Yesterday Is History

by Kosoko Jackson

  Michael shrugs. “Did you like it?”

  Another pause. Honesty or muted emotion? Honesty or muted emotion? Honesty or…

  “Yeah,” I say, quietly, then I clear my throat and add, “I liked it a lot. And your music too.”

  Michael turns his head away from me, his cheeks a faint red. I can’t tell if it’s from him blushing or from the cold, but either way, the rosiness and bashfulness look good on him.

  And a part of me, a large part of me, wants to see that blush again.

  “Yeah?” he asks.

  “It was amazing,” I reply.

  He gives a fake, over-the-top bow. “Got some experience?”

  I quirk a brow, and a smile creeps around the edges of my lips. “Is that your way of asking if I have a boyfriend?”

  “In so many words, yes.”

  “No, I don’t.” I pause again. “Do you?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Not so easy, you know? I mean, yeah, I’m out, and I’m happy I’m gay, but still.” He shrugs. “My parents don’t want this. The world doesn’t want me to be happy. Having a boyfriend… That feels like a dream.”

  I catch myself before saying, A guy like you could get any guy you want. Because, yes, Michael is hot—very, very hot in that River Phoenix type of way. But it’s harder in the seventies for gay people. In most U.S. states, it’s illegal to be gay. AIDS is going to be a thing soon. Gay people aren’t on TV, and when they are, if they are, it’s always negative rep.

  I’m lucky. It’s easier for me. It’s not perfect, sure. But I have rights. I don’t have to be closeted. There are people in my generation who still deal with that. I don’t think I’ve ever thought about how privileged and lucky I really am.

  “Well, that’s good for both of us, isn’t it?” I say, focusing back on Michael. “Means you’re not a cheater.”

  “And you’re not a home wrecker.”

  “Good.”

  “Good.”

  Silence falls over us again, a comfortable silence. I’m not sure what part of Boston we’re in; the nighttime, fifty years of history, and the blanket of white snow make it harder to pinpoint any specific time or place. But I suppose it doesn’t matter, because being with Michael, I could be in 2021 or 1719, and I’d still be happy.

  Actually, I’d be truly happy.

  “I’m sorry, by the way.” Michael’s voice cuts through the silence. “When I questioned whether you were just following your parents’ desire for you to be a doctor or your own? That was wrong of me. Everyone should be free to be who they want to be.”

  “You remember that?” I ask.

  He nods. “I thought about it a lot, actually. How wrong it was of me to attack you like that.”

  We pass by Faneuil Hall, the marketplace and meeting hall located near the waterfront and Government Center. I think about how in 1960 it was designated a National Historic Landmark. Just ten years ago, this place became solidified as an essential part of Boston history. For a moment, I wonder if I can jump back there, to see that moment and create my own scrapbook, like Claire has.

  “Hey.” Michael gently nudges me. “Where did you go?”

  “Nowhere. You thought you were helping me.”

  “Actually, I was being awkward and didn’t know how to flirt with you. I think about you when you aren’t here. I run through everything we say… And that’s one of the only moments I regret with you.”

  Michael takes a deep breath, the type of breath where you know something bigger is coming, and I stay quiet. No quippy response, no sarcastic jab, no romantic interjection.

  “I don’t know what it’s like in the future, but I can tell you’re a confident guy, Andre Cobb from Boston. You’re sure of yourself. You’re brave. You stand up for what you think is right. That’s admirable. That’s something we need more of.”

  “I don’t think I’m that brave. This is the seventies. You don’t know it, but a lot of things are going to happen in the next twenty years. A lot of things have already happened now. The peace-and-love movement, civil rights, women’s rights. Those people are brave.”

  He nods. “I agree. But that’s collective bravery. It’s easier to be someone, to do brave things, when you have people beside you. What you do? That innate strength inside of your heart? That’s part of you. Being out and being proud? Being Black and gay? None of that must be easy, no matter what time it is.”

  “It’s easier now than I’m sure it is for you,” I counter.

  “Maybe, but I’m still white. That helps everything.” He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes like before. This time, the joke is just to clear the air. “I haven’t been frank with you, Andre.”

  My body wants to root itself to the concrete when Michael says that, but I force myself to keep walking. There’s a rawness in his voice, a cracking vulnerability, like old paper in the hands of a reckless child. He avoids my eyes as we walk half a block, opting to focus on his booted feet instead.

  Right then, in that hairsbreadth of a heartbeat, I realize that this is the make-or-break moment.

  “Well, there’s no time like the present to be honest, yeah?”

  Michael and I stop at the Greenway, or rather, I do. Right here is where one of the greenest areas of Boston should be, the park with the Rings Fountain and sprawling patches of artificial, overly verdant grass.

  But there’s nothing like that here. Just concrete, streetlights, and cars. We learned about the history of Boston my freshman year—we had to take a whole class on it. But seeing the pictures, and being here now? Those are two different things.

  “I never told you what happened when I got kicked out,” Michael says, pulling my attention back to him. Again, he avoids my eyes and leans against a wall, his right foot pressed against the brick of an abandoned building. Reaching into his pocket, he fishes out a pack of cigarettes and lights one fluidly.

  “You told me it was because you’re gay,” I remind him.

  He shakes his head. “Only partially. My parents found out I’m gay, yes. One of my mom’s neighbors saw me coming out of some building with a guy, must have seen me kiss him or something, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Pops called me a faggot. Told me to change or get out.

  “But that’s not all. I saw my mom in the store a few weeks ago. We were polite—Mom is always polite. I offered to help her with the groceries. She accepted, and we went to her car. She even gave me some money, said, ‘Based on how you’re looking, you need it.’ When in fact, what I needed was a mother who cared about me.”

  He sighs, and I can tell he wants to stop. But he also wants—no, needs—to keep going.

  “I asked her, you know. Why she let him kick me out. Why she didn’t fight for me. You know what her answer was? She told me it was because everything about me disgusted her. And if it wasn’t who I slept with, then it would be something else. My political views, my profession, the fact that I don’t support the war. She was ashamed of everything about me.

  “So I left. Stormed out of the parking lot and never looked back.”

  I reach up and squeeze Michael’s shoulder. He doesn’t lean into it, but he doesn’t tense either.

  “I’m sorry, Michael.”

  “It’s not your fault I left.”

  “No,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not sorry that it happened to you.”

  He shrugs and takes another drag, a shaky one. “Just promise me that it gets better. Promise me that you’re not a fluke, that there are many queer guys like us being proud and thriving and, you know…existing.”

  I don’t even have to hesitate this time. “I promise.”

  “You lying?”

  “Does it matter if I am? You might not be alive to know.”

  Michael shoves me hard, hard enough for me to lose my footing. Once I regain it, I push him back.

&nbs
p; “Hey! Who’s to say I won’t be alive in…fifty-one years? I’ll be what, seventy? That’s not that old!”

  “Keep smoking like that, and you won’t be!”

  Michael hesitates, looking at the half-smoked cigarette in his hand, and stomps on it twice. “There, now you’re stuck with me, even in the future. You’re going to regret saving my life fifty years from now, Andre Cobb from Boston.”

  “Leave that decision up to me, Michael Gray from Boston.”

  Michael’s brow furrows. “Does that really sound as pretentious when I say it as it does when you say it?”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  “Note to self: stop saying that.”

  I follow, but deep down, I’m not sure I want him to stop. I like the way my name rolls off his tongue.

  Which leads me to some other pretty naughty thoughts that I probably shouldn’t be thinking about as he leans in to kiss me again.

  Eighteen

  This time, the jump back to the McIntyres’ home is seamless.

  Well, mostly seamless.

  There’s no stumbling, no shifting from sitting to standing—or from standing to landing on my ass on the floor. There’s a sharp pain and a wave of nausea that flies through me, but I guess you can’t jump fifty years through time without any sort of side effects.

  I check the clock on the mantel—it’s been about five minutes since I left. I remember what Claire told me before: one hour in the past is one minute in my time.

  And it still didn’t feel like enough time.

  The dining room is empty now, but there are echoes of life here. I hear someone putting dishes away in the kitchen. Music wafts out from the study. Everyone is in their own separate area of the house, like creatures licking their wounds. I take two steps toward the hallway, intending to slip out, but Blake walks through the foyer and into the dining room.

  “Hey,” he says curtly.

  “Hey back.”

  Awkward silence. I hate it. I’m never the type of person who can just let it be. I need noise. I need stimulation. I need something. So I do what I always do when the silence wants to swallow me whole.

  I speak.

  “I’m sorry about dinner. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “It’s…it’s cool. Not your fault.”

  “Okay, I just feel like I made it worse.”

  “I said it wasn’t your fault, Andre. Drop it.”

  I quirk my brow in response. “I’m just trying to apologize. You don’t have to—”

  Before I can finish, Blake interjects. “Not everything centers around you, Andre. Despite what my mom might have told you or led you to believe, you’re not the center of this family’s life. We existed before you, and we’ll have the same problems after you’re gone.”

  The curtness and the way Blake’s words slice, with the intention of mortally wounding, throw me off-balance. He brushes by me, grabbing the pitcher of iced tea, which still sits on the table, and pours himself a glass, the bicep of his right arm flexing while he does it.

  “Did I do something to piss you off?” I ask.

  Give him the benefit of the doubt, Andre, I think. Maybe something happened that you’re missing.

  “Nope.”

  Blake doesn’t even look up at me as he sits down, sipping his drink angrily—if that’s even possible. His back is hunched over, almost caveman-like. It’s like the only thing keeping him from lashing out is, in fact, the drink in his hand.

  “Okay, well, clearly I did so… Let’s talk about it.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  Still no gaze, no visual cues as to what I might have done. I sigh and sit, waiting. Ten seconds turn to twenty, twenty to forty, but still, Blake stands his ground.

  I have to give it to him. Being as stubborn as he is? That’s not easy.

  “All right,” I say. I give up, standing and pushing the chair in. “I’m just going to go. Hope you enjoy your dessert, or whatever, and your parents stop fighting.”

  I don’t make it halfway through the dining room before the loud clatter of utensils rips through the air.

  “You just don’t get it, do you?”

  I turn to face him, arms crossed. I’ve dealt with people like Blake all my life, especially at school. Entitled kids who think the world revolves around them. Who think everyone in their life should be a mind reader, able to predict every thought they have.

  I learned early on how to deal with people like that. I learned how to play the game.

  “Well, if I did get it, I’d like to think I’d be able to help. But since you don’t think I understand, how about you explain it to me, hmm?”

  He wipes his mouth angrily.

  “It comes so easily for you, doesn’t it? Being successful, succeeding, people liking you.” He takes a step forward, his voice low. “You know, some of us actually have to work f—”

  “Don’t.” My voice comes out ice cold. “Don’t you dare come and talk to me about how hard your life is.”

  “Oh, are you going to tell me you have it harder? You’re going to compare your life to mine, because you think you know me just because you’re in my house?”

  “I never said any of that!”

  “You were about to!”

  We’re inches apart from each other now. I’m not sure if Blake’s parents can hear us arguing, if they’re still so deep into their own debate that they don’t care, or if they can’t hear us at all. The only things I can hear are the blood pumping in my ears and Blake’s voice. They mix together like a war drum, each word, every pump egging me on.

  “I don’t even know what you’re so angry about right now!”

  “Of course you freakin’ don’t!” he roars, loudly enough for the room to shake. “You don’t know how lucky you are! To have a gift like this! To be chosen by my parents!

  “Forty-six. That’s how many people were eligible to receive my brother’s liver. That means you had a one in forty-six chance of getting it, a two point two percent chance. And you think, what, you were lucky?”

  “You’re just saying shit now to piss me off,” I growl.

  He shakes his head and puts some space between us. “You’re not that stupid, Andre.”

  “I got this liver because I was the best candidate on the list, and it was the right liver for me.”

  “Sure, you’re half right. You got it because you were the best candidate. But not for whatever scientific reason your doctor told you.”

  All I want to do is punch him.

  “My parents selected you, Andre. They looked at all the files to decide who would be best to receive my brother’s liver. They weighed the pros and cons of who should receive the chance to be gifted with time travel, and they selected you. Who would be the best person to take that chance, who would be the least likely to reject it? You’re not special in the way you think you are. You’re special because my parents think you’re special.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  But do I, though? It always felt…too perfect. Even when it happened, the perfect liver, at the right moment, on the right day? Mom and Dad told me that miracles happen, and that we don’t question them, which sounded strange to me, considering they’re scientists. But even scientists believe in a higher power. I guess miracles are just like that.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Why what?”

  “Keep being short with me, and I’ll leave,” I threaten. “I’m not the enemy here.”

  Blake mutters something under his breath that sounds close to a string of curse words. But, like a restrained dragon, he breathes heavily through his nose and relaxes, the tenseness in his broad shoulders calming.

  “Why what?” he repeats, softer this time.

  “Why would they select me?”

  “I told you before. We’re a dying grou
p of people, Andre. Time travel has been in my family for generations—at least six. My mom and dad are from Traveler royalty. When my dad lost his ability to travel… It was just a glitch. It happens with age sometimes. Sometimes you lose it, sometimes it comes back, sometimes it’s limited.

  “But when I was born unable to do it, and—”

  “It means that the time-traveling gene is dying,” Claire says from the doorway. Both Blake and I jump. Her face is almost unreadable, like a Mona Lisa of anger, sorrow, frustration, and calculation. The only sign of genuine regret is the slow tapping of her right index finger, like Morse code, on the doorjamb.

  “Andre, will you join me in the study? I think we should have a conversation, just you and me. You deserve to know the truth—the whole truth.”

  Nineteen

  I’m hesitant to follow Claire.

  It’s not like we haven’t been in here before. In fact, the study is the most familiar part of the house. But something about this feels very mob-boss movie to me. How she walks in silently, closes the sliding door behind her. How she sits on the couch and gestures for me to sit across from her. How I obey. It’s all very Godfather—part one, of course, the best Godfather.

  But she’s smart and knows my weakness. It’s the one thing that identifies me as being my parents’ son: I love knowledge. I live for it. Having information—all of it—is power. Information isn’t harmful or good; it’s neutral, and it’s about how you use it.

  And Claire has all the information I could ever want.

  But the silence? That I could do without.

  “Ask anything you want,” she finally says.

  “Is he telling the truth?”

  She pauses. “My son, intentionally or not, speaks in half-truths. There is some honesty in what he’s saying, of course. But he doesn’t know the whole picture.”

  “Because you didn’t tell him, or because he’s choosing not to tell me?”

  “The former.” Those two words don’t come out easily. “You have to understand where I…where we were coming from.”

  “I really don’t, Mrs. McIntyre,” I interject. “I appreciate what you gave me, I really do, but that doesn’t matter if it’s not the whole story. I don’t remember the philosopher who said this, but a good deed doesn’t matter if it comes with bad intentions. You gave me this liver because you were experimenting on me.”