Timothy's Window by Kristin Haas

Timothy was an old man when he told me his story. 

Life had, for the most part, flowed past him gently, soothingly.  Content in his cottage near the forest, listening to the chatter of the stream and the waves of the cardinals, he sent forth tobacco-scented clouds as he pondered.  Nothing seemed extraordinarily strange about him, and I wondered why my children had been so intrigued with him. 

“Teacher, the man from church smells like fire!”

“Why does that man always have that weird hat?”

He had a watercolor-y air about him – not quite reflective of reality, colors and emotions blending together smoothly, imprecise at times.  His beard was trimmed short, graying, but kept purposefully, like a favorite antique.  He was blind, though you wouldn’t know it by talking with him.  He saw more than he failed to see.

When Timothy was a boy, perhaps sixteen years old, he was a town celebrity.  The gentlemen made small talk with him; he visited older friends at university, he scored many points for the high school soccer team.  His parents kept him well.  School was unimportant; he had what he wanted.

The day was new, the sky still lilac.  September 13, he heard a familiar pattern of tones wafting through the bedroom.  He’d had an all right night, some breezy rustlings, the chilly window had been open.  I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes as I wake up, he thought, hitting the snooze button.  So he did, as he always did, until his mother knocked, tap ta tap.  Time to get up, Timmy, she appealed.  He rolled over, glancing out the window, rubbing his eyes.  Rubbing them.  He needed to put in his contacts.  Fine…fine, he told himself.  He prepared for class and drove to school, his sister chattering from the seat next to him.

    ***

The phones rang.  The teacher called Timothy’s friends’ houses at lunchtime.  Where were the students? the school wondered.  Paul, Henry, and Janett were all missing from school – probably cutting class again, confirmed classmates.  Their mothers assured this wasn’t so.  The students were ill and had appointments with the physician, thank you very much, and we’ll see you at the gala this weekend, no worries, good day. 

More were missing.  The school closed the next day.  The day was bright, clouds meandered, but something closed the building’s doors.  The principal knew something.  Timothy feared; he could not see the cereal, he could not check the clock.  Timothy’s family grew concerned about him; the physician needs to see him immediately.  And what is that vial at his window seat?  His mother collected it.

***

The news flickered in and out as Timothy positioned himself in front of it.  Was it the blond newscaster?  He wasn’t sure, but the words were crisp as the sketches decorating the living room walls.  “A mysterious disease is spreading through the area.  Schools have been closed, and residents are advised to remain where they are until more is learned about the disease.  The only thing we know right now is that symptoms incl—“

    Timothy fumbled around the remote control and clicked off the television.  He knew what the symptoms included. He hoped it would clear up by tomorrow’s soccer game, he thought.  Yes…he really hoped it would clear up. 

    His father caught the train to New York that evening.  A normal business meeting, just like all the rest.  He’d known about the blindness, but wasn’t so concerned.  An epidemiologist for several years, he’d been familiar with just about every communicable disease the world had seen.  It just wasn’t possible that the blindness would be lasting; the only peoples who experienced that problem were living in the developing countries.  It would never happen in America, of all places.  He told Timothy this.  Timothy was relieved; he cleaned his soccer boots.

    The authorities took action.  It was discovered that the disease had been sparked when a tourist from Morocco had neglected to mark her blindness on her travel documents.  She had recovered; everyone would be fine in a few days.  Medicine was not available, but the uncomfortable sinking, the pressure, could be alleviated by applying a treated cloth.  Timothy applied such a cloth, which indeed assuaged his fears if not his ailment.  

*** 

Thursday, Timothy’s mother wept.  Results came back; she’d had the vial from Timothy’s room tested – was everything all right?  In the vial had been traces of a certain chemical, a reddish-transparent chemical. 

It caused blindness.  Pleas, pleas!  No one listened to the family’s cries.  His mother drove down the block, place to place, repeating, rewinding, pleading.  Of course it’s a disease – don’t be so paranoid.  No one has entered your home, who do you think would poison your son?  (pause..) Timothy waited, a tear materialized, then another.  He waited, paralyzed.  He listened, smelled, tasted his fear, saw his own vulnerability.  He locked the front door and the back door at night and he waited.

    The blond reporter was silent.  The town reported that the disease had been identified.  Quarantining had been moderately successful.  Businesses began to reopen.  The number of blindnesses receded.  Life was returning to normal; Timothy’s family tried to find comfort in the fact that at least, at least more cases were not surfacing.  No one, still, would hear them.  A vial, how silly! a disease was spreading.  Timothy walked through the leaves, crunching each step, as the dusk fell.  His skin sprouted goosebumps.

***

A scream! Stephanie!  Where are you?  Timothy crawled out of bed, through the night, he cut his leg, stumbled through his bedroom door, finding the scream.  He found it soon.  His sister.  Wind breezed across the hall.  It was quiet.  The window closed.  She did not close it.  Breathing, fast breathing, tears.  What had happened, demanded Timothy, why the screaming, why?  Sobbing only, panic.  Parents were here now, too.  Silence glued their eyes wide.  Some saw, some heard only.  

    The window opened.  A small red vial! Laying on the windowsill, the hand snatched it and tried to get away.  Stephanie would soon be blind, no!  Timothy lunged, grabbed for the wrist.  A figure surrendered, climbed in, gazed sadistically into Timothy’s eyes as the boy trembled, his heart cold, his lips silent, his eyes seeing nothing, his soul seeing the evil before him.  Never had he felt something so real.  So real--

    Police came.  The figure sneered, laughed.  The children could not see the authorities; the authorities did see the blindness.

The dark figure hissed.  “The disease spreads among you now, I am but the virus.”

***

Timothy rocked on his chair, as we observed once more the spring children, baseball on the grass, a tree standing nearby, creaking in the wind.  A slow, methodical cloud emanated once more from his mouth.  “How hard it was for us to know the truth.”