“You can’t come in, Ellis.”
“Jim, what the hell?”
“You haven’t paid rent in three months.”
“Come on, let me in.”
“I’m not doing it.”
“Jim, come on!”
“You need help, Ellis.”
I clench my fist into a ball and rest my head against the door frame. “I know that Nancy broke up with you.”
“How do you know that?”
“The way you were talking to her on the phone last night.”
There’s a pause. I hazard a glance at Jim. His eyes are like daggers.
“She told you something, didn’t she?”
I feel a twist in my gut. “Maybe she did.”
“When?”
“After you left the bar on Sunday night.”
“What did she say,” Jim asks.
“Ask her yourself.”
“I’m asking you.”
I turn, leaning my back against the door frame. “She asked if I thought the two of you would last.” Jim doesn’t respond and I realize my chances of getting inside are blown.
“What did you say to her?”
“I said...” I take in a breath. “I said you’ve never dated anyone more than six months and are in love with your work. I said she’d have to leave or . . . or renovate you.” I wait for indeterminable eons.
“Don’t come back here, Ellis.”
“What am I supposed to do, sleep in my car?”
“Not my problem.”
Jim shuts the door. I hear the bolt slide home and the sound of his footsteps retreating. My heart sinks. I feel an old longing buried deep inside of me. I loved him once. I’ve long since put aside foolish fantasies about wishing the same from him. But the pain still feels more fresh than I would like to admit. I turn and stare out at the lawn. At all the pieces of my life strewn across it.
I walk down the rickety staircase to the garage, carrying my typewriter. My clothes are already loaded into the trunk and back seat of the trunk. I yank open my car door and climb inside, feeling miserable.
I could talk to my father.
I could beg him and this would all be over.
But the memory of our conversation comes swiftly back to mind.
We are having lunch at Valentino’s. One of his annual lecture sessions that begin with explanations of his genius and inevitably turn into lectures about the unparalleled stupidity of my life own choices. My father, leaning his expansive bulk into his chair, is currently pontificating on the wisdom of my chosen major. The chair protests, but manages to continue holding him. The waitress, having replenished our never ending supply of Cabernet, strolls away as my father leers after her. He continues our conversation without pause.
“What did you think you were going to do with a mamby-pamby major like lit-cher-a-chur, anyway?” He turns back to me with his final word, pronouncing each syllable as if it were a set of resounding death-knells, each louder than the last. I sink into my own chair, trying to disappear.
“What else would I do? I can’t even calculate a tip.”
“It’s a family business, Ellis. I need my son to run it.”
“Allison can’t?” I ask.
He barks out a laugh. “Your sister is worse than you are. Besides, it’s a very traditional board. They would never listen to a woman.”
My father takes another sip from his wine. A trio of models sashays past us and his gaze bounces lustfully from one to the next.
“I see that you and mom are getting along fine.”
This draws his attention back to me.
“We’re better than ever,” he growls. “And why haven’t you brought anyone home to meet us?”
A hot piece of coal ignites in the pit of my stomach. “How many times do we have to talk about this? You know that’s never going to happen.”
Father narrows his eyes. “Stop being selfish. You're going to have to find a nice girl if you ever want to come work for the company.”
“I’m not going to work for your company.”
He shrugs, dismissively. “Then you don’t need your monthly allowance.”
I stare at him. “What did you say?”
“Was I unclear? I’m cutting you off.”
“I need that.”
“Didn’t you get paid to write your story?”
“It’s an advance, and I’ve needed it to pay rent. That money won’t last forever.”
“So you’re saying that they don’t pay you enough to live on?”
I can hear the smugness in his voice. I close my eyes, feeling my heart increase and my temperature rise. “Half. They paid me half. I’ll be paid the rest on delivery.”
“What’s wrong then? Deliver your story, get paid. Do what men do.”
“I will, but the money’s already almost gone…”
He shakes his head and looks away. “Dammit, Ellis.”
I clench my fists, then forcefully unclench them.
My father sighs, looking away. “When I was eighteen, I knew I had to go out on my own. My father and mother lived in a one-room farmhouse working someone else’s fields that produced nothing but dust. I saw that there was no future there. I got a job making seven dollars a week laying bricks for a local construction crew. Right when I started that job, I began looking for something better. The problem was that I didn’t have anything past a third grade education. So, I studied I borrowed books from a local teacher. She would rather have me in the classroom but she understood. I read at nights by candlelight because we were too far in the country to get wired with electricity. I tested out of high school and enrolled in college which I paid for by getting a second job cooking burgers at Eddie’s Diner. Two years later I had a Business degree. Two years after that, I was making eight thousand a year selling those same houses I had been laying bricks for. Now I make a whole lot more than eight thousand a year.”
“What does it have to do with me?” I ask. Though I already know his answer.
“I’ve been soft on you. I robbed you of hard work. Maybe it’s my fault that . . . anyway, those days are gone. There’s no more handouts, Ellis. I don’t want to have any more meetings with you like this. To see you crawling in here, hand held out. It’s disgusting. It’s time for you to face reality. To make something of yourself. It’s time you started laying bricks.”
That was the last time we’ve spoken. It was also the last month that I paid rent. Jim knows nothing about this. Vance, Longdale, none of them. What would I tell them? That every time I’ve paid the tab has been one step closer to poverty and ruin? The purse strings have been cut. I am content with my lot. I will crawl my way out of this stinking pit on my own.
“What’s your deal anyway, Claymore?” Quincy asks.
I’d been lost in my own thoughts, thinking about Jim, about him throwing me out, and about where the hell I’m going to sleep tonight.
Quincy is sitting across from me, lounging back in an old desk chair that looks like it’s from the forties. He's wearing bellbottoms and a Pink Floyd t-shirt. We’re in the basement storage room of Camton’s old Psych building and the metal cabinet in the back is giving me—and I can honestly think of no better term for it—the heebie jeebies. I am sitting on a tattered couch, probably pulled from the waiting room outside of the Dean’s office, while Vance is busy setting up a 16mm film projector and projection screen. Aleisha is—I glance back at the old cabinet—inside.
“Hey, I asked you a question,” Quincy says.
I glance up at him. He’s got this weird glint in his eyes that, frankly, I don’t like.
“My deal?” I ask.
Quincy shrugs. “Yeah man, your deal.”
I check my watch. It’s nearly 6:30 P.M. and I’m becoming increasingly aware of my lack of dinner. “My deal is that I’ve got memories of one of these tunnels locked away in my skull that you all want very badly to get at. Except, no one’s been able to tell me exactly why you want it so much. I’m stuck here waiting for a
girl from the future to come back from hanging out in the past where she apparently now lives. Meanwhile, I’m hungry.”
Quincy grins and turns to Vance. “Hey Vance, I think I like this cat.”
Vance stops his work to stand and turn to me. “Got any other questions while we wait?”
“Yeah,” I say. “What the hell is that?” I point to a large steel behemoth in the corner of the room.
“That,” Vance says, “Is the sensory deprivation tank.”
Quincy leans back, throwing one leg over the other. He says something, but I don’t hear it. Quincy’s wearing tan-colored polyester bellbottoms and the curve of his thighs has me momentarily distracted.
“Sorry, what were you saying?” I ask.
Quincy leans forward and grins. His teeth are a beautiful contrast to his dark skin. “I said, it’s a real trip.”
There’s a bang from the cabinet in the corner and we both turn toward the sound. I hear a lock being worked from the inside. There’s a small click, and then the door swings open.
Aleisha steps out first. She’s wearing one of the trench coats kept in the room. Her shoulders are wet and her hair is slick with rain.
She smiles when she sees me. “Quincy, you owe me a dollar.”
I turn for Quincy for explanation.
He shrugs. “I thought Ellis was going to flake.”
“Hey, I’m no flake,” I say, feeling immediate shame.
Aleisha steps out of the cabinet and behind her I see Jane slowly emerging from the shadows. My stomach nearly turns itself inside out from the optical illusion. At first, I’m only looking at darkness. Then a hand emerges. Next is a wrist and a kneecap. Finally, a head and torso appear and then Jane is standing there. She’s wearing a jacket and has a hat on. There’s not much more rain on her than was on Aleisha, so she must have a relatively good shelter to sleep in.
“What have they got you set up in?” I ask. “Is there a Hilton back there?”
Jane gives me a withering look. “Five star accommodations,” she says.
“We built a semi-permanent shelter,” Vance says. “It’s not too bad.”
“I challenge any of you to stay a night there with me,” Jane responds. “Anyone?”
“Sure,” I say, before even realizing the words have come out of my mouth. Why the hell would I want to step foot back in their nightmare-land?
Jane gives me a slight smile and nods. “Alright then.”
“You brought the film?” Vance asks.
Jane takes something small and wrapped in plastic from the inside pocket of her trench coat and hands it to Vance. He unwraps the plastic, revealing a flat, circular case that I recognize immediately as a film canister. Vance moves to the projector and begins to spool the reel.
Jane walks past me with an appraising look. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”
“I thought the same about you.”
“You know,” says Jane, “you and I have more in common than the others.”
“How’s that?” I ask.
“The first time we travelled, we didn’t have a choice about it.”
I fold my arms, glancing at the cabinet in the back of the room. “So, who discovered… that?”
“Terrance,” Quincy says.
The others fall silent. There's a sadness in Quincy's eyes that I can't shake. Terrance, I remember, was the guy who died over there. I decide not to press the issue further.
Vance finishes threading the film and flicks a switch on the projector. I hear the clack, clack, clack of the reel spinning, and a dancing image appears on the screen. It focuses, coalescing into a cold sterile scene in black and white.
Jane turns, heading toward the door of the storage room.
“Where is she going?” I ask.
She pauses at the door. “If watching this helps convince you of our cause, then fine. But I am not going watch it again.”
Quincy rises to his feet. “I’ll keep her company.”
The door closes behind them.
Vance flicks on a speaker and a blast of noise fills the room. He hurriedly turns it down, then joins me on the couch. Aleisha sits across from us on one of the folding chairs.
I turn back to the screen, seeing a pool of dark, shimmering water. The water breaks as Jane appears, climbing into the pool.
“Is that?” I point to the large tank on the opposite side of the room. Vance nods.
Aleisha’s disembodied voice comes hauntingly through the speakers. “Tuesday, January 8, 1974. The time is 8:15 PM. This is session 12 with patient Jane. This session we will be in the tank.”
I turn to Aleisha. “Jesus, how many sessions did you?”
“Many,” she says.
Jane settles in the water and the camera zooms in, focusing on her face. She is thin with almond-colored skin splashed with barely visible freckles, wide cheekbones. Her eyes turn to the camera and I feel myself grow cold.
Those are haunted eyes.
Hands come into view attaching sensors to the girl’s head. A voice says, “the sensors are attached.” It’s Quincy’s voice.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
“The sensors for measuring the electrical activity in her brain,” Aleisha says. “It’s completely harmless,”
“Why are her pupils dilated?” I ask.
“Lysergic acid diethylamide,” Vance says.
“LSD? You weren’t kidding about this being not being university sanctioned.”
Aleisha shrugs. “There’s plenty of researchers who have found its application useful in mental health.”
On the screen, Quincy steps out of view. He closes the hatch on the tank and the image refocuses on Jane through a small window set into the hatch.
“Jane, can you hear me?” It’s Aleisha’s voice, coming once again through the speakers.
“Yes.” Jane’s voice is amplified, as if coming through a microphone inside the tank.
Aleisha continues to speak. Her voice is quiet and soothing, almost putting me in a trance. “Close your eyes. Okay, that’s good. Listen to my voice. Breathe in. Now breathe out. In and out. In and out. That’s good.”
Jane’s eyes close and she visibly relaxes. “Now Jane, I want you to think of a time and place that feels safe. Maybe, it’s your childhood home or a place you go to relax. Think of being calm, safe, and warm, and accept the first thing that comes to you. Do you have a place in mind?”
Jane nods. “Yes.” Her voice cuts through the amplified static in a piercing whisper. “My home in Minnesota where I grew up.”
“Describe it for me.”
“I am in a large, two-story house set back into the woods. We moved here when I was six, about a year after my parents adopted me. I—I don’t remember anything from before that. I don’t know why.”
Her voice takes on a tone of concern. Aleisha leans in closer to his microphone. “We can explore that some other time. For now, let’s go back to that home in the woods in Minnesota.”
“Okay. It’s only a short walk to a nearby lake. During the summers, we would spend all day out there. I remember swimming out to the floating dock in the middle of the lake. We would lie there in the sun for hours, talking and sleeping the day away.”
“Tell me about the world?” Aleisha asks.
Jane frowns. “I don’t know. Ronald Reagan is President. The Cold War is still going on, and everyone’s worried about Russia making nuclear bombs.”
I turn to Vance and mouth Cold War?
Vance nods, his eyes wide.
I hear Aleisha continuing over the speakers. “Jane, what year is it?”
It’s odd hearing Aleisha next to me, and then through the speakers as well.
On the screen, Jane’s pupils move beneath her eyelids as she thinks about the question. “It’s 1984.”
My heart stops for a moment. She had said she was from the future, but putting dates to it brings a whole new level of insanity. I clench my fist, bringing it to my mouth, and bite down hard on
my knuckle. Somewhere beyond the sound of blood pounding in my ears, I hear Vance whispering my name. “Ellis, you okay?” Deep Breath. The future, goddammitall, this girl is from the future. “I’m fine.” I glance over at Aleisha. She is staring at me with curious eyes.
I hear her voice from the speakers. “So it’s 1984. And how old are you?”
She pauses again. “I’m thirteen—”
“Now, that thing that happened when you were thirteen. I would like to talk about it. Is that okay with you?”
“I—I think so.
I lean forward, studying the girl on the screen. I can see the flickering of her eyes under her closed eyelids. There is a slight quiver in her jaw. Her head is rocking slightly back and forth in the water. She’s completely tranced. If she’s lying, she’s giving one hell of an Academy worthy performance.
“Go over it slowly. Remember every detail as carefully as you can. Take your, time.”
“I’m walking home from school. It’s fall and the leaves have just changed. This car pulls up alongside me and stops. The man inside is strange, I could tell, but he knew things about me. He knew my name, my parent’s names, and sibling’s names. He even asked how our dog, Chester, was doing. I asked him what he wanted, and he said he knew my parents. He needed to talk to them about something and asked if he could wait for them. I—I said yes. When we got to my house, he asked me all kinds of questions. What movies I had seen. What my favorite music was. What I was reading. When I told him I was reading The Wizard of Oz, he got excited. Said he had read that as a kid. Then he got all serious and asked, ‘If you could go to Oz, for real, would you?’
“I didn’t know what to say at first. I thought about it and then I said yes, I would. I asked him how, and he told me he was with the government. That they had a way of traveling to other... times. He said he was looking for volunteers, and that they needed children because children were more open minded. I said, ‘don’t I need my parent’s permission?’ He nodded and said I would need it if I was actually going to participate, but I didn’t need it to learn more about what the program was about. He gave me a card with an address and said, if I wanted, I could come by after school and learn all about it. It was until later that I realized he left without talking to my parents at all.”
Dispersion: Book Two of the Recursion Event Saga Page 6