Once a suitable distance away from home, Arnesto called Isabel’s burner from his own, and they had The Conversation. It began with her thanking him for the socks and money, though he could tell she was dubious. She became even more so when he described the purpose of their interaction. It took even more cajoling than he expected, and he had expected quite a lot. He left out everything regarding his memories and time travel, but he also couldn’t explain how he knew what he knew. Still, in the end, she decided to help him.
He arrived home exhausted from the conversation. The rest of the family was fast asleep, as he would be soon. He and Isabel would remain able to contact each other if they needed to, for example, if Arnesto had forgotten some detail, but he felt he had told her everything she needed to know. Still, he had this nagging suspicion that he had forgotten something.
The Power of Persuasion
Lower Ninth Baptist Church
New Orleans, Louisiana
Sunday, April 27, 2003
1:05 p.m.
“Excuse me, Reverend Martin?” Isabel asked after the sermon. Isabel Durand was a black woman in her early thirties who lived with her mother and fourteen-year-old son. As a pregnant teen, she had dropped out of high school, but later completed her GED and earned her bachelor’s in night school. She was kind and generous but also tough as nails should the need arise. She was also an excellent judge of character and excelled at her job as a social worker.
“Please, call me, ‘Father.’”
“Isn’t this a Southern Baptist church?”
He smiled. Father Martin was a black man in his mid-fifties but looked ten years younger, especially since shaving his beard which was disproportionately gray. He was immensely likable, and this came out in his sermons. He loved preaching, giving back to the community, his lifelong hometown of New Orleans, and jambalaya.
“There’s a special boy in our congregation who kept calling me ‘Father’ by accident,” he explained. “I got tired of people correcting him, so I adopted the title. I like it, sounds less pretentious.”
Now it was her turn to smile. She knew she had the right guy.
“What can I do for you?”
“My name is Isabel Durand and I need your help. May we speak privately for a few minutes?” she asked.
“Of course, let’s speak in my office.” He led her to his office and held out a chair for her, then closed the door and sat behind his desk. He could tell whatever she had to say was important and gave her a few moments to collect herself. He had no doubt he could help this woman, as he had seen it all in his many years at the church, at least, until now. “How can I help you, child?”
“This is going to sound strange, but I was paid a lot of money by an anonymous stranger to come here and ask for your help in saving thousands of lives around the world, including many right here in New Orleans,” she blurted out.
“Whoa, slow down a little bit. How exactly do you expect me to do that? Do you mean save them with prayer?”
“No, save them from earthquakes,” she said, watching his smile turn to a look of confusion. “My — employer — claims to know about some earthquakes coming up and wants you to make a video to warn people. Will you do it?”
“Hold on a second, this is quite a bit to take in all at once. You’re laying a lot on an old man,” he laughed. “Earthquakes: are we talking about the rapture?”
“No, it’s not the rapture. Just some earthquakes. Powerful, deadly earthquakes.”
“My child, there are many unsavory types who would take advantage of you. Anyone who says they can predict earthquakes is, forgive me, full of—”
“I know. I don’t exactly believe it either.”
“You don’t? Then why are you here?”
“Partly because I was paid a hefty sum of money. But also — there was something, I don’t know, sincere about him, in his voice. What I can’t figure out is — what’s the catch? What does he have to gain from this? Moreover, what if he’s... right?”
“The Bible says, ‘Satan disguises himself as an angel of light.’ Don’t be tempted by false prophets,” he said.
“You’re probably right, Father. I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” she said, standing up to shake his hand.
“Talking to one of God’s children is never a waste of time.”
“Oh, I almost forgot!” she said, ruffling through her purse. “He wanted me to make a donation to the church. This is for meeting with me today.” She handed him an envelope. His eyes widened as he saw the stack of hundred dollar bills inside. “And this is for thinking about it.” He noticed she was holding out another envelope, which he grabbed much more slowly than the first. “Also, let me give you my card in case you change your mind or have any questions. If you call — and I hope you do as he says he’s prepared to make considerably larger donations to us both — sooner would be better than later.”
“Why is that?” he asked, at last finding his voice.
“The first earthquake is May 21 — just a few weeks away. Algeria, I believe he said.”
“I see. Well, the church and I both thank you profusely for your generous donations here today,” he said, shaking her hand again. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes, he said to tell you — and I’m a little uncomfortable repeating this — the Algerian earthquake is going to happen no matter what we decide. It’s unlikely we’ll have much of an effect even if we do warn people, sadly. However, he believes that not only will it make believers out of you and me, but it will give us a chance to build up ‘street cred’ — his words, not mine — so we can save a lot more lives later on. Good day, Father.”
***
A couple of days later, after much contemplation, Father Martin invited Isabel over to chat.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said as he watched her set up the laptop next to him.
“We’re saving lives,” Isabel said, picking up the digital video camera. “Okay, I’m recording, you may begin anytime.” Father Martin nodded, then turned toward the camera.
“Hello, I’m Father Martin. As you can see from this live feed of CNN.com, it’s a little after three o’clock on April 29, 2003. It is with great sadness that I must report that there is going to be an earthquake on the northern tip of Algeria on May 21st of this year, just over three weeks from today. The quake will have a magnitude in the high sixes, just under seven. There will no doubt be many injuries and deaths, and many more will be left homeless. That is all for now.” He waited a second then asked, “How was that?”
“Let’s see.” Father Martin walked over and watched the display over Isabel’s shoulder as she played it back. “That was great. I see why my employer picked you — you have an honest face.”
“I have an old face. Even that little camera adds ten pounds.”
Isabel laughed. “You look fine. But are you sure you want to go through with this? You will either look foolish to a handful of newsroom assistants or you’ll become black Jesus.”
“Blasphemy, child. I am simply the messenger’s messenger. This wouldn’t be the first time I looked foolish, nor will it be the last. But I will be damned if I waste what God gave me by failing to warn others. Send the video to whoever will listen. We should pray that I am merely a fool and not a harbinger of doom.”
“Thank you, Father. If all… heck breaks loose, I will see you on the twenty-first.”
Ill-Conceived
Arnesto's Home
Silicon Valley, California
Friday, May 2, 2003
9:47 p.m.
Arnesto felt sick to his stomach. Any moment now, his lovely wife was going to finish up her nighttime routine in the bathroom and join him in bed. They were supposed to have sex. Tonight was the night they were supposed to conceive Preston. After much painful deliberation, Arnesto decided he wasn’t going to let that happen.
He already had two wonderful children. It’s not that there wasn’t room for a third child; it’s that
there wasn’t room for this child. Preston. Preston the Terrible. For some reason, Arnesto never quite bonded with the boy in his previous life. Preston was an unruly child, then a juvenile delinquent, then he was in and out of prison.
It wasn’t his upbringing, Arnesto figured. Melissa and Carlos had turned out fine. Amazing, in fact. As parents, Arnesto and Katrina did everything they could to straighten out Preston. They read every parenting book and tried every strategy, but nothing seemed to work. They heard plenty of suggestions. People as a whole love to give unsolicited parenting advice. Unlike others, including Katrina, Arnesto was never offended by this. He welcomed it, hoping that just once someone would offer a tip he hadn’t tried a thousand times before. No, it wasn’t anything to do with how Preston was raised. Some people were just born evil.
This was not something Arnesto could change. Even with an entire lifetime’s worth of experience, Arnesto knew there were no new tricks that would help. Preston would still be trouble. In fact, this time around, things would be worse. The first time, there was always hope. After every incident, after every call from the school principal, there was hope it would be the last time. But this time, he knew. There was no hope. And without hope, Arnesto wouldn’t be able to put all that time and energy into trying to fix an unsolvable problem. And that would mean Preston would probably be even worse. So how could Arnesto knowingly unleash his evil spawn upon the world?
And yet, this was his son, his own flesh and blood. He felt so guilty.
No, he mustn’t back down now. After saving so many lives and improving so many others’, the universe owed him one. Anyway, he was doing the universe a favor. The stress of raising Preston had worn him down last time. This time he didn’t need the distraction while he was out saving the world. Heck, maybe without Preston, Katrina wouldn’t file for divorce several years from now. It was nice to think about, but he needed to focus on the present.
Maybe she wouldn’t want sex anyway. Just because the first Katrina wanted sex on this particular night in his other life didn’t mean this Katrina would necessarily repeat the pattern. Hadn’t he already seen countless other examples where things were different from how he remembered them? From the get-go, he had irreversibly altered the universe. It would have been impossible not to. Every time he breathed he was inhaling different air molecules, creating microscopic ripples in time. And yes, sometimes, he threw himself into the pond yelling, “Cannonball!” He was the Harbinger of Chaos. No, he was Chaos, and she was Katrina, Wife of Chaos. Maybe he had nothing to worry about.
“Hey, Babe.” Katrina stood in the bathroom doorway in her red nightie. She looked good. She got into bed beside him where she began kissing and caressing him. For a moment, he forgot his mission. But then he remembered and started to push her away. “What’s wrong? Don’t you find me attractive anymore?”
“I’m sorry, my stomach hurts.” He wasn’t lying. “I need to go to the bathroom. Don’t move, I’ll be right back. Have some wine!” Alcohol always makes her drowsy, he reasoned as he sat down on the toilet. Not many men would try to get their wives drunk in order to not have sex with them, but Arnesto was willing to go that extra mile.
He waited several minutes, then flushed for effect, washed his hands, and returned to bed. Katrina was facing away from him but immediately rolled over when she felt him get under the covers. To his surprise, she was even more aggressive than before. If he had any complaints about his marriage, and he generally had few, it was that over the years she more and more relied on him to initiate sex, and more and more turned him down when he did.
“Ngh,” he grunted, grabbing his stomach, then headed back toward the bathroom.
“Babe!” she whined. He mentally added her lack of sympathy to his complaint list.
“I’m sorry! Have some more wine!” he shouted as he closed the door.
This time he sat there even longer. He considered masturbating Sperm Preston out of his body, but was afraid she might barge in on him or even if she didn’t barge in on him, she would still know somehow. Then there would be a fight. He couldn’t risk a fight with his lovely, horny, drunken wife. That might lead to make-up sex.
“Are you coming out?!” she whined.
“Just a minute!” he yelled back, lying. Did she think he somehow had expert control over his bodily functions under the circumstances? Hmm, a new complaint, “Expresses impatience over unknowingly fictitious bowel movements.” He imagined that being one of the options to check on a list on some official Wife Complaint List form. She was racking them up tonight. He tried focusing on her shortcomings to keep his mind straight, but this inevitably led to him picturing her lying in bed in her red nightie. He switched to analyzing how he could have handled this mission better, in case he suddenly remembered having other demon children he’d like to avoid.
Finally, legs going numb, he stood up and left the bathroom. For a split second, he panicked when he realized he forgot to flush. “Just gas,” he would say if she asked. She wouldn’t. She had already given up on him some minutes earlier, evident by the fact that she was now wearing pajamas and was sound asleep.
***
The next day, with Katrina off to work and Melissa and Carlos off to school, Arnesto tried playing around on his computer. Not feeling it, he tried reading, then playing video games for a while. Deciding a nap might be just what he needed, he shut off the console and television and headed to the bedroom.
He paused to admire the family pictures on the wall. There was one of him and Katrina taken at a friend’s party before the kids were born. In it, he and Katrina both wore big, genuine smiles. Arnesto smiled back. There was one of Katrina with baby Melissa, the most beautiful baby ever born. There was one of Carlos by himself as a toddler. They had pretty much every combination, including a couple of pictures of all four of them. But no Preston.
Arnesto decided to remember what those pictures had looked like. What could it hurt? It was an innocent comparison between timelines. For one thing, a few of the current pictures had to be removed in order to squeeze in Preston’s photos. The one with Carlos making a funny face got replaced by one with all three kids. There was one of Arnesto that he was only too happy to replace with one of Melissa trying to teach Preston how to play catch. And Preston’s baby photo would be right about there, the fourth picture in succession if you were walking down the hall toward the back of the house. Oh, that picture. It was a fine photo of a handsome baby boy and one of the larger pictures on the wall, more of a close-up than the others. Arnesto remembered that the picture’s prominence had amused him. He had always wanted to ask guests what they thought of it.
“Do you think it’s a giant baby, or merely a regular-sized baby with a giant head or even a regular ol’ baby caught in a tiny parallel universe?” he wanted to ask, but never did.
He chuckled which quickly gave way to a smile, which in turn gave way to a frown. He never did unleash his giant-baby-related humor on anyone, and now he would never get to. He burst into tears. Did most fathers who murdered their sons cry, he wondered? No, stop that, it wasn’t murder. What was it then? What do you call it when a man, using his own unique form of prescience, chooses to not give birth to a son he’s supposed to have because he’s so selfish that he doesn’t want to raise a child who happens to be a little rowdy? And how could he deny Melissa and Carlos the brother they were supposed to have? Who was the monster now?!
He stopped crying, but now his head was spinning. It was time for that nap.
***
He tried to seduce Katrina that night, and the next, and the next, but she wasn’t feeling it. He couldn’t even tempt her with wine. And then it was too late. Sperm Preston gradually absorbed back into Arnesto’s body.
Though depressed, Arnesto came to terms with his loss over the next few weeks. What else could he do?
One day, feeling back to his usual self, he decided to make a pass at his wife. He walked up behind where she was sitting on the sofa and put his hands on her shoul
ders. She shrugged them off.
“Arnesto…” Something was wrong.
“What is it?” he asked, walking around to sit down next to her. She had a most serious look about her. Arnesto silently tried to guess what was going through her head, but none of his guesses were even close.
“I’m pregnant.”
Arnesto opened his mouth but couldn’t speak. Did he miscalculate? It was certainly possible, though he didn’t think so. He wasn’t thrilled by the news. Sure Preston might get his chance at life, but Arnesto had accepted that it wasn’t going to happen. This was going to take time to process. There was another reason he wasn’t thrilled, however. Something else was wrong.
It was Katrina. The last time she told him this specific news, she had been smiling, looking for his approval. This time, she was not smiling. She looked serious and even a tiny bit disappointed. He had to know what was going on.
“When—”
“It’s not yours.”
All the air rushed out of the room. Arnesto was shocked. How could this be? Despite barely being able to think, he did some quick calculations. It was just too unlikely that she happened to get knocked up by someone else on the same day he was supposed to have impregnated her. Then he figured it out.
Oh my god. Preston was never mine.
Realizing the implications of this only crushed him further. Finding out your wife was pregnant with another man’s child would be devastating under normal circumstances. Finding this out and realizing you spent a fraction of your previous life playing the fool, raising another man’s demon child made things so much more difficult. It was one of the few times his special gift had worked to his disadvantage.
This was why she had been so aggressive that night. It wasn’t because she was feeling frisky; she was attempting to cover up her mistake. She must’ve had unprotected sex with this other person earlier that day. At least things can’t get any worse, he thought.
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