No Time Like the Present

by Ellison Blackburn

  Archer frowns and averts his gaze. I tilt my head and look pointedly at him, so he meets my eyes again. “I wasn’t anywhere near to over what happened—not when you had to keep it from me, not when we arrived, not as of yesterday. And still, you let … give me a minute.” I straighten my posture and intake a shallow breath in an attempt to stifle the sob trying to push past my sternum. My throat is tight, and although slowly, the tears won’t stop falling. Vale once told me I cried prettily. But those had been nostalgic tears shed in sweet remembrance of Willow. I doubt he would say the same now. I withdraw my pocket square and carefully blot at my cheeks, mustache, and under my eyes.

  “You each had four hundred and fifty-one days to tell me. And that’s not counting the three months I was missing.” The twin pained expression on their faces is evident. My goal had not been to make them feel guilty or to hurt them. I had only wanted to give them a glimpse of the other side, my side. “I’m sure someday we’ll reach a new normal, but there are just too many months, weeks, days filled with memories I can’t just forgive and forget, no matter how much I wish I could for my own sake. You …” What? Broke? Destroyed? Shattered? “You really hurt me. Both of you. All three of you. Was Dad alive, I’d tell him the same thing. But Marlowe would have told me the truth at the soonest possible moment. We know that.” I half-turn my face away. “That’s all. So, uh, I’m going now. Please don’t follow me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WHAT I SAID a few minutes ago, was a white lie and possibly not even that. Although I don’t have any concrete plans, I’ve been bursting at the seams to talk to someone. Reid still flickers to mind. Outside of that impossibility, my second choice would be someone who knows a few of the most relevant facts about me and my situation. Since Martin believes that I am my dead brother, my need in conjunction with his qualifications do not fit the relevancy clause. Of course, I could talk to Selene or Quinn, but there has always been an unspoken barrier between us. I don’t precisely know why that it with Selene. And I don’t want to unburden myself on her brother either. Our history precludes the wisdom of doing that, and I wouldn’t want Allen to see how devastated I am about Vale.

  At Lake Street, I pause mid-stride to whisper to myself, “Please be there,” stopping myself from repeating it like a mantra, and then fix my eyes on the cobblestones at my feet as I round the corner. When I look up, I’m pleased to see my “prior engagement” sitting at the bench as though waiting for me. She is, after all, a witch or whatever. Maybe she can pencil me into Reid’s afterlife appointment book.

  I take an enthusiastic step forward before pulling back at the sight of an enormous equine plodding down the road, hauling a loaded wagon. The large barrels stacked in the back are restrained by a single strand of rope, and I eye it warily, delaying my crossing again until it is well down the road. Once I’m standing in front of Eddy, I bow my head, murmur a “good day,” and lower myself to the seat beside her when she shifts the ruffles of her skirts to accommodate me. Her dress is once again midnight blue, nearly identical in design to the one she wore at our first meeting; however, this gown is made of a more lightweight and lustrous fabric. She looks fresh and more youthful.

  “How did you know I would come? It’s later than I usually take lunch,” I ask, contemplating the shiny black conveyance and its two recognizable silver horses waiting patiently off to the side. I assume Edwina’s nephew is within the carriage, but he deigns not to make his presence known.

  She shrugs demurely, her hands folded across her lap. “Just a feeling. We were out and about, anyhow.”

  “I’d really like to know more about these mysterious feelings of yours.”

  The door of the deli jingles and Lenny bellows from within, “Tongue’ll be back on the menu by Friday! Sorry about that, folks.”

  The man and woman both nod at the butcher and then bend their heads toward one another conspiratorially. The tall man’s equally tall and willowy companion happily loops her arm through his as they walk down the path. Brother and sister, I guess.

  “All in good time, Mr. St. Clair. I have been most curious to know your reply to my question.”

  “Reid, please. Although, before I answer, I have a question of my own.” The bell on the door jingles again.

  “A question? And what might that be?” she asks both curiously and absently, removing a child-sized monocle from her embroidered reticule. She peers off into the distance. “Let us resume our conversation in the park. It is rather too busy here.” She flicks her fingers daintily toward a small green space across the street. A few pedestrians are ambling down the walks, but it does seem quieter.

  “Look at that, they finally laid down sod.” Rising from my seat, I assist Miss Carr to her feet and catch a glimpse of Owen Carr leaning forward in the carriage. He tips the brim of his hat at me and reclines out of view again. What’s his deal? I wonder. Doesn’t he have anywhere to be?

  We walk across the street together, Eddy’s hand crooked through my arm. I look down at her and smile, almost making the social faux pas of placing my hand over hers. Or maybe it wouldn’t be. I’m not sure the usual rules of propriety apply here. According to society, she’s an aged spinster after all. But then why is her nephew acting the chaperone?

  We situate ourselves opposite one another in a grassy area under a small copse of sad maple saplings still bare of leaves but starting to bud. The ground is the slightest bit soggy from an early morning shower, and a fragrant waft of new grass and loamy earth surrounds the two semi-circular benches facing one another.

  Though it has been only a week since the last snow, I am hopeful that spring is here at last. For the next two months, there will be a reprieve from the pollution of coal and industry until the summer humidity brings forth the stench of the slaughterhouses and the railroads from the Southside.

  “So, was it your intention to pose your question as though such a thing was possible?” I lean forward and whisper.

  “No one will hear us, dear. Even if they do, our exchange will make little sense to them.”

  “Right,” I say in a normal tone, looking ahead at a passerby. “Because that is what kept occurring to me.”

  “And did you presume I possessed the secret knowledge of how you might return to your time or did you presume I did not?” She laughs sweetly, in an almost child-like manner suiting her small face, keen, bright eyes, and rosy cheeks.

  “Assuming you did know the hows and wherefores of our situation lent a certain urgency to the question, I admit. As though we might be able to pack our bags, speaking figuratively.” I pause to give her a chance to respond, but she only nods. “But I won’t keep you in suspense. Regardless of whether or not you could help with the travel arrangements, I haven’t changed my mind. I would choose not to return if given the opportunity.”

  “Interesting.” My companion purses her lips thoughtfully as a man shuffles by on the pathway ahead, a bull terrier pulling him along while he frequently yanks on its leash.

  “How so?”

  “It has been a particularly harrowing ordeal for you since arriving, has it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “And undoubtedly, you miss your loved ones. …” Her voice trails off and the fingers of one hand rise and fall one by one as though she’s ticking off reasons why I should want to go back to my twenty-second-century life. “Added to the many hurdles you’ve had to overcome, why then? I wonder.”

  “Well, despite everything, my primary reason has to do with timing more so than any inconveniences I’ve had to deal with.”

  “Now it’s my turn to ask how so?”

  “We can’t be sure things will be as we left them. And from what we know, the circumstances that brought us here are not alterable, let alone preventable.” I take a deep breath, remembering. My eyes fix on the ornate bronze park sign. Marshall Field Park. I wonder if it is truly new, or it existed before the fire. So much is new, and far less has been renewed.

  “If I remember what had happene
d here and Reid is alive there, I’d be wondering for how long, worried every minute that something might happen to steal him away from me again—the same with Marlowe. Kinnari, my sister-in-law, and Everly, my niece, also died that night, and Royce, our, um, he was our butler, I guess. I wouldn’t want to go through that grief again.” I pause to how best to word an alternative scenario. “Even if we were to return to the night of October eighth and this past year and a half were erased from our memories, as I’d be making the decision with the knowledge of their deaths in mind, that reason is enough for me to avoid it altogether. I mean, I would love to see them again, but a day, a week, however long, would be too frightening.”

  “Certainly, I see how that would be traumatic. And yet, you said this was your primary reason. What other?” Edwina prods gently.

  “I-I … there is a man.”

  Her half-moon blond brows arch even more. After a moment, her surprised expression is replaced with what I can only describe as an enlightened one. She smiles a winsome, knowing smile, causing a fan of fine creases to form around her eyes and mouth.

  I hesitate to relay my sad story. “It’s complicated.”

  “Is it?” Her previous cheerfulness vanishes behind her usual solemnity.

  I nod, and she nods. “I’m listening,” she presses.

  I have no idea how to explain Clarion or the concept of biotech crimes. “Vale—that’s his name. Anyway, Vale had been … or his mind had become increasingly unstable in our world. And as a result, it was determined that he was a danger to us all. So they, my father and Archer, had him detained—taken away, that is. We were separated the August before last.”

  “And you cared for him deeply, I gather. Did you love him?”

  “Uh, I d-did, yes. I didn’t know how much until he was gone.” I notice Edwina’s eyebrows lift minutely at my stammer. Then after a pause, I say, “If we returned, and I remained unaware of the truth, I would still be grieving his loss. On the other hand, I’d have to pretend he didn’t exist while watching him suffer until his condition destroyed him.”

  She searches my face, and I let her, though she can hear the emotion in my voice. “It would seem your grief is fresh for him then, even after all this time,” she says.

  I spurt out a bitter laugh. “Yes. And refreshed, you might say. I learned yesterday that we’d only been led to believe Vale had betrayed us, when, in fact, it was just an elaborate coverup my brother, father, and he concocted. It was a necessary ruse but still, …”

  “A betrayal, nonetheless. All the more hurtful as your brother and father took part.”

  “Exactly. And I learned he’s here, Eddy. … Has been since we arrived.”

  Her soul-seeing brown eyes widen. “Oh. This is indeed complicated.” She closes her eyes briefly, her eyeballs working furiously under their lids.

  “Edwina, are you all right?” I ask softly, reaching out to touch her arm.

  Instead of replying to my question, she opens her glazed eyes and says on a sigh, “Ah, the handsome, auburn-haired fellow.”

  “Yess … but how—”

  “My story must come after yours, my dear,” she remarks pensively. “How stands it with you now? Was it a joyous reunion?”

  Glad of her insistence, I continue. “Not quite. It was, is, awkward between us to say the least. And as I’ve adopted this alias, we don’t have much of a choice regarding how we move forward. … Even if we found a way around it, I can’t allow us to pick up where we left off.”

  “Hm. Let us uncover what you mean by the second part of your statement first. Why can you not allow it?”

  “I don’t know yet; I just feel like I can’t. It’s not about trust, but then it is. He, Archer, and Marlowe did what they did to protect our family and our family business and still, they snatched a very important choice away from me, in particular. Also, they’ve kept it from me this long without any good reason. They simply said the plan was to tell me when I was ready or by our father’s birthday, whichever came first. Yesterday was his birthday.”

  “My goodness. How awful,” she says, grimacing sympathetically. “Although your brother is an inspector, that avenue would require a good deal of inference on his part, I should think.”

  “Mm-hmm. Especially as Archer and I were far from ever close. How he would have surmised I was ready is beyond me. We never spoke of Vale, let alone that time. We rarely even talk about Marlowe.”

  “Now why is it you opted for this elaborate disguise? Half of your dilemma might not exist had you simply allowed society to believe you were a bluestocking or a hoyden, dear. I realize that required a foresight you did not have long ago, but your possibilities would have remained open then, regardless of mister …”

  “Hennessy.”

  “Regardless of Mr. Hennessy’s existence here.”

  “Though I wasn’t entirely cognizant at the time, I hadn’t been here a quarter of an hour when someone called me ‘lad.’ I was already defeminized, even without my guise. Repeated misunderstandings gave me the idea.”

  “Yes, I see that,” she says, grinning.

  “Then, over the next few weeks, I would also discover that it wasn’t just about how I appeared. I won’t ever be another human being’s property, which is what being a woman means in this world. And I’m not referring just to fathers until their daughters are grown, and husbands after that. Every man owns every woman, mind, body, and spirit. Of course, that ownership varies more or less depending on the relationship, but that’s what it’s about all the same, rights and possession to a female person.”

  “Pardon my frankness, dear, but that is a bitter outlook for one so young to have. Pray, do not condemn all men or dismiss all women. Surely society is not as bad as all that. ‘Mind, body, and spirit.’ I am quite progressive, and yet, you would have me think I am a mere pet.” Her pert lips twist skeptically.

  “I’ve forgotten myself and my manners. I didn’t mean to offend you, Eddy. I’m sorry.”

  She swats at the air with a scoff. “Come now, dear, I am thoroughly enjoying myself. Opportunities for such discussions are few. Besides, no one would dare try attaching themselves to me at my age. So, please, continue, …”

  “Well, I wasn’t saying women can’t think on their own or make decisions. They just cannot do so to any serious degree, not even with respect to their own lives,” I explain gently. “You asked for my reasons. And I have seen that true freedom is available only to men. A woman cannot support herself. She cannot own property. She cannot speak her mind and really be heard. She cannot preach to others. She cannot practice a trade. The list of what a woman cannot do might fill volumes one, two, and three of the ladies’ etiquette handbook, which is followed by volumes five, six, and seven detailing what she should not do.”

  She smiles and nods. “Indeed, I have said as much to my nephew. Although, I do so enjoy conceiving of both what I cannot and should not do.”

  I laugh unreservedly and meanwhile fail to notice Owen Carr’s approach. He practically materializes before us. Today, he’s costumed in a more casual outfit. The buff trousers and tall burgundy hessian boots accentuate his long, strong legs, and the dark green jacket, black top hat, and a beige waistcoat over a white shirt and an ivory cravat show off his upper half so well that it’s hard not to admire his beauty.

  Coming to stand beside his aunt, he says, “I will vouchsafe that Aggie has said what she claims to have said, although I did not catch the specific pearl of wisdom to which she referred, or gem, rather, to have elicited such a reaction.” He bows and crosses one leg over the other. “Hello, Sinclair, a pleasure, …”

  He does not look all that pleased to see me, as a matter of fact. “Good day, Mr.—” When he arches a brow, I alter my greeting. “Owen.”

  “I’ve read two papers from cover to cover, aunt,” he remarks, exhibiting no signs of impatience, however.

  “For shame, Owen, did you bring just the two? You cannot blame me for your oversight,” Edwina teases. “But no
w that you are here do not hover. Sit. You are casting a shade over me, and I feel this sun is ever more precious than our Indian sun.” She pats the space beside her. “We were discussing society and its many idiotic rules. And I have been interrogating River on the life choices she has made since her arrival.”

  Descending into the space on the bench next to his aunt, “A riveting topic, I’m sure,” Owen drawls but without a trace of cynicism. “If we are not keeping you from anything, Sinclair—”

  “The dead can wait. Uh—” I say, at which Owen chuckles, and Edwina smiles. “Sorry, I can be blunt sometimes or dark. It is both a personality fault and an occupational hazard.”

  “No worries.” He then turns and pats Eddy’s hand. “It’s already going on two o’clock, aunt.”

  “River and I have had much to discuss, Owen,” she replies, almost imperceptibly shrugging her narrow shoulders.

  “Indeed, but you still have to eat,” he says reprovingly. “I’ve asked Bailey to bring us sandwiches. That will have to do. We’ll have tea another time.” He looks toward Lenny’s. “Here he comes now.”

  I swivel in my seat to look at the young groom walking toward us with a jaunty, flat-footed instep. He’s carrying several small brown paper sacks. Turning his gaze on me, Owen scans over me and says, “My aunt becomes lighted-headed when she does not keep to a schedule with her diet.”