively first draft word vomit. I'm not entirely sold on the Future Science bits, but... well, it bears consideration.  It's hard to do a word war where you stop partway through to web search to see if you can find a good Eastern European term of endearment a grandmother might use for their grandchild.  Obviously I came up short. :)

Anyway, word count!

Word count: 2752

YTD: 3919