Chapter 9: It Ain't Over . . .

(September-October 2014)

The two old men sat at a table in one of Miami's trendiest restaurants. The low murmur of conversation, the occasional burst of light laughter, and the sound of a piano—the woman pianist, a pretty young thing in a sparkling evening dress that caught the gleam of the spotlight, was currently playing "Unchained Melody." The lighting was low, which seemed to suit most of the other customers, young couples at tables for two.

Stanford looked just a bit uneasy. "I don't often drink wine."

"Yeah, yeah, but this is a celebration!" Stan told him. "Look, we escaped a fate worse than debt, there's at least a possibility of sunken gold to be recovered, we got our health, so make an exception. Besides, I remember when I first moved into the Shack, I found your stash of Cabernet. It was good stuff. What did it cost ya back in the eighties, like twelve dollars a bottle?"

"Well—it was rather expensive for that time," Ford admitted. "Wait, you drank all my wine?"

"The whole four bottles," Stan said dryly. He held up his wine glass, gleaming with a rich purple-red and sniffed it with his nose, a rich orangey color. "Now, this stuff is French and runs two hundred bucks a bottle! So, don't you dare to begrudge me four lousy bottles of California wine. Come on, let's drink this, have dinner, and make some plans."

They sat near the floor-to-ceiling windows of Gustave's 1831, a restaurant on the top floor of a fancy hotel. It was night outside, but the skyline of Miami Beach glimmered and gleamed in a thousand colors, reflected in the waters of Biscayne Bay. It looked like a fairyland.

Ford didn't seem impressed with the view as he toyed with his glass of wine. Then, impulsively, he said, "Stanley—I have to ask. Are you sick?"

"Who, me?" Stanley asked, surprise in his voice. "Why do you even ask?"

Looking unhappy, Ford said, "I've been worried about you. Ever since you gave me that envelope and told me about your will, I've been wondering. You can tell me, Stanley."

Stan laughed. "Hah! Worryin' about me, huh? Look, you don't have to be concerned. I was thinking about all that flyin' we were doing, plus I had no idea whether we'd find the dumb fountain or not, or if it might be on a Caribbean island and guarded by armed thugs and sharks with frickin' lasers strapped to their heads—nah, relax, I'm not sick with anything except old man's complaints. Creaky knees, stuff like that."

"Honestly?"

"Yeah. Why, somethin' the matter with you?"

"Me? No, my physical showed that I'm in good shape," Ford said.

"Yeah, mine said I was in fair condition. Gotta start exercising' one of these days!"

"I'll remind you of that. Wait, wait—sharks with lasers? That makes no sense!"

"OK, Sixer, it was a weak joke, just forget it! Look, it's nine-thirty, we had nothing all day but some bad-quality fast-food burgers at noon and then a couple bottles of overpriced water, I'm starving, and we haven't even ordered our food yet. So—" he raised his glass. "Here's to us."

"To us," Ford said, and they clinked glasses. They sipped their wine.

"What do you think of it?" Stan asked, savoring the bouquet again.

"It's very good," Ford said. "A little weak, though, don't you think?"

"Weak? Better not be, two hundred smackers a bottle!" They both sampled the wine again. "Mine tastes OK. I'm no connoisseur, but you know, can't complain."

They finished the first glass, ordered dinner, and Stan poured them a second round. He tilted his head. "Why are you grinning at me like that?"

"Because I know you had an angle," Ford said. "You got some of the water from the Fountain, didn't you?"

"I didn't steal anything!" Stan said.

Ford sipped his wine and said, "I didn't accuse you of stealing. Stanley, so just come clean!"

Grinning, Stan shrugged. "OK. I found something wrapped up in a little paper bag in the back seat of the Macaw when we were packin' to drive down from Ellismere to Miami. It was in the floor, on the side where Juan rode back to the house—right behind the passenger seat." Stan reached in his pocket and pulled out a very small glass bottle. "This was full of water—then."

"That's not four ounces," Ford said.

"Nope. Maybe three, three and a half, at the most."

"And you put some of it in my wine."

"Well, the whole reason that I went on this cockamamie trip was to give you back your thirty years, Ford!"

"I suspected something like that," Ford said. He sipped his second glass of wine. Then, confidently, he added, "That's why I switched glasses while you were glancing at the menu."

"What!"

"I came on this trip for you, Stanley! I feel guilty that you devoted thirty years to retrieving me—and at first, I was so wrapped up in myself that I didn't even thank you. Giving you back your lost years is the least I could do!"

"It's OK, Sixer," Stan said. He raised his glass. "I thought you might do something like that. That's why I switched glasses when you were texting Dipper."

Ford stared at him. "You didn't!"

"Oh, but I did!"

"Well," Ford said, "I realized I'd taken my attention away for a moment, so when you dropped your napkin and bent down for it, I switched them again! What do you think about that?"

"Nothin'. 'Cause I switched them again not thirty seconds before we drank!"

A waiter came and hovered. "Is there something wrong with the wine, gentlemen?"

"No, it's great," Stan said, grinning. "We both want to start with the lobster bisque, then the heart-of-palm salad, and we'll finish with a couple of medium-well filet mignons. That OK with you, brother?"

"It's fine," Ford said, but he looked troubled. "Stanley, are you joking?"

After the waiter left, Stan said, "Yeah, I am. I never switched the glasses at all."

"Then you drank the water from the Fountain."

"Guess I did," Stan said. "Only you did, too."

"You didn't!"

"Divided it up, fifty-fifty," Stanley said. "And it wasn't in the wine. I wouldn't ruin an expensive vintage like this! When we stopped for gas about sundown on the drive down from Ellismere and I went into the station and bought us a couple bottles of water, I doctored them up half and half with the Fountain water before I gave you yours. Remember, you were driving and I opened your bottle for you? I'd already opened it in the men's room and divided the gift."

"So . . . we each get fifteen years back?"

"At least. There was a note wrapped around the little bottle." Stan reached in his jacket pocket and handed it to Ford. "Peculiar, huh?"

Ford adjusted his glasses and read:

Gentlemen: A young friend of yours called on me while you were at the airport picking up the good Father M. The boy in the yellow straw hat told me to let you know his name is Dunn Bergas. That means nothing to me. He suggested that I give you "just enough for forty." He didn't say forty what, but I can guess.

He is a strange boy. He walked to the house and came down the driveway with all the dogs escorting him—as though he were an angel with powers of soothing them. He told me his brief message and then . . . walked away and somehow disappeared. I lost sight of him for a moment, and then he was gone.

Accept this as my gift to you. May it bring you good and not evil. I trust you will not return to visit me again, and so for the last time, I wish you well.

JPdL"

"That boy again?" Ford asked. "Who is he?"

"Beats the heck outa me! Crazy name, though—Dunn. Short for Dunnagan or something, I guess."

"Something uncanny about him," Ford said. "I'd like to know who he is!"

"Somebody who did us a good turn. I dunno, maybe he is a guardian angel. Might be the same guy who gives me my luck at cards—and then takes it away when I get too confident for my own good? You know, I'm thinkin' we'd better lay low for a few days. Juan said when this stuff kicks in it screws with your head a little."

"Fifteen or twenty years," Ford mused. "I'd be able to make Lorena a real offer of marriage."

"Yeah, I was thinking the same about Sheila, myself," Stan admitted. "Now, from what Juan told me during our marathon card tournament, what we drank shouldn't foul up our memories. That happens when you reset the clock three or four times, he says. So—to us. It's just wine."

They clinked and drank again.

"I wonder if it'll really work," Ford said.

"Worked on Juan last winter. Guess we'll see."

"You didn't keep any?"

"Not a drop."

"That's a pity," Ford said. "If it could be analyzed, we might be able to synthesize it—"

"And that's exactly why I didn't save any," Stanley said. He tilted his head. "How you feeling?"

"Physically? Well, thank you. Why?"

"'Cause your eyebrows are darker."

Ford blinked. "So . . . are yours!"

"It's started," Stan said with a grin. "My gums are a little sore. I think I'm growing a new set of teeth!"

"We're rejuvenating," Ford said. "I hope to Heaven that Juan didn't trick you—that he didn't overdose us!"

"I trust him," Stan said. "A con artist gets to know when a guy's on the level."

The waiter served the soup and salad, and they began to eat. "Either this is extraordinarily good soup," Ford said, "or my taste buds have improved some, too!"

"Little of both, I expect," Stan said. "And it is good grub. Well, we should wind up around forty-eight, fifty. I think I'd be up for learning SCUBA driving at that age. Whatcha think?"

"I think we should wait and see where we wind up," Ford said cautiously. "Maybe it's the wine—but I feel a strange exhilaration."

"We'll go out and celebrate a little," Stan said. "Get picked up by the cops."

"What!"

"Well, we're gonna be confused come tomorrow, according to Juan," Stan said. "We'll be in a drunk tank, no money on us, they'll keep us overnight, and then I'll get Sheila to wire us our fine. Got it figured."

"I won't go to jail! It would ruin my reputation!"

"Gotcha, Ford!" Stan said with a laugh. "Nah, we'll hang around the hotel room tomorrow until we know we're good to go. After about thirty-six hours, Juan told me, the wooziness is gone. But the reju—what was it?"

"Rejuvenation."

"Yeah, that. It'll go on gradually for a month or six weeks. You know what I'm thinking?"

"What?"

"This works, and our gals are willing, a double wedding just after Christmas. When the kids can be there."

Ford lifted his glass. "I," he said, "will drink to that!"

. . . Until the Fat Lady . . .

Now, no one would call Lorena Jones, the Gravity Falls reference librarian "fat." No one within Ford's hearing, anyway. And she wasn't—she was nice-looking, attractive for a middle-aged lady, very lively, good-humored, and full of little facts about the moon Triton, decapods, or Gaueko, a demonic entity in Basque legends who makes sure people fear the night.

Ford found that kind of small talk very stimulating. He found Lorena more so. Toward the end of October, when he and Stan returned to Gravity Falls, she was the first person he called on.

"You look great!" she said. "But I don't think you should dye your hair."

"It isn't dye," Ford said. "It's the result of a kind of spa treatment I had in Florida. Wonderful state. We should go there some time."

She laughed. "I rarely have time off from the library for a long trip like that! I can't get over how fit you look. Whatever you did, it suited you!"

"Lorena," Ford said, "I think I know how this goes." He went down on one knee. "I don't have the ring yet, but—will you marry me? The week after Christmas would be ideal."

Lorena's face registered surprise, then shock, and then a blushing delight. "Of course, I'll marry you!" she said. "Oh, get up and kiss me!"

In between kisses, Ford said, "We'll shop for a ring tomorrow. The biggest diamond you can find! I'm—I'm happy, darling. For the first time in ages, I'm truly happy."

And then they were happy together.

On the same night, at almost the same time, Stan, nuzzling Sheila Remley's neck, said, "So, we talked about it and I don't know whether you were jokin' or not—but wanna get married? I mean to me? How about the week after Christmas?"

"Why, Stanley," Sheila said, "it took you long enough! Of course, I wasn't joking! What did you do in Florida, anyway? You're a lot . . . friskier than usual. And you look so young!"

"Meh, I visited the Fountain of Youth," Stan said. "Here ya go, honey. This was my grandmother's on my ma's side. Hope you like it. If you want a bigger diamond, I'll have one set."

Sheila took the ring. "It's perfect," she said.

"Only three-quarters of a carat. Honest, we can have a bigger diamond set in it if—"

"I wouldn't have anything but this one. Or any man but you."

"Yeah, I am kind a diamond in the rough, ain't I?"

"Not so rough," she whispered, nuzzling his neck.

. . . Screams!

It was, appropriately, on the morning of Saturday, October 31, the day after the twin proposals and acceptances, that Ford, shaving (he had finally broken himself of removing his stubble with fire), had one of those moments you've had now and then.

You know, you suddenly realize that the answer to the Money Wheel grand prize puzzle, blank-blank-blank blank blank-blank-B is "GET A JOB!" and it's right. Or you realize that if you twist the cube puzzle this way, then a half-turn, then flip it and another half-turn and twist, and you have all six faces solid colors, and you know you'd never be able to do that again in a million years. Or you're taking a history final, and there's a fill-in-the-blank, and you know, without knowing how you know, that the missing word is "investiture." That kind of inspiration.

This one made Ford cut himself.

A few minutes later, with a piece of toilet paper stuck to his chin and showing a red splotch, he texted Dipper—having some problems with autocorrect, but he went back and fixed it—to ask:

Can you make anything of the name DUNN BERGAS?

Dipper phoned him in nine and a quarter minutes: "Uh, Grunkle Ford?"

"Yes, Mason, go ahead. I just want to confirm what I suspect."

"Um—well, if you put all the vowels in one group and all the consonants in the other—well, if you count backward from D, you get C, then B. If you count backward from U in the vowels, you get O and then I. The N's—well, you see where this is going. B-I-L-L."

"I thought so," Ford said grimly.

"Bergas, that's harder. It could be a code, but chaotic. One forward from B, C. One forward from E, I. Two backward from R, P. One forward from G, H. One forward from A, E. One backward from S, R. C-I-P-H-E-R."

"I saw the same pattern, or near-pattern. The chaos would fit him, wouldn't it?" Ford asked.

Dipper's voice shook a little: "Grunkle Ford—is he back?"

"I wish I knew."

It was probably one of the bravest things that Ford had done in his whole life, but he visited the clearing in the forest where the Bill Cipher effigy stood. And it was still there, frozen, gaining a thin coat of green moss. And in its hand, outstretched as if for a handshake, an envelope had been sort of threaded in and out of the fingers. Ford took it, but he didn't feel up to opening it until he got back to the Shack.

Well, well, well. Took you long enough! Hey, Fordsy, want a free earworm? 'We'll meet again.' Come on, you know the tune! You know the words! Sing along! No charge.

Seriously, you can thank me for the free sip of water. And the advice. Though it pains me to say it, because of a rule laid down by the Axolotl—the Oracle might have mentioned that being to you—I'm sort of sordidly on the side of the angels now, but even so I'm still looking for the angles, if you know what I mean! Hey, kidding about your thanking me because I know you won't trust me, and no wonder. I don't trust me, either.

So there—we have something in common! In time to come, don't look for me often. I can only maintain a quasi-material existence for a short time at a time not all the time time time in a sort of Runic rhyme, if you know what I mean. If you don't ask Lorena, she's up on Poe-try! I'll be watching, maybe give you a nudge now and then in a helpful way, and I'll C you around, so YOU just better watch your step, young(er) man!

OK, now you can scream.

The End