“My name,” he said softly. So softly that at first I did not think he had spoken. But then he looked over at me for the first time. I locked eyes with him, and I saw him searching me, as if he could see into my mind.
“What is your name,” I whispered. It wasn’t exactly a question. It was something different, uncategorizable. The old man was silent for another minute or so. I thought I had lost him. But then he sucked in a breath and spoke, louder this time.
“Peter…” he faltered for a moment. “Peter Blank.”
Peter lowered his gaze, watching the ground. He didn’t speak any longer. I decided that I would need to lead the conversation.
“Mr. Blank, what year is this?” I asked him slowly. He looked up at me several seconds later. I noted that his reactions to my voice were becoming faster. He made a small mumbling sound and brought a frail hand up to his balding head.
“The year… the year is 1942, young man,” he said.
I took interest at that, obviously. Either this man was daffy, or something very strange was occurring. I decided that the best way to find out was to keep the conversation flowing with Peter Blank.
“Do you have any family?” I asked him.
Peter took a long sip of his coffee. He was so frail that I thought I could almost see the coffee flowing down his throat. He let out a breath after taking the sip and leaned forward to rest his mug on the table. Then he looked up at me to answer the question.
“I had a mother… and a father. Beyond that I do not know,” he said. I assumed that due to Peter’s old age, both of his parents were dead. I felt a rush of compassion for this lonely old man. “My father fought in the Civil War, you know,” said Peter proudly. It was the first thing he had said in more than a monotone. Finally he seemed somewhat alive.
Then a strange thought occurred to me. If Peter’s father fought in the Civil War, then he would have been about twenty-five during the war in 1860. Peter was most likely born when his father was thirty-five, in 1870. So right now he would be more than seventy years old. Unless he was lying about his father, Peter was telling the truth about what year it was. But I needed to be sure.
“Do you have a calendar in the house?” I asked him. “I’d like to check something.”
Peter once again looked up at me. “A calendar, you say… yes, I have one of those. Would you like to examine it, young man?”
I nodded as Peter slowly rose from the green armchair. He reached over the armrest and grabbed his cane, which was resting against the side of the chair. With great difficulty, he arrived at his feet and pointed his arm into the kitchen. “There’s a calendar in there,” he mumbled. “I hope you find it to your liking.”