I’m in the early ‘70s. How on earth did Stephon do this?
This was unmistakably Mrs. Argent’s kitchen. In a cabinet on top of the refrigerator were the blue Wedgewood plates that she only used on Thanksgiving. Plastic apples and grapes still clung to the window sill, their vivid reds and purples not faded by time. Even the tacky “Bless This Kitchen” sign hung from the wall by the pantry, but again in more intense colors.
What happened to the parade-ground neatness, though? What did Mr. Argent think of this mess? Plastic toys were scattered in every corner. Pots and pans spilled out of cabinet doors. The air reeked of diapers, disinfectant, fried food, and a few other smells I could not identify. From the living room came a tune that I dimly recalled as the theme of the “Bozo the Clown Show.”
I breathed deeply and learned lesson one of time travel: the world smells different. Not very different – fried meat smells the same wherever and whenever. But just different enough to be noticeable, like biting into an orange candy that tastes closer to tangerine. Aromas in the air mingled with aromas in my memory of my mother standing over a stove. Our kitchen was smaller than this, too cold in the winter and too hot in the summer. I guessed that the difference between this and the present was that you brought your own suite of memories to the past. Or something like that. I could hardly consider myself to be an expert on the subject with all of thirty seconds experience.
My stomach reminded me that I’d promised to feed it after I stopped by Stephon’s. How long was I going to be here, anyway? I should have thought to ask. I looked around the kitchen. Powdered orange drink brought back memories of concoctions that seemed sickly sweet to me now. Diet soda had never been acceptable to me, and I couldn’t understand why someone wouldn’t just drink water instead.
An open package of chocolate chip cookies beckoned to me from the counter. The kitchen was empty and though the TV was on, no one appeared to be around. I looked over the row of cookies stacked like poker chips and found one bulging with chocolate. I grabbed it – and my hand felt a chilling cold. The cookie felt like a slippery fog sliding through my grasp. I tried again, and it was as if I were squeezing water. Stephon told me I wouldn’t be able to interact with this past. I guess he wasn’t kidding.
There came an infant’s squall, beginning with a gurgle and ending with a scream. Through the open kitchen door came a woman cradling a baby.
I never thought of my future mother-in-law as beautiful or ugly. She was simply my future mother-in-law. However, in the flesh thirty-something years earlier, Mrs. Argent was pretty, certainly prettier than the photo albums suggested. Her figure was slim, her hair a cascade of brown shoulder-length shag. She wore a plaid blouse and bell-bottom jeans that would have stood out on the matronly woman I knew like a tutu on an elephant. What happened to the plump gray-haired lady who served gingerbread? Was this the Colonel’s frowsy wife? The woman before me looked like a rebel in the ranks. It boggled the mind to think that there was a time when the Queen of Roast Beef was cool.
They say a mother knows her child even if they were separated at birth twenty years ago. I wasn’t a mom, but even if I didn’t know it was Melissa being held in those arms, I would know who that baby was. Just like her mother, the old photos did not do her justice. Melissa was round-headed with perfectly smooth cheeks. Her hands were chubby and her hair was blonde, with fringes curling into tiny question marks. She was dressed in a pink outfit with blue trim. I wasn’t good at judging children’s ages – they were either big or small – but I guessed she was somewhere between six and nine months.
Mrs. Argent gently lowered her daughter into her high chair and affixed a bib dotted with little rabbits as pink as her daughter’s cheeks. Melissa bounced in the chair, her body fighting against gravity and the restraining tray table. Her mother opened the fridge to reveal a sea of little baby faces on jars dominating one shelf. Out came one filled with mashed bananas. The stuff resembled something they fed prisoners on the chain gang, but Mrs. Argent waved it before Melissa as if it were Bananas Foster. She grabbed a spoon from a drawer and bent over the squirming infant.
“Here come the ’nanas,” she said in a singsong voice. “Aren’t they yummy?”
I don’t know what Melissa would have done if her mother gave her pureed beef, but she responded enthusiastically to the bananas. She smiled and banged her hands on the tray, and when her mother fed her, she ate so eagerly that the food smeared on both cheeks and dotted her nose.
I peered closer at the chubby, ruddy little face. “Hi, Melissa,” I said in a whisper. Melissa remained focused on her mother. I whispered louder. Still no reaction. At this point, I’d come to believe everything Stephon had told me, but I still had to test it. Secure in my untraceability, I studied my future wife’s infant face. She was so much more alive than in her baby pictures. The photos didn’t capture the true sparkle in her eyes and the color in her cheeks. There was extraordinary vibrancy in this girl. My girl.
“Here come more ’nanas.” When Mrs. Argent approached with the spoon this time, Melissa grabbed at it and then flailed wildly, flicking bananas into her mother’s hair. I clamped my hand over my mouth to suppress a laugh, until I remembered that no one could hear me. My very disciplined fiancée was a baby-food-throwing anarchist. Her mother seemed momentarily peeved by the episode. Then she laughed at her daughter’s antics, and I laughed some more. How could anyone look at that joy and that smile and not laugh? Even when Melissa’s next trick was to rub the bananas all over her tray.
I longed to interact with this pair, to make myself a part of this precious event that took place several times daily throughout Melissa’s infancy. But of course I couldn’t, and in fact shouldn’t. Would a camera work in this strange bubble of space? I wished I’d thought to bring one. But the craziness – the sheer impossibility – of what was about to happen clouded my mind from thinking of any such practicalities while I stood in Stephon’s.
Even if I didn’t have a camera, though, I had my memory. I stared at Melissa and imagined my mind was a video recorder that took in everything and saved it for posterity. The curls of her blonde hair and the button nose. The big smile and unimaginably bright eyes. These images would stay with me forever. This was such a good idea.
The house suddenly echoed with a heavy, measured tread. Mrs. Argent grabbed a napkin and hastily wiped her daughter’s face. Melissa fought the cloth as if it would bite, but her mother persisted until the little girl’s face was at least marginally clean.
“We want to look neat for Daddy, don’t we, honey?”
Into the kitchen marched the Colonel. Only he was Captain Argent, the twin silver bars gleaming on each shoulder of a dark green Marine uniform blazing with ribbons across the chest. Fluorescent light gleamed back on itself as it bounced off the mirrors of his black shoes. His hair was thinly carpeted by a black crew cut instead of a gray one. His face was a little less weathered, his skin a little less red, but he looked as lean and mean as the first day I met him.
Mr. Argent bent over his daughter. “How’s my little trooper?” he said enthusiastically. Melissa squealed and dropped banana on his perfectly polished shoes. He looked down and frowned before smiling at his daughter. Even the drill sergeant was easily charmed by her. “We’ll get you squared away one of these days, pumpkin.”
Mrs. Argent grabbed a rag and mopped his shoes. “They all do that, Harold.”
“I know.” He patted Melissa’s head, careful to avoid any food that was lodged there. “She really has spirit. She’s going to be a real hellcat. If she were a boy, I’d say she was going to grow up to be a real Marine.”
Mrs. Argent finished cleaning her daughter up and then took her out of the high chair. “She won’t be a Marine, Harold. She will be an artist. Or perhaps the first female President.”
Captain Argent chuckled. “Not in our lifetime.” He glanced down at the streaked high chair tray. “Looks like she
had a heck of an experience with her food.”
His wife peered at it and shook her head. “She’s been a bit of a handful all day. When we went in the stroller to the park, she saw that brown dog that belongs to the family at the end of the street. You know, that German Shepherd that barks all night? It’s a nasty creature, and I have never seen anyone go near it. Somehow it got loose, and when Melissa pointed at it and squealed, it ran toward us. I turned the stroller around and walked away as fast as I could, but it caught up to us and put its paws up on the side of the stroller. I thought it was going to climb on top of Melissa and maul her and I was really scared. I took off my handbag and was about to give it a good whack. But then Melissa laughed and patted its head like they were friends. And the dog just stood on its hind legs – it must have stood there a full minute. When I wheeled the stroller away, it sat on the sidewalk and stared at us until we turned the corner. I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.”
“It does appear that our daughter has some talent with animals. Maybe she’ll become a veterinarian.”
Mrs. Argent kissed the top of Melissa’s head. “She’ll become whatever she wants to become.”
Mr. Argent grunted. Obviously the notion of a woman having that much freedom – even his own daughter – was still difficult for him to comprehend. But I could see from the look in his eyes that he believed that anything might be possible with this little girl.
Fog began to coalesce again, this time in shades of red flecked with gold like a Christmas decoration.
“No,” I shouted. “I want more time.” Through the mist, I could see Melissa sprawled against her mother’s shoulder as her parents left the kitchen.
*
I blinked as the fog cleared. The white fluorescent glare mellowed into bright sunshine, and the air changed from stuffy to leafy. I stood in front of the Argent house, its blue paint fresh and smooth, bright in its newness. The cracks in the sidewalk were smaller and not as deep. A pothole where I nearly sprained my knee last winter didn’t even exist. I rubbed my leg and looked around.
Leaves blushed brown and red before the advancing autumn. In driveways sat escapees from a classic car show. Everyone had big Chevy station wagons or boxy Ford Pintos, and who could fail to notice the lemon-yellow Volkswagen Beetle? In front of a neighbor’s lawn lay a Washington Post in a plastic wrapper. I glanced down at the front page. President Carter was still trying to whip inflation and the Arabs had jacked up the price of oil again.
These were the years my father always said he wished he could erase, though I was no more than a toddler then. Those had been rough times where I grew up; my father’s friends still talked about the shock of mass layoffs. This neighborhood looked well-fed and content, though. I noticed an oak tree in front of the house. Last year, the Argents cut it down in a mercy killing, but now it stood strong and proud, unaware of the fate that awaited it.
Something small and red came straight at me. I jumped out of the way as the tricycle sped down the sidewalk. The little girl in the pink jacket giggled as she rumbled over the cracks.
“Watch it, kid,” I muttered as I hopped back onto the sidewalk. She turned around and came at me again. Again I sidestepped. For all I knew, she could knife right through me and I would never feel it. In the movies, ghosts love it when mortals put their hands through them, but corporeal or not, that experience seemed a little unnerving.
The girl paused, puffing happily. I looked at her more closely. Why hadn’t I instantly recognized Melissa? Her hair was darker now, blonde sprinkled with brown like a sheaf of half-ripened wheat. Her face was more defined, strong with determination. She looked to be about three years old.
Again she pedaled up and down the sidewalk, trying to build up as much speed as her little legs could generate. When she returned, she stopped in front of me, panting. I knelt down beside her.
“Hello, Melissa,” I said. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t hear me. “It looks like you’re having fun. I wonder if Stephon can transport a tricycle from another dimension for me so we can ride around the block together all day.”
A robin flew overhead and settled in a swish of wings on a bush in front of the Argent house. Melissa stopped and stared at the bird. Its pointed head swung every which way. Then it chose a new perch, with Melissa peddling furiously after it. She chased it until it settled on a tree branch three houses down the street. Melissa stopped again, looking up and gawking in wide-eyed wonder like a first-grader seeing her first dinosaur exhibit at the Smithsonian. The bird flew across the street and Melissa pedaled after it, her eyes fixed on the sky.
“Melissa, look out!” I leaped toward her, but I couldn’t stop her from riding over the curb and falling off the tricycle. The trike toppled over on its side, handlebars twisted like the antlers of a deer felled by a fatal shot. For a moment, Melissa stared at the cut on her knee, which was bleeding heavily, as if contemplating the sensation called pain. Then she started crying.
“It’s okay, Melissa,” I said. I knelt beside her, the wheel of the tilted tricycle still softly whirring. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I wish I could kiss it and make it better. But now I know why you have that little scar on your knee. I always meant to ask you where it came from.”
Melissa stopped crying. She looked around for a moment.
“You heard me,” I said, my heart racing.
Her gaze was directed past me, though. A big black crow had swooped down on the sidewalk. Its hard, pointed face studied us as it determined whether we were food.
Melissa’s brow furrowed in concentration. She stood and pulled her tricycle back on the sidewalk. The crow stared at her and squawked. She mounted the trike and put her feet on the pedals, ready to go off on another chase. A door slammed and her mother came running.
“Baby, what happened? I heard you crying. Did you fall down?”
“I fall,” Melissa said, touching her bleeding knee.
Mrs. Argent came up to her, her face a mask of concern and sympathy. “Let’s go inside and look at the boo-boo. We’re going to need to put something on that.” She shook her head in wonder. “I would think you’d be more upset with a cut like that. Your father is right. You are a trooper.”
I had to do it. I ran up and kissed Melissa’s cheek. My lips felt nothing but a cold mist. I didn’t care.
“I’ll see you soon, sweetheart,” I said.
The scene dissolved again.
*
I was shrouded in orange this time, a citrus fog that dispelled into gleaming patches of maroon and yellow. The aroma of sizzling grease stung my nose. The world resolved into maroon tiles, yellow Formica tables, and white plastic chairs bolted to the floor. On the blue walls were posters of cartoon chickens clutching knives and forks in their claws as they smiled at their impending journey to a frying pan.
The Argent family sat at a table, their heads barely visible through the forest of cardboard containers and soda cups. There had been three Argents at the beginning of my journey, but now Melissa’s brother Tim had joined the family. Pigtailed Melissa seemed to be about elementary school age. It was hard to match the skinny figure of the boy next to her with the Tim I knew. The last time I saw Lieutenant Argent on leave at his parents’ house, those tree trunks attached to his shoulders carried a small sofa into another room. Just as with Wolfgang, I took care to stay on his good side.
Mrs. Argent carefully removed fried chicken from a bucket spattered with grease stains. As she lifted each piece, crispy crust hung loosely like cholesterol-laden snakeskin. Mr. Argent and Tim received breasts, Mrs. Argent and Melissa thighs. Then Mr. Argent distributed French fries from a carton. Again, his plate and Tim’s received the largest share.
Melissa grinned at her little brother, and I knew something was going to happen. I had been a little kid myself once, and a brattier one than Melissa could ever have been, and the expression was unmistakable. Sure enou
gh, she began the war by stuffing a french fry violently in her mouth. Tim took up the challenge and retaliated with two french fries dangling from his mouth like walrus tusks. Then Melissa gobbled three, and then Tim ate four, washed down by a gulp of soda.
Something was different here. Something about Melissa.
Mrs. Argent eyed with distaste the grease glistening on her fingers. Then she noticed the War of the Fried Potatoes.
“Melissa, Timothy, cut it out,” she said sternly.
Mr. Argent continued eating his food.
Melissa gave her mother a beatific smile marred only by a missing front tooth. Tim just pouted. As soon as Mrs. Argent turned away, Melissa stuffed a french fry in her mouth and threw a devilish grin at her brother.
Now I knew what was different about Melissa, beyond the chicken of course. She was fooling around. The woman I knew was scintillating and invigorating, but her actions were always tinged with seriousness and responsibility. I couldn’t think of a single time when Melissa did something I would describe as “girlish.” I admired that she was the most “grown up” person I knew, but looking at beaming little Melissa, I liked what I saw. Why didn’t she retain any of this playfulness into adulthood? Maybe I’d try to cajole her with a french fry sometime over the weekend.
*
Even before the fog faded and my eyes took in the scene, my nose rejoiced that it was no longer under attack from the aroma of fried fat. The air smelled fresh and clean. The forest was cloaked in yellow twilight. A blue sky shone through, bright and clear.
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