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Time is the invisible thing that makes life worth living. The large typeset font standing out almost black against the aged marble headstone drew Len forward in the cold misty morning. Len liked his mornings quiet and calm so unlike many of his friends he strolled through cemeteries rather than pound pavement. To him these were just thoughtful places with an eery beauty. As none of his family had ever ventured this far West Len didn’t even make a habit of scanning the stones, but those words had more than just caught his attention they had pulled him off the gravel path. So standing before the stone with wet shoes and damp socks Len read the sentence again before walking around to see the name Alden Paxt.
Alden Paxt, as it turned out, had died 89 years young, according to the stone, in the year 1927. Len looked the marker over somehow unsatisfied. Then it dawned on him, the epitaph. There was no line honoring Alden as a loving husband, a caring father, or a cherished friend. Immediately Len envisioned a funeral empty except for the priest and grave diggers, and without ever knowing this man his heart broke for Alden. Then confusion set in; what kind of man plans a funeral, buys a stone, engraves that sentence, and then forgets to leave someone behind to care that he is gone?
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With only a small amount of difficulty Len managed to find the grounds keeper and convince him to check the files for any information about Alden or his headstone. The scowling grounds keeper came back from his office file in hand brow even more furrowed.
“It’s just a stone guy.”
“What?”
“No one is buried there; lot number 803 is empty.” Len’s mouth hung at a rakish angle as the man continued. “Yah…that’s what it says.”
“But the stone?”
“Oh that? Nice line right? Yah, it was commissioned…back in October of ’42 same day the lot was purchased.” The grounds keeper looked up as he shut the file.
“You mean to tell me that a stone and lot were purchased in 1942 for a man who died in ’27?”
“That’s what the file says guy.” With a shrug the man walked back towards his mower pocketing the folded manilla folder.
“Thanks,” was all Len managed as a response.
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All day long the mystery of Alden Paxt ate at Len creeping into his consciousness while he waited for red lights, coffee shop lines, and printed spreadsheets. So when his coworkers invited him to dinner that night Len politely refused wanting nothing more than to spend the night glued to his computer until it gave up whatever information there was to find on Alden.
By 11 pm Len’s bloodshot eyes and mound of soda cans attested to his night long search for Mr. Paxt online, but nothing else. There had been no record of death in 1927 nor any birth certificate 89 years earlier for an Alden Paxt. While there had been some unusual headlines between 1838 and 1927, including a pregnant woman, in April of 1838, who was hit by lightning one stormy night and woke up childless. However, no mention of Alden the mysterious. Scrolling through pages of the archaic Langston Township Chronicles, a local newspaper that had been around since the early 1800s, Len stopped on a page of birth announcements to read one titled “Baby Moses” which read almost like a lost puppy add.
Child found in shack off the Long River. Aged at least three years. Sick. Looking for mother or mother’s whereabouts. Please contact the Langston Township Police Force or Sister Mary Agnes of Saint Ivo’s.
Len knew the LTPF was still in working order, sadly understaffed with retirement aged officers, but he could not remember ever seeing or hearing of Saint Ivo’s. In a last ditch effort to make his night of skulking around the internet worth while Len began looking into the second most mysterious person whose name he had read today “Baby Moses”.
Much to his dismay no church in Langston was now, or ever, named St. Ivo’s as far as he could tell, the only convent in a three town radius was called Saint Cathrine’s, and none of the Catholic schools had names anymore exotic than Thomas Aquinas. Stumped Len typed Baby Moses Langston Township into the search bar. To his surprise he found St. Ivo’s Orphanage listed as an official “safe haven” under the Baby Moses Project in Michigan. As soon as he read the words orphanage his mind went into overdrive… abandoned children wouldn’t have birth certificates.
Len closed his laptop resolutely tomorrow he would go to the orphanage, and perhaps find his answers.
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Standing in the gravel parking lot Len felt more than a little unsure of himself. He knew it was a long shot, but between Alden Paxt and Baby Moses Len had more questions than he could abide. So he made his way to the office regardless of his misgivings.
“Yes,” the receptionist said curtly.
“I was wondering if a Sister Mary Agnes was still here and available to talk.” The woman hiked an eyebrow causing Len to run the math again. It was possible but not likely that she was still above ground. Still the receptionist picked up the phone motioning to a bank of pseudo comfortable chairs.
Nearly ten minutes later a motherly looking sister greeted him, “Len? Welcome to St. Ivo’s. Would you care to walk with me?”
“You couldn’t possibly be Mary Agnes.”
The sister laughed out loud and threw a wink at the receptionist, “No, no I’m Mary Louise. Come let’s talk.”
This time Len didn’t even pause.
“What did you want to talk with Mary Agnes about?” The sister met Len’s silence head on. “Well my dear I know you never knew her personally because she joined our little family at the turn of the 20th century, so… I must admit I am curious.”
“It’s probably going to sound crazy,” Len started not making eye contact, “but I’m here because of Alden Paxt.” The sister was staring at him shaking her head. “I mean… God dam.., ah dang it. Sorry sister.”
“Who is Alden Paxt Len,” Mary Louise asked as a smile colored her words.
“He’s the proud owner of a very interesting unused tombstone from 1942 or ’27, its not important, but um because of him I came across Baby Moses’ add in an old copy of the Chronicles.”
“Really? Well Moses is worth the trip I suppose.”
“You actually know what I’m talking about?”
“Of course. I took over for Mary Agnes in ’68. Moses was perhaps our most intriguing occupant. He was such a miracle, and a mystery…”
“Did they ever find his mother?”
“No. You know he nearly died. No matter what they did that baby seemed to get smaller and weaker, a few years after he had been found he still couldn’t eat solid food or even hold his tiny head up. Then out of no where he started to thrive. Agnes hadn’t even bother giving him a proper name she was so sure he would die. Everyone just kept calling him Baby Moses till one day he looked her right in the eye and said something along the lines of its Moses darling.”
“What? How old was he?”
“There was no telling, he always was a bit of a runt, but the name stuck. From then on he was Moses Darling. That boy always had such an intense look about him, an old soul people use to call it.”
“You mean you knew him,” Len couldn’t believe his luck.
“During this teenage years, yes sir. He always had an opinion and an amazing story for any situation.”
“Where did he end up? Did he get adopted?”
“No, he didn’t have any interest in finding a family actually. Which was odd. All the other children without family ties seemed to crave a home and roots more than anything, but not Moses he wanted to wonder and learn. He even wrote an essay that won him a scholarship out in New York City.” Mary Louise paused laughing to herself. “He wrote that story and then disappeared off into his future. Only thing I know for sure about Moses Darling now is that he wrote a book, because he sent a copy to Sister Mary Agnes for our library.”
“Is there any way I could borrow it sister,” Len asked brimming with hope.
“Oh I’m sorry, see she was buried with it, Agnes, we never even put it on the shelf.”
Knowing that his luck had to run out eventually Len took the news in stride, thanked the sister for her time, made a donation to the orphanage and left.
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Weeks later Len had made his way back through his rotation of beautiful cemeteries to stroll in, and found himself excited to visit Alden Paxt’s grave stone once more. So much so that his walk was really more of a jog. While he made his way through the immaculately manicured lawn Len thought about how much the Mysterious Mr. Paxt had changed how he walked through graveyards. Now he read each name and date, even kept a journal dedicated to the ones that seemed intriguing or had great quotes. Len felt more aware or perceptive, and he liked it.
That is, perhaps, why he noticed the book from such a long way off. Sitting on the aged marble stone sat an old paperback novel so well loved by its previous owner that the pages curled back nearly touching the spine. Len looked in every direction but could find no one. So he moved closer, and tentatively reached out to grab the book. His hand trembled slightly fully aware that he was intruding on something deeply personal. Never before had he dared to bother mementos left by the bereaved, but today not even proper etiquette could stop Len.
The author’s name was undecipherable on the broken spine but the gold foil title My Time could still be made out. Len not even bothering to walk toward the nearby bench turned to the first page and began reading.
Time is the only thing that makes life worth living, and for me the clock started with a flash of lightening…
Len felt his eyes widen as he reread the first line. It was the quote. Slowly the realization that he now held the only clue to who Alden Paxt was in his hand dawned on him. So fast he nearly tore the page Len flipped to the title page. There in bold black typeface were the words; My Time by Moses Darling copyright 1972.
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Some how Len had made it to the bench before he collapsed. Sitting there head between his knees, heart racing, taking what he hoped were deep calming breaths Len tried to make sense of the book. He could have seen the headstone and liked the quote same as me, was his first thought. They were both from the same area so it wasn’t too far of a reach. Maybe it was a famous quote and he had just never heard it before Len thought, but that seemed to be a bit more of a stretch. Nervously he opened the book again to the last page hoping for a blurb about the author instead he found an oddly placed dedication page.
Now the name Alden Paxt will never be forgotten.
That decided him. Len didn’t fidget while he read, take coffee, or even bathroom breaks he read My Time as if it might dissolve away in the breeze if he stopped. Hours later he began to feel a slight itchy sensation that told him someone was watching, but he ignored it. It wasn’t till the light started to fade that he finally looked up.
“So what did you think” the the man leaning on his cane asked.
“I… I loved it. Um, have you heard of it,” Len said as he turned the cover towards the stranger who made a noncommittal shrug. “Well you see its a story about a man who lives twice. Once in reverse where he gets younger rather than older, and then once moving forward.”
“How would that have happened,” the man asked as he sat down on the other end of the bench.
“That part is never really explained actually,” Len said flipping the pages of the book, “but the life he lived.” He sighed audibly looking over at Alden’s stone. “It was worth living.”
“What’s that now?”
“Sorry I just meant, I know its fiction but the character in this book he really lived his life. He made mistakes as much as he got it right, but he didn’t let fear stop him. He just kept going like he knew he would get to do it again, like… I’m not doing it justice,” Len finished rather lamely.
“Like all his ends were actually beginnings,” the man offered while staring into the sunset.
“Exactly! Odd place for that kind of realization huh?”
“Why would that be son?”
“Well,” Len said motioning to the rows of grave markers, “we are literally surrounded by ends.”
“Oh, yah,” the elderly gentleman said goading Len. “What about that one there,” the man said pointing, “how is his story over?”
Len followed the man’s outstretched finger. “Alden Paxt? Good example… he kind of exists as a middle I don’t know his beginning or end just the dates.”
“Ha!” The man’s bark of laughter cut through the evening air. “Your holding his beginning there son. The end though is sure to be up for interpretation.”
“How would you know that?”
Len watched as the skin crinkled around the man’s dark deep set eyes and a smile broke out upon his kind face. “How did you know Alden Paxt?” Without meaning to his question came out more like a demand.
“Don’t be so surprised son, as it turns out life is often stranger than fiction. I think you should keep that copy… It suits you, and that way neither of our names will be forgotten.”
“But I don’t know your name,” Len said confusion obvious in his voice.
The man slowly stood cane in hand, “I cannot say I ever had a proper one but friends have been known to call me Moses.” And just like that the man started to walk away. Len stood and would have followed him, but the man’s voice blew back on the building breeze. “Or Alden. There was a time when people knew me by that name too.”
Len sat down hard without having meant to staring after the kind man’s silhouette as it melted into the growing shadows. “Stranger than fiction,” he asked in a whisper, “talk about an understatement.” The book suddenly felt very heavy in Len’s hands like a story that spanned nearly 200 years should.
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