by Anthology
“Yes.”
“Information required: instruction manual for usage of . . .” he checked the number on the handlebars, “Colson Model 44B Time Traveler.”
“Checking. Found. Display?”
“No. Just print. And fast.”
The printer was only on page five when Alan heard running footsteps. Five pages would have to do.
Dear Cher, My name is Cecily Walker and all my friends tell me I look just like you. Well, a little bit. Anyway, the reason that I’m writing to you is this: I’m starting my senior year in high school, and I’ve never had a steady boyfriend. I’ve gone out with a couple of boys, but they only want one thing, and I guess you know what that is. I keep thinking there’s gotta be somebody out there who’s the right one for me, but I just haven’t met him. Was it love at first sight for you and Sonny?
Alan sat on a London park bench with his printout and tried to figure out what he’d done wrong. Under Location: Setting, it just said “See page 29.” Great, he thought. And he had no idea what year it was. Every time he tried to ask someone, they’d give him a funny look and walk away in a hurry. He folded up the bike and took a walk. It wasn’t long before he found a newsstand and saw the date: July 19, 1998. At least he had the right century.
Back in the park, he sat astride the machine with the printout in one hand, frowning and wondering what might happen if he twisted a particular dial from right to left.
“Can’t get your bike to start, mate?” someone shouted from nearby. “Just click your heels three times and think of home.”
“Thanks, I’ll try that,” Alan shouted back. Then he vanished.
“I am a pirate from yonder ship,” the man with the eye patch told her, “and well used to treasure. But I tell thee, lass, I’ve never seen the like of you.”
Cecily groaned and ripped the page in half. She bit her lip and started again.
“I have traveled many galaxies, Madeleine,” the alien bleeped. “But you are a life-form beyond compare.”
“No, don’t. Please don’t,” Madeleine pleaded as the alien reached out to pull her towards its rock-hard chest.
Her mother appeared in the doorway. “Whatcha doin’ hon?” She dropped the pen and flipped the writing pad face down. “My homework.”
The next thing Alan knew he was in the middle of a cornfield. He hitched a lift with a truck driver who asked a lot of questions, ranging from “You work in a gas station, do you?” to “What are you, foreign or something?” and “What do you call that thing?” On being told “that thing” was a folding bicycle, the man muttered something about whatever would they think of next, and now his kid would be wanting one.
There were several Walker’s listed in the Danville phone book. When he finally found the right house, Cecily was in the middle of her third birthday party.
He pedaled around a corner, checked his printout, and set the controls on “Fast Forward.” He folded the machine and hid it behind a bush before walking back to the house. It was big and painted green, just like in the story. There was an apple tree in the garden, just like in the story. The porch swing moved ever so slightly, rocked by an early summer breeze. He could hear crickets chirping and birds singing. Everything was just the way it had been in the story, so he walked up the path, nervously clearing his throat and pushing back a stray lock of hair, just the way Cecily Walker had described him in Woman ’s Secrets, before finally taking a deep breath and knocking on the door. There was movement inside the house—the clack of high heeled shoes across a wooden floor, the rustle of a cotton dress.
“Yes?”
Alan stared at her, open-mouthed. “You’ve cut your hair,” he told her.
“What?”
“Your hair. It used to hang down to your waist, now it’s up to your shoulders.”
“Do I know you?”
“You will,” he told her. He’d said that in the story.
She was supposed to take one look at him and realize with a fluttering heart that this was the man she’d dreamed of all her life. Instead, she looked at his orange jumpsuit and slapped her hand to her forehead in enlightenment. “You’re from the garage! Of course, Mack said he’d be sending the new guy.” She looked past him into the street. “So where’s your tow truck?”
“My what?” There was nothing in “The Love That Conquered Time” about a tow truck. The woman stared at him, looking confused. Alan stared back, equally confused. He started to wonder if he’d made a mistake. But then he saw those eyes, bigger and greener than he’d ever thought possible. “Matrix,” he said out loud.
“What?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that meeting you is so bullasic.”
“Mister, I don’t understand one word you’re saying.” Cecily knew she should tell the man to go away. He was obviously deranged; she should call the police. But something held her back, a flicker of recognition, the dim stirrings of a memory. Where had she seen this man before?
“I’m sorry,” Alan said again. “My American isn’t very good. I come from English-speaking Europe, you see.”
“English-speaking Europe?” Cecily repeated. “You mean England?”
“Not exactly. Can I come inside? I’ll explain everything.”
She let him come in after warning him that her neighbors would come running in with shotguns if they heard her scream, and that she had a black belt in Kung Fu. Alan nodded and followed her inside, wondering where Kung Fu was, and why she’d left her belt there.
He was ushered into the living room and told to have a seat. He sat down on the red velveteen-upholstered sofa and stared in awe at such historical artifacts as a black and white television with rabbit-ear antennae, floral-printed wallpaper, a phone you had to dial, and shelf after shelf of unpreserved books. She picked up a wooden chair and carried it to the far side of the room before sitting down. “Okay,” she said. “Talk.”
Alan felt it would have been better to talk over a candlelit dinner in a restaurant, like they did in the story, but he went ahead and told her everything, quoting parts of the story verbatim, such as the passage where she described him as the perfect lover she’d been longing for all her life.
When he was finished, she managed a frozen smile. “So you’ve come all the way from the future just to visit little ole me. Isn’t that nice.”
Oh Matrix, Alan thought. She’s humoring me. She’s convinced I’m insane and probably dangerous as well. “I know this must sound crazy to you,” he said.
“Not at all,” she told him, gripping the arms of her chair. He could see the blood draining out of her fingers.
“Please don’t be afraid. I’d never harm you.” He sighed and put a hand to his forehead. “It was all so different in the story.”
“But I never wrote any story. Well, I started one once, but I never got beyond the second page.”
“But you will. You see, it doesn’t get published until 1973.”
“You do know this is 1979, don’t you?”
“WHAT?”
“Looks like your timing’s off,” she said. She watched him sink his head into his hands with an exaggerated groan. She rested her chin on one hand and regarded him silently. He didn’t seem so frightening now. Crazy, yes, but not frightening. She might even find him quite attractive, if only things were different. He looked up at her and smiled. It was a crooked, little boy’s smile that made his eyes sparkle. For a moment, she almost let herself imagine waking up to that smile . . . She pulled herself up in her chair, her back rigid.
“Look,” he said. “So I’m a few years behind schedule. The main thing is I found you. And so what if the story comes out a bit later, it’s nothing we can’t handle. It’s only a minor problem. A little case of bad timing.”
“Excuse me,” Cecily said. “But I think that in this case, timing is everything. If any of this made the least bit of sense, which it doesn’t, you would’ve turned up before now. You said yourself the story was published in 1973—if it was based on fact, you’d ne
ed to arrive here much earlier.”
“I did get here earlier, but I was too early.”
Cecily’s eyes widened involuntarily. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I was here before. I met you. I spoke to you.”
“When?”
“You wouldn’t remember. You were three years old, and your parents threw a party for you out in the garden. Of course I realized my mistake instantly, but I bluffed it out by telling your mother that I’d just dropped by to apologize because my kid was sick and couldn’t come—it was a pretty safe bet that someone wouldn’t have shown—and she said, ‘Oh you must be little Sammy’s father’ and asked me in. I was going to leave immediately, but your father handed me a beer and started talking about something called baseball. Of course I didn’t have a present for you . . .”
“But you gave me a rose and told my mother to press it into a book so that I’d have it forever.”
“You remember.”
“Wait there. Don’t move.” She leapt from her chair and ran upstairs. There was a lot of noise from above—paper rattling, doors opening and closing, things being thrown about. She returned clutching several books to her chest, her face flushed and streaked with dust. She flopped down on the floor and spread them out in front of her. When Alan got up to join her, she told him to stay where he was or she’d scream. He sat back down.
She opened the first book, and then Alan saw that they weren’t books at all; they were photo albums. He watched in silence as she flipped through the pages and then tossed it aside. She tossed three of them away before she found what she was looking for. She stared open-mouthed at the brittle yellow page and then she looked up at Alan. “I don’t understand this,” she said, turning her eyes back to the album and a faded black and white photograph stuck to the paper with thick, flaking paste. Someone had written in ink across the top: Cecily’s 3rd birthday, August 2nd, 1951. There was her father, who’d been dead for ten years, young and smiling, holding out a bottle to another young man, tall and blond and dressed like a gas station attendant. “I don’t understand this at all.” She pushed the album across the floor towards Alan. “You haven’t changed one bit. You’re even wearing the same clothes.”
“Did you keep the rose?”
She walked over to a wooden cabinet and pulled out a slim hardback with the title, “My First Reader.” She opened it and showed him the dried, flattened flower. “You’re telling me the truth, aren’t you?” she said. “This is all true. You risked everything to find me because we were meant to be together, and nothing, not even time itself, could keep us apart.”
Alan nodded. There was a speech just like that in “The Love That Conquered Time.”
“Bastard,” she said.
Alan jumped. He didn’t remember that part. “Pardon me?”
“Bastard,” she said again. “You bastard!”
“I . . . I don’t understand.”
She got up and started to pace the room. “So you’re the one, huh? You’re ‘Mister Right,’ Mister Happily Ever After, caring, compassionate and great in bed. And you decide to turn up now. Well, isn’t that just great.”
“Is something the matter?” Alan asked her.
“Is something the matter?” she repeated. “He asks me if something’s the matter! I’ll tell you what’s the matter. I got married four weeks ago, you son of a bitch!”
“You’re married?”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
“But you can’t be married. We were supposed to find perfect happiness together at a particular point in space that has always existed and always will. This ruins everything.”
“All those years . . . all those years. I went through hell in high school, you know. I was the only girl in my class who didn’t have a date for the prom. So where were you then, huh? While I was sitting alone at home, crying my goddamn eyes out? How about all those Saturday nights I spent washing my hair? And even worse, those nights I worked at Hastings’ Bar serving drinks to salesmen pretending they don’t have wives. Why couldn’t you have been around then, when I needed you?”
“Well, I’ve only got the first five pages of the manual . . .” He walked over to her and put his hands on her shoulders. She didn’t move away. He gently pulled her closer to him. She didn’t resist. “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry. I’m a real zarkhead. I’ve made a mess of everything. You’re happily married, you never wrote the story . . . I’ll just go back where I came from, and none of this will have ever happened.”
“Who said I was happy?”
“But you just got married.”
She pushed him away. “I got married because I’m thirty years old and figured I’d never have another chance. People do that, you know. They reach a certain age and they figure it’s now or never . . . Damn you! If only you’d come when you were supposed to!”
“You’re thirty? Matrix, in half an hour you’ve gone from a toddler to someone older than me.” He saw the expression on her face, and mumbled an apology.
“Look,” she said. “You’re gonna have to go. My husband’ll be back any minute.”
“I know I have to leave. But the trouble is, that drebbing story was true! I took one look at your photo, and I knew that I loved you and I always had. Always. That’s the way time works, you see. And even if this whole thing vanishes as the result of some paradox, I swear to you I won’t forget. Somewhere there’s a point in space that belongs to us. I know it.” He turned to go. “Good-bye Cecily.”
“Alan, wait! That point in space—I want to go there. Isn’t there anything we can do? I mean, you’ve got a time machine, after all.”
What an idiot, he thought. The solution’s been staring me in the face and I’ve been too blind to see it. “The machine!” He ran down the front porch steps and turned around to see her standing in the doorway. “I’ll see you later,” he told her. He knew it was a ridiculous thing to say the minute he’d said it. What he meant was, “I’ll see you earlier.”
Five men sat together inside a tent made of animal hide. The land of their fathers was under threat, and they met in council to discuss the problem. The one called Swiftly Running Stream advocated war, but Foot of the Crow was more cautious. “The paleface is too great in number, and his weapons give him an unfair advantage.” Flying Bird suggested that they smoke before speaking further.
Black Elk took the pipe into his mouth. He closed his eyes for a moment and declared that the Great Spirit would give them a sign if they were meant to go to war. As soon as he said the word, “war,” a paleface materialized among them. They all saw him. The white man’s body was covered in a strange bright garment such as they had never seen, and he rode a fleshless horse with silver bones. The vision vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving them with this message to ponder: Oops.
There was no one home, so he waited on the porch. It was a beautiful day, with a gentle breeze that carried the scent of roses: certainly better than that smoke-filled teepee.
A woman appeared in the distance. He wondered if that was her. But then he saw that it couldn’t be, the woman’s walk was strange and her body was misshapen. She’s pregnant, he realized. It was a common thing in the days of over-population, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a pregnant woman back home—it must have been years. She looked at him questioningly as she waddled up the steps balancing two paper bags. Alan thought the woman looked familiar; he knew that face. He reached out to help her.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m looking for Cecily Walker.”
“My name’s Walker,” the woman told him. “But I don’t know any Cecily.”
Matrix, what a moron, Alan thought, wanting to kick himself. Of course he knew the woman; it was Cecily’s mother, and if she was pregnant, it had to be 1948. “My mistake,” he told her. “It’s been a long day.”
The smell of roses had vanished, along with the leaves on the trees. There was snow on the ground and a strong northeasterly wind. Alan set the therm
ostat on his jumpsuit accordingly and jumped off the bike.
“So it’s you again,” Cecily said ironically. “Another case of perfect timing.” She was twenty pounds heavier and there were lines around her mouth and her eyes. She wore a heavy wool cardigan sweater over an oversized tee-shirt, jeans, and a pair of fuzzy slippers. She looked him up and down. “You don’t age at all, do you?”
“Please can I come in? It’s freezing.”
“Yeah, yeah. Come in. You like a cup of coffee?”
“You mean liquid caffeine? That’d be great.”
He followed her into the living room and his mouth dropped open. The red sofa was gone, replaced by something that looked like a giant banana. The television was four times bigger and had lost the rabbit-ears. The floral wallpaper had been replaced by plain white walls not very different from those of his apartment. “Sit,” she told him. She left the room for a moment and returned with two mugs, one of which she slammed down in front of him, causing a miniature brown tidal wave to splash across his legs. “Cecily, are you upset about something?”
“That’s a good one! He comes back after fifteen years and asks me if I’m upset.”
“Fifteen years!” Alan sputtered.
“That’s right. It’s 1994, you bozo.”
“Oh darling, and you’ve been waiting all this time . . .”
“Like hell I have,” she interrupted. “When I met you, back in 1979, I realized that I couldn’t stay in that sham of a marriage for another minute. So I must have set some kind of a record for quickie marriage and divorce, by Danville standards, anyway. So I was a thirty-year-old divorcee whose marriage had fallen apart in less than two months, and I was back to washing my hair alone on Saturday nights. And people talked. Lord, how they talked. But I didn’t care, because I’d finally met my soul mate and everything was going to be all right. He told me he’d fix it. He’d be back. So I waited. I waited for a year. Then I waited two years. Then I waited three. After ten, I got tired of waiting. And if you think I’m going through another divorce, you’re crazy.”