My Troubles With Time

by Benson Grayson

  Peabody was too angry to desist. “I must protest!” she said. “I will take this to the Dean!”

  “You may see the Dean, if you wish,” Bolton said. “I have already explained to him that Maynard is invaluable to this department. If you feel that you cannot accept him as a tenured colleague, I will be happy to give you good recommendations in your search for another position.”

  Peabody started to argue further, then stopped. She angrily pushed past Bolton and strode out of the room. Standing, I moved to where the Chairman had turned to face Fielding. As Fielding started to say something, I thrust my hand forward and interrupted him.

  “Dr. Bolton,” I said, “I want to thank you for those kind things you said about me. I want you to know that I’ll do my best to make you and the Department proud to have me.”

  The Chairman shook my proffered red hand, trying his best to look pleased. “It’s silly of each of us driving to the airport tomorrow,” I continued. “Why don’t I pick you up in my car. We can take the same flight to Philadelphia and share the cab to our hotel. I might be able to give you a hand in getting your paper ready for the conference.”

  “Why that’s very kind of you, Maynard,” he answered. He looked at me carefully, trying to decide if I was sincere. I smiled, trying to look as though I was.

  “Oh, one thing more, sir,” I added. “You asked me to remind you to have Alan handle my classes for tomorrow.”

  As Bolton turned to Fielding, I waved goodbye left the room. Descending the stairs of Guggenheim Hall, I walked through the quadrangle, whistling. Several students turned to stare at me, surprised to see a member of the faculty in such obvious high spirits.

  Passing through the gate donated by the class of 1926, I turned and headed for my house, my mind filled with amazement at my sudden good fortune. A pitiful squeak interrupted my thoughts. I looked down. A tiny orange kitten was at my feet. It tried to rub against my shoes, falling in the process.

  I reached down and picked up the kitten, holding it next to my face. It purred even louder. “Little friend,” I said, “How would you like to come home with me?”

  Holding the kitten in my hand, I continued to pet it as I walked toward my house. Suddenly, I stopped, thinking of how Princess would maltreat the kitten. I was about to put it down when I recalled that I no longer had to worry about Princess.

  I began to whistle again as I covered the distance to my home. The kitten, quite at home in my hand, purred loudly and began to lick my thumb.

  Walking up the steps, I saw that the mail had been delivered. A thick envelope from the National Physics Society protruded from the letterbox. No doubt, I thought, it contains a scathing letter from the President of the National Physics Society.

  Earlier, the possibility of such a letter would have reduced me to tears. Now, the anger of the President of the National Physics Society struck me as less important than taking care of my new kitten. Leaving the mail in the letterbox, I entered my house and carried the kitten into the kitchen. I carefully put the kitten on the floor and gave it some milk in a saucer.

  As I watched it noisily drinking the milk, I wondered what I should name it. Ignorant of whether it was a male or female, I started to look, then remembered hearing that it was difficult for a casual observer to tell with a very young kitten.

  My dilemma was solved when I recalled that the English frequently name orange cats Cooper after a prominent maker of marmalade. “All right, Cooper,” I said aloud, “How do you like your name?”

  The kitten by now had licked the saucer clean. It walked to me, almost falling several times, and rubbed against my shoe.

  “Cooper it is, then,” I said, picking up the kitten and carrying it to my bedroom. I carefully placed the kitten on my bed and covered it with one of my old woolen sweaters. The kitten curled up in a ball, closed its eyes and fell asleep.

  Shutting the bedroom door behind me, I went downstairs and onto the porch, removing the mail from the letterbox. Other than the large envelope from the National Physics Society, my mail consisted of the usual assortment of bills and advertisements.

  I went back into the house and spread the mail on the kitchen table, opening the envelope from the National Physics Society. To my relief, it was a duplicate of the one I had received before my trip back to Pearl Harbor. This time, the despair I had experienced at the disappearance of the proof I had traveled to 1870 Paris and the destruction of my draft article proving the feasibility of time travel was replaced by elation. It would have been foolish, I now realized, to let others in on the secret of my discovery.

  I made myself some coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. When I finished, I decided to go over the paper I had prepared for Dr. Bolton to deliver in Philadelphia. Now that I had made myself his protégé, in a manner of speaking, it behooved me to make sure that no one could challenge the paper’s conclusions.

  When I finished the task, I recalled that I had never determined if my destruction of the Japanese carriers had changed the course of history. Rather than call up the reference librarian at the university library and ask what might appear to be a foolish question, I decided that the best means of satisfying my curiosity would be to consult my copy of the “World Almanac,” one of the few non-physics books I owned.

  I started to go to my study to look at the almanac when I remembered that I had left it in my laboratory in the garage. Passing through the kitchen, I went into my back yard and was heading toward the garage when I stopped short. The garage door, which I had carefully secured, was ajar!

  My first thought was that someone from the National Physics Society had accepted the reality of my invention of the time machine and, recognizing its potential value, had come to steal it. Taking care to avoid making a noise that might alert the intruder, I tiptoed to the garage and entered it.

  My suspicions were correct! Someone was bent over my time machine, examining it. I picked up a heavy wrench to use as a weapon when I realized that the intruder was a woman. The leather coat she wore was tight enough to reveal a beautiful figure. It ended several inches above her knees, with her shapely legs encased in high-heeled leather boots. From her long blond hair, which reached her shoulders, I gathered she was in her teens.

  I must have made some noise, because she became aware of my presence and turned to face me. I realized that I had been mistaken about her age. Her face indicated she was somewhat older than I had first thought, about thirty. She was strikingly beautiful, sexy, although not voluptuous in the way Joy was. Surprisingly, the dominant impression I had of her was not one of her beauty but of her extreme intelligence.

  “Are you Dr. Snodgrass?” she asked, her voice low and husky. She spoke English fluently, but with a slight accent I could not place.

  “Yes,” I answered. “And who might you be?”

  “Valentina Alexandrova Kupinski, the daughter of Professor Kupinski.” She directed her glance to the time machine. “I have traveled a great distance to find you. I believe you and I have a lot in common,” she said with a smile.

  “Indeed we do,” I said, returning her smile.

  I extended my hand to shake hers. Somehow I found myself raising her hand to my lips and kissing it.

  “Madame Kupinski,” I said, “I can think of nothing I would enjoy more than chatting with you. Why don’t we go to my house? We would be more comfortable there than in this garage.”

  She nodded her ascent. Taking her arm in mine, I led her out of the garage, carefully shutting the door behind us. We walked to the house, arm in arm. Looking at her face, I was acutely conscious of her beauty. I was, I realized with surprise, the most fortunate of individuals. And today, moreover, was the best day I ever had!

  Copyright 2011 by Benson Lee Grayson

  All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is coincidental.

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