The living know that they will die, but the dead no nothing, Morley thought. He had awakened that very moment from Gehenna. The composition of his body was like a decomposed corpse without the entrails. He sat up in the grave where he had lain for centuries; his torso was in front of the headstone on which was inscribed the full moniker of his identity . . . Morley Hawley. There was also an epitat on the tombstone: Here lies Morley Hawley, the man who took that leap of faith and didn’t live to tell about it.
“Am I dead?” Morley thought again.
He felt his left hand; and then, he took his right hand and did the same thing to the left. His hands had gained their fiber; they were covered with flesh where dry bones used to be. Then the process continued up the arms, showing the swarthy color of Morley’s skin tone.
The swarthiness continued to cover the chest cavity, and follow a circuitous route throughout all the cavities of the body, including filling up those vital areas that once housed the five senses and the groin areas.
This done, Morley’s frame begin to rise up out of the grave, showing sinews and tendons appearing on the lower extremities. Once, he was at full stature, he began admiring his reborn physique. He stood tall and erect; and then, he turned around, stooped down and read the epitat on the bottom of the headstone:
“Here lies Morley Hawley, a man who took the leap of faith and didn’t live to tell about it.”
After reading the epitat, Morley’s eyes went back up to the natal and mortality years of his birth and death: “Morley Hawley, born in 1820 and died in 1868.”
“Am I dead?” Morley thought again. The last year he could remember was the year he died — 1868. “Is this 1868?” The year was vaguely remembered though; and, he was even more vaguely aware of what had happened to him during that year. He did remember this tidbit of information about that year, noticing something like a branding mark on the back of his right hand — this hand was splayed out as he scrutinized the image. The image look like a pentagram, a 5-pointed star which reminded him of that long ago plantation villa of his erstwhile meanderings.
The villa had been cemented into Morley’s subconscious as he vaguely remembered the facade of this plantation villa. In the recess of his mind, he remembers a particular plantation home; the columns were like pillars adding magistry and symmetry to the structure. There was an upper balcony that gave the illusion of Scarlett O’Hara’s plantation home, Tara, a permanent fixture in the annals of Atlanta history during those gory days of division.
Once the incarnation was completed, Morley made a cursory view of his surroundings: He was still standing tall, looking at an unfamiliar landmark: “Where am I?” Morley thought. The building was the Bank of America tower, and Morley had been transposed into a new era in which he didn’t recognize anything. “I don’t remember anything that hughmonger. Am I in my right time zone? What year is this?”
The graveclothes that Morley had on were threadbare; they made him look like a homeless man. Yet, his powers of mind and elocution serves him well. Consequently, he walks out of the cemetery a changed man, he thinks.
He soon finds his way walking down Peachtree Street, drawing stares, it is the summer of 1989. He was being buoyed on by the Bank of America tower with its’ imposing yet gaudy height jutting up toward the sky.
Then Morley became stock still.
A group of people stopped ogling and walked over and offered Morley a bagged lunch.
He took it.
“Where are you from?”
“Atlanta” Morley replied.
“We work for a local mission. Do you have a place where you are safe at night?”
Morley thought about the question for a reasonable amount of time before responding, “I stayed at the cemetery last night; and I was led this way by that imposing monstrosity? He said, pointing to the Bank of America tower.
“That’s one of our newer edifices.” A member of the group said, “It has not been that long since it was erected.” Then James Barrows introduced himself and offered his hand in a hearty welcome.
Both men shook hands.
The other members of the group crowded around James and Morley as the two continued to talk: “ . . . Go right ahead,” James said, with a slight grimace on his face.
The other members began smiling watching Morley eat his food.
Morley was slowly chomping on his sandwich staring hypnotically as James spoke. Then he took a sip of the soda that was also offered to him. He slightly gulped the food down … he was still listening to James talk:. . . “We are smackdab in the middle of a time warp; people have been deceived about which day this is. We know that it is two days later than what the calendar suggests or is it two days in arrears. I keep forgetting.” Then James turns to a slight stout young woman and says, “Marjorie, do you know what day this is?”
Marjorie responds with the confidence of a black Madonna: “It’s two days later; we need to get the ball moving if we are to make our planned meeting this afternoon, remember?”
“My Gosh! How could I forget!” Then the group began disbanding as James waves them off, and He and Marjorie walk back down Peachtree, headed for their meeting.
After the group had left, Morley watched the passing parade of padestrians and tourists walking back and forth on each sidewalk of Peachtree Street. He sat at the entrance of the Peachtree subway terminal gawking at those who dared look in his direction. When an anonymous person walks up to him, both men began staring at each other like they had known each other for years; and so, cast their eyes downward as though they were ignoring the other presence. The anonymous person continue to walk ahead with his eyes still down and Morley’s eyes were also down in a downward position.
In the meantime, the crowd on Peachtree began diminishing. Some had returned to their offices while others had left the area entirely. Yet, Morley sat alone and befuddled at what had just happen to him: Some strangers that he didn’t even know had made his acquaintance and had become pathfinders in order to cushion the indignity of isolation and loneliness. The day wore on and finally the street became just like all the others in Atlanta, a haven of desperation and squatter in the city.