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Author: Orson Scott Card
Title: Missed
Original copyright year: 1998
Genre: Short Story
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                                Missed











            Missed
            By Orson Scott Card
            Tim Bushey was no athlete, and if at thirty-one middle age wasn't
            there yet, it was coming, he could feel its fingers on his spine. So
            when he did his hour of exercise a day, he didn't push himself,
            didn't pound his way through the miles, didn't stress his knees.
            Often he relaxed into a brisk walk so he could look around and see
            the neighborhoods he was passing through.
            In winter he walked in mid-afternoon, the warmest time of the day.
            In summer he was up before dawn, walking before the air got as hot
            and wet as a crock pot. In winter he saw the school buses deliver
            children to the street corners. In summer, he saw the papers getting
            delivered.
            So it was five-thirty on a hot summer morning when he saw the
            paperboy on a bicycle, pedaling over the railroad tracks and up
            Yanceyville Road toward Glenside. Most of the people delivering
            papers worked out of cars, pitching the papers out the far window.
            But there were a few kids on bikes here and there. So what was so
            odd about him that Tim couldn't keep his eyes off the kid?
            He noticed a couple of things as the kid chugged up the hill. First,
            he wasn't on a mountain bike or a street racer. It wasn't even one
            of those banana-seat bikes that were still popular when Tim was a
            kid. He was riding one of those stodgy old one-speed bikes that were
            the cycling equivalent of a '55 Buick, rounded and lumpy and heavy
            as a burden of sin. Yet the bike looked brand-new.
            And the boy himself was strange, wearing blue jeans with the cuffs
            rolled up and a short-sleeved shirt in a print that looked like ...
            no, it absolutely was. The kid was wearing clothes straight out of
            "Leave It to Beaver." And his hair had that tapered buzzcut that
            left just one little wave to be combed up off the forehead in front.
            It was like watching one of those out-of-date educational films in
            grade school. This kid was clearly caught in a time warp.
            Still, it wouldn't have turned Tim out of his planned route -- the
            circuit of Elm, Pisgah Church, Yanceyville, and Cone -- if it hadn't
            been for the bag of papers saddled over the rack on the back of the
            bike. Printed on the canvas it said, "The Greensboro Daily News."
            Now, if there was one thing Tim was sure of, it was the fact that
            Greensboro was a one-newspaper town, unless you counted the weekly
            "Rhinoceros Times," and sure, maybe somebody had clung to an old
            canvas paper delivery bag with the "Daily News" logo -- but that bag
            looked new.
            It's not as if Tim had any schedule to keep, any urgent
            appointments. So he turned around and jogged after the kid, and when
            the brand-new ancient bicycle turned right on Glenside, Tim was not
            all that far behind him. He lost sight of him after Glenside made
            its sweeping left turn to the north, but Tim was still close enough
            to hear, in the still morning air, the faint sound of a rolled-up
            newspaper hitting the gravel of a country driveway.
            He found the driveway on the inside of a leftward curve. The
            streetlight showed the paper lying there, but Tim couldn't see the
            masthead or even the headline without jogging onto the gravel, his
            shoes making such a racket that he half-expected to see lights go on
            inside the house.
            He bent over and looked. The rubber band had broken and the paper
            had unrolled itself, so now it lay flat in the driveway. Dominating
            the front page was a familiar picture. The headline under it said:
            Babe Ruth, Baseball's
            Home Run King, Dies
            Cancer of Throat Claims Life
            Of Noted Major League Star
            I thought he died years ago, Tim thought.
            Then he noticed another headline:
            Inflation Curb Signed By Truman
            President Says Bill Inadequate
            Truman? Tim looked at the masthead. It wasn't the "News and Record,"
            it was the "Greensboro Daily News." And under the masthead it said:
            Tuesday Morning, August 17, 1948 ... price: five cents.
            What kind of joke was this, and who was it being played on? Not Tim
            -- nobody could have known he'd come down Yanceyville Road today, or
            that he'd follow the paperboy to this driveway.
            A footstep on gravel. Tim looked up. An old woman stood at the head
            of the driveway, gazing at him. Tim stood, blushing, caught. She
            said nothing.
            "Sorry," said Tim. "I didn't open it, the rubber band must have
            broken when it hit the gravel, I --"


            He looked down, meant to reach down, pick up the paper, carry it to
            her. But there was no paper there. Nothing. Right at his feet, where
            he had just seen the face of George Herman "Babe" Ruth, there was
            only gravel and moist dirt and dewy grass.
            He looked at the woman again. Still she said nothing.
            "I ..." Tim couldn't think of a thing to say. Good morning, ma'am.
            I've been hallucinating on your driveway. Have a nice day. "Look,
            I'm sorry."
            She smiled faintly. "That's OK. I never get it into the house
            anymore these days."
            Then she walked back onto the porch and into the house, leaving him
            alone on the driveway.
            It was stupid, but Tim couldn't help looking around for a moment
            just to see where the paper might have gone. It had seemed so real.
            But real things don't just disappear.
            He couldn't linger in the driveway any longer. An elderly woman
            might easily get frightened at having a stranger on her property in
            the wee hours and call the police. Tim walked back to the road and
            headed back the way he had come. Only he couldn't walk, he had to
            break into a jog and then into a run, until it was a headlong gallop
            down the hill and around the curve toward Yanceyville Road.
            Why was he so afraid? The only explanation was that he had
            hallucinated it, and it wasn't as if you could run away from
            hallucinations. You carried those around in your own head. And they
            were nothing new to him. He'd been living on the edge of madness
            every since the accident. That's why he didn't go to work, didn't
            even have a job anymore -- the compassionate leave had long since
            expired, replaced by a vague promise of "come back anytime, you know
            there's always a job here for you."
            But he couldn't go back to work, could only leave the house to go
            jogging or to the grocery store or an occasional visit to Atticus to
            get something to read, and even then in the back of his mind he
            didn't really care about his errand, he was only leaving because
            when he came back, he'd see things.
            One of Diana's toys would be in a different place. Not just inches
            from where it had been, but in a different room. As if she'd picked
            up her stuffed Elmo in the family room and carried it into the
            kitchen and dropped it right there on the floor because Selena had
            picked her up and put her in the high chair for lunch and yes, there
            were the child-size spoon, the Tupperware glass, the Sesame Street
            plate, freshly rinsed and set beside the sink and still wet.
            Only it wasn't really a hallucination, was it? Because the toy was
            real enough, and the dishes. He would pick up the toy and put it
            away. He would slip the dishes into the dishwasher, put in the soap,
            close the door. He would be very, very certain that he had not set
            the delay timer on the dishwasher. All he did was close the door,
            that's all.
            And then later in the day he'd go to the bathroom or walk out to get
            the mail and when he came back in the kitchen the dishwasher would
            be running. He could open the door and the dishes would be clean,
            the steam would fog his glasses, the heat would wash over him, and
            he knew that couldn't be a hallucination. Could it?
            Somehow when he loaded the dishwasher he must have turned on the
            timer even though he thought he was careful not to. Somehow before
            his walk or his errand he must have picked up Diana's Elmo and
            dropped it in the kitchen and taken out the toddler dishes and
            rinsed them and set them by the sink. Only he hallucinated not doing
            any such thing.
            Tim was no psychologist, but he didn't need to pay a shrink to tell
            him what was happening. It was his grief at losing both his wife and
            daughter on the same terrible day, that ordinary drive to the store
            that put them in the path of the high school kids racing each other
            in the Weaver 500, two cars jockeying for position, swerving out of
            their lanes, one of them losing control, Selena trying to dodge,
            spinning, both of them hitting her, tearing the car apart between
            them, ripping the life out of mother and daughter in a few terrible
            seconds. Tim at the office, not even knowing, thinking they'd be
            there when he came home from work, not guessing his life was over.
            And yet he went on living, tricking himself into seeing evidence
            that they still lived with him. Selena and Baby Di, the Queen Dee,
            the little D-beast, depending on what mood the two-year-old was in.
            They'd just stepped out of the room. They were upstairs, they were
            in the back yard, if he took just a few steps he'd see them.
            When he thought about it, of course, he knew it wasn't true, they
            were dead, gone, their life together was over before it was half
            begun. But for that moment when he first walked into the room and
            saw the evidence with his own eyes, he had that deep contentment of
            knowing that he had missed them by only a moment.
            Now the madness had finally lurched outside of the house, outside of
            his lost and broken family, and shown him a newspaper from before he
            was born, delivered by a boy from another time, on the driveway of a
            stranger's house. It wasn't just grief anymore. He was bonkers.


            He went home and stood outside the front door for maybe five
            minutes, afraid to go in. What was he going to see? Now that he
            could conjure newspapers and paperboys out of nothing, what would
            his grief-broken mind show him when he opened the door?
            And a worse question was: What if it showed him what he most wanted
            to see? Selena standing in the kitchen, talking on the phone,
            smiling to him over the mouthpiece as she cut the crusts off the
            bread so that Queen Dee would eat her sandwiches. Diana coming to
            him, reaching up, grabbing his fingers, saying, "Hand, hand!" and
            dragging him to play with her in the family room.
            If madness was so perfect and beautiful as that, could he ever bear
            to leave it behind and return to the endless ache of sanity? If he
            opened the door, would he leave the world of the living behind, and
            dwell forever in the land of the beloved dead?
            When at last he went inside there was no one in the house and
            nothing had moved. He was still a little bit sane and he was still
            alone, trapped in the world he and Selena had so carefully designed:
            Insurance enough to pay off the mortgage. Insurance enough that if
            either parent died, the other could afford to stay home with Diana
            until she was old enough for school, so she didn't have to be raised
            by strangers in daycare. Insurance that provided for every
            possibility except one: That Diana would die right along with one of
            her parents, leaving the other parent with a mortgage-free house,
            money enough to live for years and years without a job. Without a
            life.
            Twice he had gone through the house, picking up all of Diana's toys
            and boxing them, taking Selena's clothes out of the closet to give
            away to Goodwill. Twice the boxes had sat there, the piles of
            clothes, for days and days. As one by one the toys reappeared in
            their places in the family room or Diana's bedroom. As Selena's
            dresser drawers filled up again, her hangers once again held
            dresses, blouses, pants, and the closet floor again was covered with
            a jumble of shoes. He didn't remember putting them back, though he
            knew he must have done it. He didn't even remember deciding not to
            take the boxes and piles out of the house. He just never got around
            to it.
            He stood in the entryway of his empty house and wanted to die.
            And then he remembered what the old woman had said.
            "That's OK. I never get it into the house anymore these days."
            He had never said the word "newspaper," had he? So if he
            hallucinated it and she saw nothing there in the driveway, what was
            it that she never got into the house?
            He was back out the door in a moment, car keys in hand. It was
            barely dawn as he pulled back into that gravel driveway and walked
            to the front door and knocked.
            She came to the door at once, as if she had been waiting for him.
            "I'm sorry," he said. "It's so early."
            "I was up," she said. "I thought you might come back."
            "You just have to tell me one thing."
            She laughed faintly. "Yes. I saw it, too. I always see it. I used to
            pick it up from the driveway, carry it into the house, lay it out on
            the table for him. Only it's fading now. After all these years. I
            never quite get to touch it anymore. That's all right." She laughed
            again. "I'm fading too."
            She stepped back, beckoned him inside.
            "I'm Tim Bushey," he said.
            "Orange juice?" she said. "V-8? I don't keep coffee in the house,
            because I love it but it takes away what little sleep I have left.
            Being old is a pain in the neck, I'll tell you that, Mr. Bushey."
            "Tim."
            "Oh my manners. If you're Tim, then I'm Wanda. Wanda Silva."
            "Orange juice sounds fine, Wanda."
            They sat at her kitchen table. Whatever time warp the newspaper came
            from, it didn't affect Wanda's house. The kitchen was new, or at
            least newer than the 1940s. The little Hitachi TV on the counter and
            the microwave on a rolling cart were proof enough of that.
            She noticed what he was looking at. "My boys take care of me," she
            said. "Good jobs, all three of them, and even though not a one still
            lives in North Carolina, they all visit, they call, they write. I
            get along great with their wives. The grandkids are brilliant and
            cute and healthy. I couldn't be happier, really." She laughed. "So
            why does Tonio Silva haunt my house?"
            He made a guess. "Your late husband?"


            "It's more complicated than that. Tonio was my first husband. Met
            him in a war materials factory in Huntsville and married him and
            after the war we came home to Greensboro because I didn't want to
            leave my roots and he didn't have any back in Philly, or so he said.
            But Tonio and I didn't have any children. He couldn't. Died of
            testicular cancer right after the election of '48. I married again
            about three years later. Barry Lear. A sweet, dull man. Father of my
            three boys. Account executive who traveled all the time and even
            when he was home he was barely here."
            She sighed. "Oh, why am I telling you this?"
            "Because I saw the newspaper."
            "Because when you saw the newspaper, you were embarrassed but you
            were not surprised, not shocked when it disappeared. You've been
            seeing things yourself lately, haven't you?"
            So he told her what he'd told no other person, about Selena and Baby
            Di, about how he kept just missing them. By the end she was nodding.

            "Oh, I knew it," she said. "That's why you could see the paper.
            Because the wall between worlds is as thin for you as it is for me."

            "I'm not crazy?" he asked, laughing nervously.
            "How should I know?" she said. "But we both saw that paper. And it's
            not just us. My kids, too. See, the -- what do we call it? Haunting?
            Evidences? -- it didn't start till they were grown up and gone.
            Barry Lear was busy having his stroke and getting downright eager to
            shed his old body, and I was taking care of him best I could, and
            all of a sudden I start hearing the radio playing music that my
            first husband and I used to dance to, big band sounds. And those
            newspapers, that paperboy, just like it was 1948, the year we were
            happiest, the summer when I got pregnant, before the baby miscarried
            and our hearts broke and just before Christmas he found out about
            the cancer. As if he could feel Barry getting set to leave my life,
            and Tonio was coming back."
            "And your kids know?"
            "You have to understand, Barry provided for us, he never hit anybody
            or yelled. But he was a completely absent father, even when he was
            home. The kids were so hungry for a dad, even grown up and moved
            away they still wanted one, so when they came home for their
            father's funeral, all three of them saw the same things I was
            seeing. And when I told them it was happening before Barry died,
            that it was Tonio, the man who wasn't their father but wanted so
            badly to be, the man who would have been there for them no matter
            what, if God hadn't taken him so young -- well, they adopted him.
            They call him their ghost."
            She smiled but tears ran down her cheeks. "That's what he came home
            for, Tonio, I mean. For my boys. He couldn't do it while Barry was
            here, but as Barry faded, he could come. And now the boys return,
            they see his coffee cup in the dish drain, they smell his hair oil
            in the bathroom, they see the newspapers, hear the radio. And they
            sit there in the living room and they talk. To me, yes, of course,
            but also to him, telling him about their lives, believing -- knowing
            -- that he's listening to them. That he really cares, he loves them,
            and the only reason they can't see him is because he just stepped
            out, they only just missed him, he's bound to be in the next room,
            he can hear every word they say."
            Tim nodded. Yes, that's how it was. Just how it was.
            "But he's fading now." She nodded. "They don't need him so much. The
            hole in their lives is filled now." She nodded again. "And in mine.
            The love of my life. We had unfinished business, you see. Things not
            done."
            "So why did I see it? The paperboy, the newspaper -- I never knew
            Tonio, I'm not one of your sons."
            "Because you live like I do, on the edge of the other side, seeing
            in. Because you have unfinished business, too."
            "But I can never finish it now," he said.
            "Can't you?" she answered. "I married Barry. I had my boys. Then
            Tonio came back and gave them the last thing they needed. You, now.
            You could marry, you know. Have more children. Fill that house with
            life and love again. Your wife and baby, they'll step back, like
            Tonio did. But they won't be gone. Someday maybe you'll be alone
            again. Big empty house. And they'll come back. Don't you think?
            Selena -- such a lovely name -- and your baby Diana. Just in the
            next room. Around you all the time. Reminding you when you were
            young. Only by then Diana might not need to be a baby anymore. It
            won't be toys she leaves around, it'll be schoolbooks. Hairbrushes.
            And the long hairs you find on your pillow won't be Selena's color
            anymore. It'll be grey. Or white."
            He hadn't told her about still finding Selena's hair. She simply
            knew.
            "You can go on with your life without letting go," said Wanda.
            "Because you don't really lose them. They're just out of reach. I
            look around Greensboro and I wonder, how many other houses are like
            mine? Haunted by love, by unfinished love. And sometimes I think,
            Tonio isn't haunting us, we're the ones who are haunting him.
            Calling him back. And because he loves us, he comes. Until we don't
            really need him anymore."


            They talked a little more, and Tim went home, and everything was
            different, and everything was gloriously the same. It wasn't madness
            anymore. They really were just out of reach, he really had just
            missed them. They were still in the house with him, still in his
            life.
            And, knowing that, believing it now, he could go on. He visited
            Wanda a couple of times a week. Got to know each of her sons on
            their visits. Became friends with them. When Wanda passed away, he
            sat with the family at the funeral.
            Tim went back to work, not at the company where he and Selena had
            met, but in a new place, with new people. Eventually he married,
            they had children, and just as Wanda had said, Selena and Diana
            faded, but never completely. There would be a book left open
            somewhere, one that nobody in the house was reading. There would be
            a whiff of a strange perfume, the sound of someone humming a tune
            that hadn't been current for years.
            Right along with his new family, he knew that Diana was growing up,
            in a house full of siblings who knew about her, loved the stories of
            her childhood that he told, and who came to him, one by one, as the
            years passed, to tell him privately that once or twice in their
            childhood, they had seen her, the older sister who came to them
            during a nightmare and comforted them, who whispered love to them
            when friends at school had broken their hearts, whose gentle hand on
            their shoulder had calmed them and given them courage.
            And the smiling mother who wasn't their mother but there she was in
            the doorway, just once, just a fleeting glimpse. Selena, looking at
            the children she had never given birth to but who were still hers,
            partly hers, because they were his, and he would always be a part of
            her even though he loved another woman now and shared his life with
            her.
            Sometime, somewhere down the road, his life would draw to a close
            and he would see them again, face to face, his family, his first
            family, waiting for him as Tonio had waited for Wanda all those
            years. He could wait. There was no hurry. They were only moments out
            of reach.










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