Dave handed the gooseberry to Shel and walked over to the pianist. “You have a nice touch,” he said.
The young man smiled. “Thanks.” He was in his early twenties.
“You’re a student?”
“Duke Law.”
“Very good. That should give you a running start.”
The smile widened. “I hope so.”
One of his friends, a young woman, pushed into the conversation. “Dick,” he said, “how about ‘Taking a Chance on Love’?”
Dick winked at her.
“I’m talking about the piano.”
“Oh,” he said. “Sure.” He gave Dave a thumbs-up and started playing.
Dave went back to their table. Shel by then had returned. “You recognize that guy?” Dave asked.
“Who?”
“The guy at the piano.”
Shel looked. Shook his head. “No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Who do you think he is?”
“Think ‘Checkers.’ ”
“ ‘Checkers’? Who plays checkers?”
“Not the board game. The dog.”
Shel stared. He shook his head. “Not a chance,” he said.
CHAPTER 31
On life’s vast ocean diversely we sail,
Reason the card, but passion is the gale.
—ALEXANDER POPE, ESSAY ON MAN
THAT remarkable evening was made even more memorable because it was the night Dave met Sandy Meyers. Sandy was one of two women enjoying an animated conversation on the other side of the restaurant. She had deep brown eyes and rich chestnut hair swept up in the style of the time. And a laugh that shook Dave’s world. Shel had not bought Dave’s theory regarding the young man who’d sat down at the piano. He was back with his friends now, and the house pianist had returned. But Shel had wandered over to speak with him, while Dave kept an eye on the woman with the electric smile. Dick nodded a couple of times. Then Shel caught his breath and started taking pictures, and Dave knew he’d been right. But something more important was taking over his life at the moment.
Twice, the woman caught him looking at her. The first time, her gaze moved past as if he were invisible. A few minutes later, it happened again, and that smile flickered briefly. It lasted no longer than an eyeblink, but it was there.
Her companion was a blonde, and they were exchanging war stories. Each had a briefcase tucked beside her. There were no businesswomen during this era. And no female lawyers. So he concluded they were teachers.
He wanted to get up, go over, and say hello. Usually he had no problem walking up to strange women and introducing himself. But this time an odd reluctance overtook him. And he watched forlornly as they finished their meal, called for the check, put a couple of bills on the table, and got up to go.
She’s walking out of my life.
What kind of approach did he have available? All the usual lines seemed dumb. Pardon me, but I think we’ve met before.
Maybe he could fake another heart attack.
Then he caught a break. She’d picked up her briefcase, but she was leaving a hat behind. It was, he decided, an invitation. He gave her time to get to the door, then spotted a waiter zeroing in on the hat. David literally leaped from his chair, moved quickly to block off the waiter, scooped up the hat, and started after her.
They were at the curb and appeared to be looking for a taxi. “Pardon me,” he said, showing them the hat, “but I think one of you ladies left this behind.”
Her eyes touched his, and his heart picked up a beat. “Thank you,” she said.
“My pleasure.” He paused. “It’s a lovely hat.”
THAT was how it began. She and the other woman were going for a drink at Halo’s. Would he care to join them?
“I have a friend inside,” Dave said.
“He’s welcome to come along.”
But Shel was still in a state of shock at his double score in the Lamplight. “See you at home,” said Dave.
He went back to Sandy and her friend, and they were on their way. Twenty minutes later, they commandeered a table at Halo’s and eventually drank and sang the balance of the evening.
“What does she do for a living?” Shel asked, when they were back in the town house.
“She’s a math instructor at Duke.”
“Good. So where do you go from here?” He had no idea. But it had been a long time since he’d been so enthralled, so quickly, by a woman. Not even Helen had hit him that hard.
WITHOUT saying anything to Shel, he returned to Durham two days later and called Sandy from a drugstore. They made a date for a Saturday evening concert. He told her he’d look forward to the evening, hung up, and used the converter to move forward to Saturday night, grabbed a cab, and arrived outside her apartment fifteen minutes later.
She looked even better than he remembered. He’d already told her what he did for a living. “Where do you teach?” she asked.
He should have been prepared. He needed a local school, but his brain froze, and he told her he was at Penn.
“I’m surprised,” she said, “you can get away during the semester. How’d you manage that?”
And that’s what happens when you start telling the truth. He made up a story about a sick relative and got the distinct impression she knew he was lying. But she let it go, and minutes later they were inside the theater listening to Sergei Rachmaninoff, who was on tour, play several of his own compositions.
IT was a dazzling night, and a week later, for her—though the next night for him—he took her to see a British film, Gangway, with Jessie Mat thews and Alastair Sim. This time he’d had to claim he’d driven in from Philadelphia to see how his sick cousin was doing. (But after the show he couldn’t remember the specifics of what he had told her. Sick cousin? Or had it been his mother?)
“It’s not easy,” she said, “getting information from you.”
He tried to laugh it off. “There’s probably not much to get. Except that beautiful women seem to enjoy my company.”
They returned to the Lamplight the following evening, ostensibly the day before he was to go back to Philadelphia. She liked him, smiled at all the right times, and let him know in a hundred different ways that he mattered. Even though she’d known him only a couple of weeks, she wanted to keep him around.
But there were problems. “Where’s your car?” she’d asked. “Why are we using a taxi?”
He should have told her he’d taken the train, but it hadn’t occurred to him. “I left it with Sarah. In case she needs it.”
“She must be doing much better.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “She’s much improved.”
After he’d dropped out of sight, which was an inevitable outcome, she might make phone calls and find out he’d lied to her. No David Dryden at Penn. Maybe no David Dryden even in the Philadelphia phone book. At least none who was likely to be teaching languages anywhere.
And that hurt. Losing her would be bad enough. But to send her off knowing he’d been a fraud?
The Lamplight, he decided, reluctantly, would be their last evening together. The longer he delayed, the harder it would be on both of them. He wanted to do it, get it over with, put it all behind him, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the words.
She gave him the perfect opening when she read his face and asked what was wrong. But he just wasn’t ready. Maybe it would be best to think it through anyhow. He decided he’d talk to her during the week and tell her there was someone else in his life. That he was going to ask this other woman to marry him. He’d apologize, and say how much he’d enjoyed being with her, and he understood if she was angry. But that, however things played out, she’d always have a friend.
They were seated at the table Huxley had occupied. The pianist was doing “It’s a Sin to Tell a Lie.”
“Nothing,” he said. “Life couldn’t be better.”
She looked at him closely, and apparently decided to go along with the game. “Our special
place,” she said.
He squeezed her wrist. “Forever.”
But it must not have been in his voice. “That’s easy to say, Dave.” Her eyes glittered. “You want to call it a night?”
“No,” he said. No. He didn’t want to call it a night. Didn’t want to say good-bye. He could imagine himself coming back to this evening, watching from across the street as they left the Lamplight, as he had watched himself and Erin at the cabin, regretting he had let her go. And yet what other choice did he have?
“You feel like dancing?” she said.
She knew a good spot, so they went across town. It was his first attempt at doing the Charleston, and she seemed mildly surprised that he was less than accomplished. From there they went to the Flamingo for a nightcap. And then it was over and the taxi was pulling up in front of her apartment house, and she was inviting him in.
But he passed. “Wiped out,” he said. He asked the taxi to wait while he walked her to the door. He kept thinking never again. Thinking how he would miss her. When he drew her into his arms, all the suppleness was gone.
She knew.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said.
HE had an option: He could tell her the truth and bring her forward to 2019. When he got home, he googled her, hoping there’d be no record of her, or at least nothing beyond the time when they’d met. Sandra Myers, a beloved math teacher at Duke who, on a summer night in 1937, vanished utterly. No trace of her was ever found. . . .
Unfortunately, he saw that she’d married in 1939, two years after Durham, to a David Collins.
Another David.
They’d had a son. When World War II broke out, Collins went into the Navy. He apparently spent most of the war in the Pacific , was at Midway and Guadalcanal, won a Purple Heart in the Philippine Sea during the Great Marianas Turkey Shoot, and had been at Leyte Gulf. He’d been decorated, and returned a hero. Eventually, he and Sandy had had another son and a daughter.
After the war, they’d settled in Durham. Sandy stayed on at Duke, and made a reputation as a theorist. She’d written two books on math, Biomath and Universal Mathematics, and eventually made a name for herself as a popular scientific essayist. There were some pictures of her from those early years, including one as a bride.
She’d died in 1993 at the age of 81.
HE went back to Durham one more time after that, took her to dinner again, and told her the story about getting engaged. (He hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it over the phone.) “I’m going to ask her next weekend,” he said. “I wanted you to know.”
She took it well. Better than he’d liked. But she nodded, bit off a piece of steak, and chewed it for a long time. “I’m glad you told me,” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
“I guess it wasn’t easy for you.” She managed a smile, a weak one, and pushed the mostly uneaten dinner away. “Good luck with it.”
“Thank you.”
Then she was gone. He wanted to tell her that “These Foolish Things” would always be their song. But he didn’t dare.
PART THREE
TIME OUT OF JOINT
CHAPTER 32
If the first woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down all alone, these women together ought to be able to turn it back, and get it right side up again.
—SOJOURNER TRUTH (ISABELLA VAN WAGENER)
THE forays into the historical past continued unabated. In what they’d hoped would be a highlight of their adventures, Shel and Dave introduced themselves to Archimedes, but the conversation never really went anywhere. Archimedes simply had better things to do than entertain two barbarians.
They had no more luck with Solon. The great lawgiver explained that he’d enjoy talking with them, but he was busy at the moment.
Still, those were the exceptions. In the Yukon, in 1911, they spent a week whooping it up in every saloon along the Klondike with Bob Service. Looking for comedy, they took in the A.D. 67 Olympics, which had been hijacked by Nero. The Emperor turned it partially into a musical contest, in which he won every event he entered. And he also won the chariot race, despite falling out of the vehicle during one of the turns.
They visited Alice Paul in a Virginia prison in 1917, and assured her that her cause would triumph. Women would get everything they were asking. “And soon,” said Dave.
“I’d like to believe you,” she said. “We’ll see what happens.”
Shel ached to tell her what he knew, to take her out of there and show her what the future held. But he simply asked her to keep the faith.
After the visit, they moved several weeks upstream and watched the demonstration outside the White House that had provoked the arrests. A mob of angry men screaming insults at women carrying signs demanding the right to vote. Calling them pigs and traitors.
Shel just stared as one oversized guy had to be restrained by police from physically attacking Alice.
ARTHUR’S Camelot had an element of danger. But they decided to take a chance on it anyhow. They made several efforts but never found it. Nobody had ever established a precise geographical location for it, nor was there any certainty about the dates of its existence. For that matter, there was serious doubt whether it had existed at all. “If we could take a decent means of transportation back with us,” said Shel, “maybe we could nail it down. But trying to walk all over England isn’t a very efficient way to do this.”
It was while they were wandering around the British forests that Dave surprised him. “It’s good to be away from my classes. It’s one of the advantages of the converters. I can wander off for weeks and not even think about the next essay exam.”
“You don’t like your new classes?” It was September, both at home and here in Britain.
“It’s not the kids. They don’t change from year to year. And I shouldn’t expect them to arrive with unbridled enthusiasm. Instilling that is my job. It’s just—”
“What?”
“When you’ve been looking for Lancelot and Guinevere, declensions get pretty dull.” He stopped for a minute to listen to a scuffle in the branches. “This is going to be my last semester.”
“You’re going to quit?”
“I think so. The time has come.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’ve made some money at the track.”
“The horses? You’ve been playing the horses?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been downstream, reading the race results.”
“Once or twice.”
Dave looked as if he didn’t want to say any more. But he shrugged and plowed ahead. “Shel, I have an original oil, a hawk in flight, by N. C. Wyeth. It took everything I had to buy it, back in the twenties. But it’s priceless now. I have bids for it that are out of the world. I’m going to take some of what it sells for, go back, and pick up an abstract desert landscape by Georgia O’Keeffe. I’m going to become an art dealer.”
Shel didn’t like it. But he couldn’t see any harm. “Good luck,” he said, reluctantly.
Dave grinned, pleased that Shel had taken it so well. “There’s room for both of us,” he said.
“Thanks.” Shel didn’t really need the money.
They gave up on Camelot, and made the final stop on their grand tour, though neither knew it at the time, on the beach at Cape Kennedy, July 16, 1969, where they relaxed and watched the launch of Apollo 11.
And the subject came up again. “You know,” said Shel, when it was over and the applause had died down, “I like the idea of collecting art.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Michelangelo.”
“That’s a good place to start.”
“I mean, why bother with some relatively minor-l eague stuff when we could go get a portrait or something by him?”
“I’m with you.”
“He was only twenty-one when he first went to Rome.”
“And—?”
“Nobody knew yet what he co
uld do. We could pay a visit. Give him a commission. Let him do a sculpture for us. It wouldn’t cost much, and it would encourage him.” He paused and looked out to sea. A freighter was passing. “What do you think?”
“A sculpture of what?”
“I don’t know. Athena would be nice. Maybe we could have him do an Aphrodite, too. One for each of us.”
SHEL, in fact, had been spending time in Philadelphia, circa 2100. It was lovely, delicate, strong, beautiful. All the dire predictions of his own era had proven wrong. Yes, there were still problems, overpopulation primary among them. But world leaders had apparently long since gotten serious, and steps either had been, or were being, taken. Global warming was being brought under control, and the world’s nukes were gone. Famine still existed in spots but was not as widespread as people at the beginning of the century had feared. At home, the American dollar, eventually grown worthless after years of irresponsible fiscal policies, had been replaced, twenty to one, by “capital dollars.”
He was tempted to go farther afield, to find out what life would be like in the twenty-third century. Or in the fourth millennium. But in the end he decided to let it go.
A new skyscraper, the Claremont, would soon be going up. It was in Center City, with a magnific ent view of the new city hall and the Parkway. They weren’t taking reservations yet for condos, of course. But that was not a problem for Shel. He simply moved downstream a year and a half and secured a penthouse, which became his base. He furnished it lavishly, installed the best computer he could find, and bought a giant 3-V projection system. He spent more time there than he did in the town house.
He debated showing it to Dave. But that would mean explaining why he’d violated his assurances about traveling into the future. He knew Dave would say it was okay, forget it. But he’d conclude that Shel couldn’t be trusted. The future, for Dave, and maybe for both of them, was still a scary place.
Time Travelers Never Die Page 27