Drink to Remember, Smoke to Forget

8: Paved Paradise

Contrary to what Louis initially expected, closing his eyes did not make it any easier to ignore his current situation. In truth, it only made it all the more strangely apparent just how little he could hear. Though he could hear the sounds of various farm animals and the rustling of the wind without strain, there was little else that resonated in his ears. He could not hear any of the familiar noises he had grown accustomed to while living in the city: the ambiance of cars honking their horns or accelerating their engines, the incoherent nonsense that echoed from people as they moved out and about on the sidewalks, the rattle and prattle of heavy construction machinery, the constant sirens from emergency vehicles, or the hum of a television or radio playing out of a window nearby.

And although Louis knew that many found nature sounds to be comforting and peaceful—Niall even had a cassette of white noise he occasionally listened to with his portable walkman while he slept—at that moment, Louis felt nowhere near relaxed. He felt quite the opposite, and even more so when he finally pried his eyes open.

As far as Louis' eyes could see from the back entrance of Mr. Abrahams's manor, the surrounding land stretched out for miles upon miles. It was endless. Louis could hardly see anything in the distance, aside from the sporadic growths of trees or the occasional dirt path. There was not a single utility pole or lamp post insight. Not even another building—although, if Louis squinted his eyes hard enough and tilted his head to a certain degree, he could almost convince himself there was a house in the distance. But putting his delusions aside, it was clear that they were a significant distance away from the center of civilization—or at least the center according to Louis' understanding of the "time"—of the port city of Charlestown. They had to be inland, that much was certain, away from the shore of the small peninsula. Though a small stream ran through Mr. Abrahms' property, Louis could see no other source of water in the area. There was no Charles river, Mystic river, or even the inner stretch of Boston Harbor insight. All that surrounded the manor was rolling fields of grass and dirt, though no notable hills. If Mr. Abrahams did, in fact, occupy the same location as the staff manor, and that was a big "if," then the only notable hill in Charlestown, Breed's hill—or better known as Bunker hill—was about a half an hour car ride to the west.

Though the land around Mr. Abrahams' manor continued as far as Louis could see, only a hundred or so feet of land behind and around, Mr. Abrahams' estate was in use. One half of the property was a kitchen garden, growing all sorts of seasonal vegetables: summer squash, onions, peas, and many others Louis couldn't place at sight alone. The other half was a flower garden, far less practical, but far more beautiful. Louis was sure that he had never before seen such beauty. It was like a photograph of heaven itself, with the vibrant colors backdropped with the cloudless sky and the glow of summer sun. Yet as Louis looked out across the flower spotted land, he could not bring himself to smile.

"Holy shit," he heard Harry whisper beside him with a slight chuckle and a whistle, smiling from ear to ear. "Looks like we took the time bridge, after all, huh, Teach."

Back in the time that Louis called home, the land in the back of the manor was not a beautiful garden like the one he wistfully admired, but a paved parking lot, a so-called "land bridge" between the staff manor and the museum (and countless other seedy establishments). Every morning, every employee who inhabited the staff manor would walk as a group across the asphalt parking lot to the land of Colonial America. It truly was a bridge between two worlds, even if it was essentially just a dirty sanctuary for city-dwelling delinquents and their deals of unholy kinds.

Some of the more senior members of the museum, privy to their daily routine after years of attendance, used to joke that the parking lot was more magical than it presented itself to be. They used to call the parking lot a "bridge" back in time. Or so to speak a "time bridge," as they liked to call it. And they liked to call it that a lot. A lot, a lot. So much so that after three summers working at the museum, Louis had developed a whole performance routine for whenever someone made that joke. Louis would always give them, usually an older gentleman, a fake enough laugh to convince them he hadn't heard it before and commend them on their wit. However, when Harry said it just then, staring out at the beautiful garden before them, Louis' first reaction was not to cue the laughter but to cry.