The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 1): First Time

by Samuel Ben White

  No, he thought as he lay down that night, the last five years were real. He had the pony-tail to prove it, he chuckled grimly. But what about before? What if Heather were telling the truth and he just weren’t remembering it? Maybe it was because of a hit on the head, or maybe it was because of some trauma he had willed himself to forget. He lay down troubled and slept that way.

  In the morning, they ate breakfast and prepared to leave. Heather's plane was at the airport between Falfa and Oxford, so they would go through Durango to get there. In Durango, Garison could get a haircut and they could still be in Denver by noon.

  As he looked in his closet he was surprised at what purported to be his taste in clothes. Dressing in the odd assortment of colors Heather showed him was in his closet, he felt naked after all the years of wearing eighteenth century garb. Even the twenty-first century clothes he remembered were of a more utilitarian nature than these. The fabrics of this twenty-first century, he had discovered, were so light and airy he almost felt as if he were not wearing clothes at all. They were comfortable clothes he had in the twenty-first century, he admitted, but would take some getting used to. He felt a tremendous urge to wear a trench coat even in warm weather just for modesty's sake.

  As he finished dressing, Heather called to him from the bathroom and said, "I'm going to clean up a bit, first. And you might want to take a shower yourself before we go."

  His years in the past had caused him to forget the twenty-first century's emphasis on cleanliness. While far cleaner than most of his eighteenth century compatriots, he had had—on occasion—to go days without a proper bath. So he smelled himself and agreed that Heather was right. He mused that it would be nice to clean oneself with the ease of the twenty-first century, again. There should be another bathroom downstairs, he remembered, so he went down there to take a shower. He had always enjoyed a good, hot shower, but never so much as on his return to indoor plumbing after a five year absence. For a moment, he felt guilty about enjoying any part of where he was, knowing it meant he had left Sarah so far behind, but he had to admit the hot water felt wonderful.

  He finished before Heather and went into the living room to wait for her while she curled her hair. In two hundred and fifty years, he thought, women have become no faster at getting ready. Modern conveniences had not allowed them to be quicker, just to do more. If all women looked like Heather, he reasoned, the modern conveniences were worth their time. The thought crossed his mind that he had never known anyone in the Soviet Americas—or anywhere, for that matter—as physically pretty as Heather. If all women were now that pretty, how had such a change taken place? He ignored the question for he still refused to believe all of what he was seeing wasn't just some sort of elaborate hoax. He also felt guilty considering Heather's beauty. It had just been two days since he had been flirting in the kitchen with Sarah. That thought made him feel terrible.

  Garison noticed Heather’s purse sitting open on a small table at the end of the couch and he went to it. As much as he hated to pry, he took out what he guessed to be some sort of wallet. It was much like the one he had seen his mother and other twentieth century women carry, except more compact.

  Of course, he thought, no spy is going to leave anything incriminating laying out in their wallets to be found by anyone. In fact, anything that could be found might have been put there so it would be found. Still . . .

  He opened it up and found first the pictures. In the fore was a picture of him. He was dressed in some sort of odd sports outfit and wearing an oversized leather glove on one hand and a peculiar hat on his head. The next picture was of he and Heather in what appeared to be wedding raiment. He stared at it for quite a while and decided that—if it were airbrushing or computer-generated—it was a commendable job. In the picture, he was wearing some sort of odd, ugly black suit wherein the lapels appeared to be of a different material than the rest of the suit. He was also wearing some sort of pleated sash that made it look as if he had pulled his pants up above his navel. "Hideous," he remarked to himself. Her dress was quite lovely, though not—he remarked—as pretty as Sarah's had been. Though it was somewhat low-cut across the bodice, a realization that made him upset with himself for noticing both from a general propriety's standpoint and also from a specifically married man standpoint.

  The next picture was of another couple who looked to be in their late twenties. He turned to the back of the picture and—written in his hand writing—it said, "Bat and Jody Garrett." He shrugged and wondered again what sort of a name Bat was for a person. And who had been able to copy his handwriting so well? The next picture was of a stunning young blonde woman named Darla Gaston, according, again, to his writing, and the pictures following that were of him. So far, the women did appear to be prettier than he remembered.

  The wallet contained a large number of plastic cards with embossed numbers and the legends "Visa" and "Discover" which he could discern no use for and a couple cards of identification. He came to the money section of the wallet and found a denomination of currency he had never been familiar with. The bills were each of the same size but were designated to be worth varying amounts of "dollars." They bore likenesses of stately men with the names Jefferson, Hamilton and Lincoln beneath their pictures. He recognized Lincoln, and wondered why he would be on American currency, but remembered none of the others.

  There was another bill folded up as if shoved in there hastily which he pulled out and unfolded. It was of the least worth of the bills he had seen, but the man on it looked vaguely familiar. The name beneath the picture read "Washington" and Garison wondered if he might be any kin to that boy whose life he had saved two days before—or whenever that had been—for it already seemed so far away.

  Heather came in and saw him looking at her wallet. "See something that struck a chord?" she asked.

  "Another musical reference?" he asked.

  "I guess, though it wasn't meant to be." She flipped the pictures to the young couple and recalled, "Remember them? Jody was my maid of honor at our wedding. Doesn’t she have the most beautiful auburn hair you’ve ever seen? And Bat was one of the ushers. Surely you remember Bat. You two have never gotten along. I think it's because you're jealous of him."

  "You would think I would remember a person with such a name as 'Bat', but I do not. And why would I be jealous of him?"

  "He was," she hesitated, wondering briefly if Garison might not be better off not remembering Bat, "He was my boyfriend at one time. Before Jody came back."

  "You dated your best friend's husband?"

  She quickly defended, "I didn't know her then! And they weren't married at the time. I just—but this isn't about me. Let's look at the wallet again. This is Darla, I used to be her lawyer in Dallas. Her father was murdered and she hired Bat to find out who did it. That's where Bat and I met."

  "And then you and I met...when?"

  "I was helping Bat with another case. We all thought Jody was dead, except Bat. It's a long story, but I'll be happy to tell you all about it. Maybe on the plane ride, 'cause it's a rather long story. But a good one."

  Garison held up what purported to be a five dollar bill and asked, "Why would a former president of the Republic of Texas be on a United States currency marker?"

  "President of Texas?" she asked. "What are you talking about? He was the president of the United States. He freed the slaves!"

  "Yes, in Texas." At her questioning look he said, "I studied my Texas history before taking a trip down there. Abraham Lincoln immigrated to Texas with his family as a young boy. He became a lawyer, then vice-president under Sam Houston. When Houston retired, Lincoln was elected and served four terms. He freed the slaves, established Texas as a world power—"

  "How did he die?" Heather asked meekly.

  "Old age, I believe. He was ninety-something. Went back to practicing law after his terms were up. Why?"

  She bit her lip, then replied, "In this world he was shot in the back of the head by a coward part-way through his secon
d term—as U.S. President. He never went to Texas. Not even for a visit. Anson Jones was Houston's vice-president. Lincoln—he was one of the greatest men who ever lived. But he never even got near Texas, so far as I know."

  "I won't deny that he was one of the greatest men ever. Always wished we had had someone like him up here. But, this man," he said, showing her the dollar, "Who was he?"

  "That's George Washington," she replied, surprised that he had never seen a dollar bill before. Although, she was becoming less surprised with each of these new revelations. His memory seemed to be as full of holes as a sponge, yet sometimes as solid as coral.

  "Is he someone famous?" Garison asked. Inwardly he laughed as he mused that young George must have taken his advice and made something of his life to appear on currency.

  Heather looked at him incredulously, but said, "Everyone in the world knows who he was—literally. Everyone. George Washington? He was the first President of the United States. Lead the Continental Congress when they drafted the Constitution. Held us together. Father of the country."

  "I thought John Adams was the first president," Garison offered meekly, surprised he remembered even that little bit of historical trivia. He was embarrassed by his lack of knowledge of history—which in the last day seemed to have become even worse than he thought.

  "No, John Adams was the second president, and George's vice-president before that. George was the man who, as general, turned the colonial rebels into a force coherent enough to beat the British off the soil. Then he brought us together as a nation."

  "Uh-oh," Garison said, slumping to the couch.

  Excerpt from A Fitch Family History by Maureen Fitch Carnes

  The trading post at Cherry Creek grew into quite a concern and a bit of a town, though it has long since been swallowed up by Denver and its suburbs. Darius worked the trading post for the rest of his life, occasionally heading into the mountains to explore even into his old age. He died behind the counter in 1839, two years after his beloved White Fawn. They were buried side by side and their graves are there to this day, behind the store now operated by my brother, Ralph Fitch.

  [Work is now in process to have the family graveyard declared an "Historical Landmark" by the state and would, thus, be immune to development.]

  Though never gaining or seeking the sort of fame that came to such men as Jim Bridger and Kit Carson, Darius Fitch was well-known in his own right and in his own time. It is said that, upon his death, glasses, flasks, and other drinking utensils were raised in his honor all up and down the front range. Men who had never actually met Darius, or had met him but briefly, spoke of being his best friend. For years, yarns about Darius and his exploits were circulated among the mountain men, but most of them seem to be false. To those in the know, however, Darius would always be remembered as the man who really discovered La Plata Canyon—where a substantial gold strike was made almost a century after his discovery.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Heather's Diary

  March 16, 2005

  It's late at night at the home of my in-laws and I have spent the day in an airplane talking with Garison. Now, I don't know what to think.

  It is obvious to me that this really is my Garison. This is the man I met, fell in love with, and married. This is the man who healed my heart after Bat broke it.

  That's not fair to Bat. He didn't mean to.

  But this really is Garison. When he smiles, I can see the same laugh lines I have memorized time and again, though they now seem deeper with age. His mannerisms are the same. He even holds his drinking glass the same way. This is Garison—or most of him.

  Where is the rest of my Garison? That's what I want to know. That's what I have to find out.

  Somewhere, down deep inside, is all of the Garison I know so well. It may be gone right now because of a bump on the head—or even brainwashing, though I can't imagine who would do such a thing. It's all got to still be in there somewhere.

  Garison thinks his parents have been dead for years. If all this is the result of his being hit on the head, why would a thought like that be generated in his mind? And if this is the result of some sort of brainwashing, how could it benefit someone to make him think his parents are dead?

  Whatever, I had hoped that seeing his parents would be just the shock he needed to get his memory back but so far it hasn't worked.

  What do I do if I can't get my Garison back?

  Excerpt from A Fitch Family History by Maureen Fitch Carnes

  The tales of Darius's children are not nearly as glorious or happy as that of their father. The two girls married and seem to pretty much disappear from the records, though one is believed to have moved with her husband to California and the other may have lived in the Pueblo area or maybe even in Kansas.

  Of Darius's five sons, only one lived to middle-age. As half-Indian half-whites, they followed the pattern of many such "breeds" and didn't seem to fit well into either society. One was found dead of a presumed suicide—though the circumstances were reported to be quite suspicious. One rode with a band of renegade Indians, half-breeds, and whites and was presumed killed in a skirmish with Spanish federales near Santa Fe. Another son was rumored to have died at the Alamo in Texas, though his name isn’t among those generally known to have been there. A fourth went west and was never heard from again.

  The only one of Darius's sons who lived to anything like a ripe old age was Julius, who also had the distinction of being the only son to have inherited his father's blonde hair. While he reportedly was devoted to his mother, he was known to hint that he was the product of a union between his father and someone else. Upon White Fawn's death he became very outspoken against all Indians. As the reservation system was beginning, he led protests to Washington and the territorial house in Colorado Springs, saying the government should either kill them all or make them live like everyone else. It was only on his deathbed that most people living then learned (and were shocked) that Julius was a half-breed Indian himself and, thus, could have been the victim of the very legislation he so loudly heralded.

  Where his vehemence towards the Indians originated is unclear, but perhaps it was the result of seeing the way society had treated his brothers. Perhaps he felt that even extinction would be better than ostracism. We may never know, for Julius left no personal writings of any kind.

  Chapter Eighteen

  March 16, 2005

  It has begun to sink in on me what is going on. Heather isn't a spy and my house isn't haunted. Well, not really, anyway.

  The world is upside down and it's probably my fault. Well, who else's fault could it be? I have done what people were always afraid would be done if time travel were ever attempted: destroy the future. I had even set my own time machine to self-destruct to prevent someone from using it and accidentally changing the past which I thought would preclude just what I am facing now. Unfortunately, I was the one who has changed the past and now I am living in the future that has replaced the one I destroyed—or so the early evidence indicates. Just writing it all down is confusing.

  I don't think in all our time continuum postulations we had ever thought that time would be disrupted the way it was. In most conjectures, we imagined that someone would go back through time and kill another person inadvertently. This person would either be someone who was supposed to be famous, or the ancestor of someone who was supposed to be famous. Or, perhaps, someone would travel back in time, kill a seemingly insignificant insect, but disrupt the food chain in some horrible way.

  I, on the other hand, saved a little boy from getting run over by a wagon and destroyed civilization as I knew it. At least, that's my early hypothesis.

  George Washington was supposed to have died that day—two days ago. He should have been run over by that wagoner and killed on March 14, 1744. Without his leadership, the United States would falter and fail. The rebellion from England would take so long that the colonies would be depleted and, thus, be ripe pickings for the British to step in an
d rule with an even stronger hand. The United States of America were supposed to be no more than a trivia question for history buffs with the barely competent John Adams as the first president and a couple also-rans following. Because of my mistake, the also-rans became a world power and even John Adams is remembered fondly by some.

  Maybe this was the source of my nausea two days ago. Maybe some subconscious level of my mind knew I had destroyed everything when I saved the little boy. It was conjectured in some works of fiction that, if one were to go to the past and change it, one might cease to exist. I have not, obviously, ceased to exist, but maybe I did change something in my nature or even in my DNA. Maybe my great-great-great-grandfather married a different woman and I now carry her DNA instead of what I once carried. Maybe time travel is just an unnatural act and I am suffering the consequences. What seems strange to me, though, is that I have felt nothing since. If I did hit my head, and that's the simple explanation for the way I felt, the concussion seems to be gone. It's all so strange!

  But no matter how many times I say it, I still can't believe my act of kindness destroyed the world. Still, with George living, the U.S. succeeded. Not only did they beat the British like the proverbial drum, they ended World War One six years early and beat the Japanese in World War Two with an atomic bomb! They were the first to even have a bomb. Then, as I'm starting to understand history from the brief synopsis I read in an encyclopedia Heather showed me, things really became strange. The Russians didn't overrun Europe, the Argentines didn't ally themselves with the Japanese, and the Americans never played football! They kind of play it now, calling it soccer, but only the women have any skill at it.

  But, I guess the biggest surprise to me was that Texas has not only allied itself with the United States, it became a part of the United States a century and a half ago! If I would have bet on anything remaining a constant through the years, it would have been Texas. They seemed like such a resilient people, it is hard to believe they would allow themselves to be governed by another power—especially so soon after having liberated themselves from Mexico. I would have expected them to be as unchangeable as the La Platas.