“Maybe you should just take them off,” Francesca suggests. Blake and Carson both stop and begin removing their cleats.
Robbie gets a whiff of a slightly singed foot smell and backs up. “Maybe you should just leave them on.”
"Oh shut up," Carson retorts. "It's not that bad."
Dinner with Mr. Cameron is rather subdued. It turns out he made extra helpings of chicken and rice for us, so we help ourselves in spite of our recent meal. We sit around the table and tell him about our lives and doings in 2009. Mr. Cameron listens politely to our conversation and asks a few questions, but after one of Carson’s anecdotes about he and Robbie getting into trouble together in college, Mr. Cameron lapses into silence.
We likewise concentrate on our chicken for a bit and cast periodic glances at one another. I accidentally drown my asparagus in gravy from the tureen and almost make a joke about it, but stop myself, unsure of how best to break the silence. We help clear the dishes after the meal and Mr. Cameron tells us the location of the nearest drug store. Blake and Carson opt to stay behind rather than don their softball cleats again for the walk. Robbie also decides to stay at the house. Francesca and I promise to do our best to retrieve the items they need for them, and once the dishes are all put away, make our way to the back door. Spartacus follows us.
"Is it all right if we take Spartacus with us?" Francesca inquires.
"Oh, of course. You'll be his new best friend," Mr. Cameron replies. "His leash is hanging on a hook on the back steps."
“Do you happen to have a jacket or a sweater I could borrow?” Francesca asks.
“Oh yes, I could find something of Abby’s in her closet perhaps, or if you want to use my windbreaker, it’s on the back porch too,” Mr. Cameron replies.
“That would be fine.” Francesca is elated to find that the jacket is long enough to cover the burn hole in her pants. Spartacus bounds to her with his tail wagging and positions himself at the screen door of the porch. Francesca fastens the leash and Spartacus bolts through the opening as soon as he can fit. He’s in a state of bliss, sniffing the flowerbed and a garden hose before Francesca and I even make it out the door.
The walk to the drugstore would’ve only taken a few minutes, but the journey is punctuated by detours through hedges and around a particularly odoriferous set of trashcans. Upon reaching the store, I hold on to Spartacus while Francesca goes inside to grab the items we need. A movie poster for Beverly Hills Cop is hanging in the window, and I’m reading through the cast, when my attention is diverted by three police cruisers racing past with their sirens on.
As I lean down to calm Spartacus, who is barking at the sirens, a fourth police cruiser pulls into the parking lot. Driving slowly, the officer eyes me briefly before pulling into a position near the entrance. He remains in the squad car and transmits on the radio.
The police car makes me nervous, though I can’t think of a valid reason why. I casually play with Spartacus, who has decided to chew on his leash to pass the time. In a few minutes Francesca comes out of the store with a bag.
“I found some cheap flip-flops in a bargain bin for Carson and Blake, and I got us all toothbrushes, but they didn’t have any shorts or anything. I’m going to have to find a clothing store . . .” She catches me eying the police car again. “What’s going on?” She looks over and sees the middle-aged officer watching us.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “I think we should get back to the house. Come on, fuzzball.” I give Spartacus’ leash a tug.
“Is something up with officer mustache over there?” Francesca asks as we take to the sidewalk.
“Could be. A bunch of police cars went blazing by and he came into the lot really slow, like he was looking for someone. I think it might be some kind of search.”
“Well they can’t be looking for us,” Francesca replies. I look back briefly after we have gone a half a block or so and see that the police car has idled up to the street. I’m worried for a moment that it’s going to follow us, but when it pulls into the street, it turns the opposite direction. I pull Spartacus out of a yard where he’s made use of the pause to chew on a Cabbage Patch Doll that was left on the lawn.
“Hey, you little terror, they don’t want your teeth marks in their baby. I think those things were expensive.” Spartacus drops the doll and trots happily back to the sidewalk to continue on with us.
“Seriously,” Francesca comments. “Some kid is getting an earful when the parents see that in the morning.” I take one more look at the diminishing taillights and then follow the dog.
When we reenter the house, we find our friends in the sewing room. Carson is sitting on the stool of the spinning wheel and has an acoustic guitar on his lap. He’s strumming and singing Champagne Supernova quietly to himself, occasionally stopping to make notes on a piece of paper. Blake and Robbie are lounging in the pair of armchairs and watching a television in the corner of the room.
“You guys are just in time,” Robbie says as we walk in. “MacGyver comes on in five minutes.”
Blake scowls from the other chair. “Unless he’s going to show us how to build a time machine from a fork and a pencil sharpener, I don’t think it’s really going to help us.”
“Here.” Francesca tosses a pair of flip-flops to Blake. She drops the other pair on the floor at Carson’s feet. He stops singing and reaches down to examine them.
“I didn’t remember to ask for your sizes, so I guessed. I figured they were flip-flops, so you could probably work it out.”
Blake slips his feet into his and wiggles his toes around.
“Is this the only color they had?” Carson asks, looking at the blue straps on the flip-flops.
“Actually, they had pink, but I decided to be nice. I got us some burn cream, too.” She pulls a couple tubes of ointment out of the bag. "Let me know if you need them."
"I'll take one," Robbie replies, and Francesca tosses the tube to him.
“Where’s Mr. Cameron?” I ask.
“I think he went to bed,” Blake responds. “He went upstairs a little bit ago and we haven’t heard from him since.”
"Blake and I are taking the twin bedroom,” Carson says. "You and Robbie get to fight over the other one."
"I can take the couch," Robbie suggests. "I don't really care."
"Take the bed." I slump onto the couch. "The couch doesn't bother me. That bed looked a little short for me anyway."
Carson goes back to strumming the guitar while Francesca joins me on the couch. I pull my feet up and wedge one of them in between the couch cushions trying to get comfortable. Francesca fiddles with the cap on the burn cream but doesn’t open it. I lay my head back on the cushions and examine a burn on my palm. It’s still red and warm to the touch with a few lighting-shaped lines around it, but not especially painful. Carson is partway through singing the chorus to Eagle Eye Cherry’s, Save Tonight, when Blake suddenly snaps at him.
"Am I the only one who’s freaking out here? We’re in 1985! I don't see how no one else is concerned about this." His eyes have a look of thinly veiled panic. "Seriously. We’re so screwed right now!"
Robbie turns down the television.
"We’re all freaking out,” Francesca says.
"Yeah, it’s crazy for all of us,” I add. "But it isn't going to do us any good to lose our heads."
"I'm not losing my head, I just think we ought to be worrying about more than MacGyver right now. We may have just destroyed our entire lives. What happens if we never get back? My girlfriend is two years old! By the time she's old enough to talk to me, I’m going to look like some creepy old pervert."
I keep quiet at this, considering my own losses. If I don’t show up for work tomorrow, I imagine my boss will notice, but I don’t think he’d exactly miss me. He’d just have to trailer his own boats. We’re missing Mallory, but otherwise, most of the people I spend my time with are right here in this room.
“Ben, you said there is the Time something or other Society here right?" Carson ask
s.
I nod.
"Do you know where it is?"
"I think we can find it. I’m sure we can figure out where it is tomorrow and see if someone there has any way to help us."
"What if they arrest us or something?" Francesca asks. "Who’s going to believe us?"
"They’re a group devoted to studying this stuff, so if anyone is going to believe us, they should,” Robbie says.
"I think it’s our best shot,” I add.
"What about Mr. Cameron?" Francesca asks. "I feel like we should do something for him since he’s putting us up. Maybe we can clean his house for him or something?"
"That's a good idea,” Robbie replies. “Would probably help settle his mind about the decision to let us stay here, and I know that lawn sure needs mowing."
"How about we see what we can do around here in the morning, and in the afternoon we can go see about finding the Time Society place," I suggest.
The other four agree to this and go back to their own thoughts. I feel like Blake looks a little more at ease now that there is a plan of action. Robbie turns the volume back up on MacGyver and we watch to the end of the episode, before ambling to our respective rooms for the night. Robbie is the last to leave the sewing room. As I’m getting myself comfortable on the couch, he stops at the foot of the stairs.
"You know . . . I don't think it’s going to be that bad. I know we’re in a totally screwed up mess and all, but I just met my grandfather, who was dead. I can't help but feel like there’s a purpose to all of it, and that somehow things are going to work out."
"I'm sure they will.” I try to match Robbie's optimism.
"At least we aren't alone,” Robbie adds.
"Yeah, definitely," I say. "I can't imagine how messed up I'd be, if I was in this by myself.
4
“Not all time travelers you meet are out to do great things. Sure, some are reminiscent of bygone eras, some are seeking adventure, but some are just looking for a way to escape the IRS.”
-Excerpt from the journal of Dr. Harold Quickly, 2052
I wake to a slobbery tongue in my ear. "Argh Spartacus!" I fend off the dog's affection and roll over on the couch. There’s a clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Spartacus continues to nuzzle me in the back until I finally give up trying to ignore him. "Okay fine. You happy now?" I sit up and scratch the dog on both sides of its head.
It really wasn’t a dream. I look at the sewing room around me. A pendulum clock ticks back and forth on the wall behind the TV.
I’m in 1985.
I guess it beats going to work.
I get up and walk through the library into the kitchen. Mr. Cameron is standing at the sink, scrubbing coffee mugs and laying them on a towel on the counter.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning, Benjamin,” Mr. Cameron replies. “I’m just trying to make the place a little more presentable. It seems I was trying to start a mug collection in my bedroom. Can I get you anything? I have some coffee brewing.”
“No thank you. We were talking last night and we’d really like to help out a little in return for letting us stay here. Would you mind letting us mow the lawn or something like that? We can do dishes, whatever you need.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you. The lawn is in disgraceful shape, I’ll admit. But I really don’t mind putting you up. It’s already helped get my mind off things. But I certainly won’t turn down help that is offered.” He dunks another cup in the soapsuds. “Plus I imagine you are all in a tight spot financially with your lives and homes nowhere to be found. I can probably find you some jobs around here worth paying you for, if you like.”
I grab a dishtowel and start drying the dishes on the counter. “We’re happy to just work for our keep. It’s so nice of you to put us up like this. We are rather broke, but you don’t need to pay us. I’m sure we’ll find a way to work things out eventually.”
“Okay, we’ll see what we can do. I may have some clothes that might fit some of you in the meantime. I don’t mind taking you shopping for some basic necessities. I know young people seem to like having holes in their getups these days, but having a change of clothes won’t hurt you.”
“That’s kind of you. Thank you.”
As I stack dishes in the rack, I spot a battered copy of H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine sitting on the stove. “Doing some research?” I ask.
“It was the only thing on the bookshelf that seemed relevant. Not sure it’s going to be much help, unless you have an upcoming battle with some Morlocks you failed to mention.”
“Would’ve been nice if the book came with some blueprints for building your own time machine,” I say. “That we could use.”
When we finish the dishes, Mr. Cameron calls for Spartacus. The dog bounds to his side. “I’m going to take Spartacus for his walk this morning. I have a couple of errands to attend to. Tell the others to help themselves to the fridge. There isn’t a lot in there, but maybe I can take you all to the store a little later and you can pick out a few things you like. If you want, I can show you where the lawn things are on my way out.”
I follow him to the garden shed we’d passed on our way in yesterday. The inside of the shed smells like grass clippings. There’s a workbench along one wall and a board with tools hanging on it. In the center of the board is a dusty wooden plaque that was carved with the name Robert “Lucky” Cameron. Mr. Cameron shows me the mower and gas cans and the electric edger. I point to the sign and voice my curiosity.
“Do you mind if I ask why they call you ‘Lucky’?”
Mr. Cameron looks up at the sign and his eyes brighten. “That’s a plaque I got as a gift from my wife. It’s a long story. Remind me and I’ll tell you about it when we’ve got more time.”
My curiosity is even stronger now, but I can appreciate the need to tell a good story right, so I try to be patient.
After pointing out everything we would need, Mr. Cameron lets Spartacus off his leash and then follows him slowly out the back of the yard using his cane only occasionally for support. I go back inside and climb the stairs to the rooms of my sleeping friends. Blake is already up and coming out of the bathroom when I make it to the top of the stairs.
“Hey, man.”
“Hey.”
“Will you help me wake the others? I talked to Mr. Cameron about doing some chores around here and he’s cool with it.”
“All right.” Blake rubs some gunk out of his eyes and yawns, then walks into the room where Robbie is sleeping. I tap on the door to Francesca’s room, then look inside. Francesca is buried under a pile of covers and I can just make out the top of her head and her right eyelid showing past the comforter.
“Rise and shine!” I call in the most chipper voice I can manage.
“Hmph. Go away,” is the response I get from under the covers.
“There’s coffee,” I bargain.
Francesca’s eye opens slightly at this, and stares at me.
“Hmm. Give me five minutes.”
Twenty-five minutes later, we’re in the backyard handing tools out of the shed, when Francesca finally appears at the back door with a coffee mug, and squints at us across the yard.
"What are we doing?” she calls out.
"Yard work!" Robbie yells.
“I think I hate you!” Francesca yells back, but she descends the steps. She shuffles across the yard and Blake hands her a pair of pruning shears. Francesca takes another swig of her coffee and walks to the hedge in the side yard and stares at it for a bit. Eventually she sets her coffee mug in the dried out birdbath and sets to trimming the bushes with slow but deliberate care.
Despite the lethargic start, the five of us are able to put the yard in order in good time. By the time Mr. Cameron returns, the lawn is mowed and edged and the grass is neatly bagged next to the trash cans. Francesca has trimmed the shrubbery and even refilled the birdbath. Spartacus inspects our work with avid curiosity while Mr. Cameron takes it all in and smiles.
&nb
sp; "We’ve certainly made ourselves some useful friends, haven't we, buddy?"
"We made it through the yard but we didn't make it to the garden yet,” Carson says.
"Ah, well, Rome wasn't built in a day. You all look like you could use a break."
We follow him indoors and gather in the kitchen. Mr. Cameron fishes some glasses out of the cupboard and a pitcher of water from the fridge. We happily accept them. Next, he unloads a couple of items from a bag he’s brought into the kitchen, one of which is a packet of dog treats. Spartacus bounces up and down at the sight of it. Mr. Cameron selects a treat and tosses it through the doorway to the library, sending Spartacus flying after it. He then pulls a newspaper out of the bag and turns to us.
“I was resting outside the post office this morning, when I found an interesting bit of news that I thought you might want to see.” He unfolds the paper and hands it to Carson who is standing closest. “Tell me if you have any insights on that cover story.”
We crowd around Carson to read over his shoulder. The bottom section of the front page features a photo of a van crashed into a utility pole, with police officers working around it. The headline reads, “Two Dead in Mystery Crash.”
“Seems a van crashed yesterday afternoon and they found two men in it who had been murdered. They appeared to be police officers or guards, but they didn’t die from the accident. One was shot and one was strangled. That isn’t even the interesting part. There is an odd bit in there about the van.”
Carson reads aloud from the paper, “Police are checking to see if the vehicle was stolen, due to errors noted with the vehicle registration, and a model name and VIN number that the manufacturer states does not match any vehicle currently in production.”
“Any specifics on the van?” Robbie asks.
“No. It starts talking about the numbers of stolen vehicles used in crimes being on the rise,” Carson says.
“Can you see the model name in the picture?” I ask.
“Maybe.” Carson holds the picture close to his face. “It says GMC on the back. I can’t really see the model name. It’s too small.”
In Times Like These Boxed Set Page 11