Remembrance of Things I Forgot: A Novel

by Bob Smith

  “I think we’ll meet again,” Junior deadpanned, which made me smile. It vanished when I faced Carol.

  “Will we meet again?”

  Carol gave a little shrug. “I honestly don’t know. I hope so. I don’t want to meet you next in hell.”

  Junior and I stared at her, confused by her last remark.

  “You’re gay, I’m a suicide, and according to the loving Roman Catholic Church we were brought up in that means we’ll end up downstairs.” Carol glanced at Cheney. “With him! That would be an everlasting punishment.”

  She avoided answering my question by joking. It seemed apparent that that characteristic family trait was impervious to being changed by any time traveler.

  “I need to know that you can do this.” I glanced at Junior also. “Both of you.”

  Junior didn’t say anything, but Carol said, “How do we know? How does anyone know what the future holds?”

  My face must have betrayed my doubt that we’d changed anything.

  “But there is one thing I know,” she said. “I know my brothers love me and would do anything to help me. Drive cross-country nonstop. Battle insane vice presidents.”

  “Travel through fucking time,” Junior added.

  They were right. I had no doubt that in the same situation my brothers, Kevin and Alan, would have done the same thing Junior and I did.

  She tipped the gun toward Young Dick. “And I want to live just so I can vote against this asshole twice. Tracking in mud on our new carpet.”

  Junior chuckled. “That sounds like something Mom would say.”

  Carol gave a hint of a smile. “It does.” She looked at me and said, “And I’ll never forget what you told me she said.”

  Junior pursed his lips. “I owe you an apology,” he said to me. “You’re not a loser. You did this. You made a vow to get this done and you followed through.”

  We were both moved by his statement, but like most men kept our feelings to ourselves as if we were hoarders whose heads were stuffed to the rafters with every emotion we’d ever owned.

  Carol rolled her eyes and sighed. “What he’s saying is that he’s proud to be you. Right?”

  “Yeah,” Junior answered.

  “Jesus, was that so hard? No wonder men die of heart attacks. You can’t even express nice feelings.”

  For the first time since Carol’s death, I felt a glimmer of optimism. It was like a lone firefly flashing on and off on a summer night. There wasn’t enough light to end the darkness, but it was exciting.

  “Thank you both for all your help,” I said. “Don’t forget what I told you. You’re both very special and can do anything. And I love you.”

  They both said, “I love you” back, although the sentimentality of the moment was undercut by having to profess our love in front of fifty soldiers and a power-mad congressman.

  “Do we have a deal?” Young Dick asked.

  “On one condition,” I responded, as I thought of something else that needed to be done. “When she gives you that gun, don’t give it back to her. Ever. Got that?”

  “It’s Dad’s,” Carol said.

  I just stared at her.

  “Oh,” she said, transfixed by the gun.

  Young Dick appeared to be relieved by my easy-to-comply-with demand. “No problem.”

  “Put down the gun,” I commanded. She reluctantly placed the weapon on the floor, and a soldier immediately bent down to retrieve it. The rest of the black ops picked up their weapons, and Cheney ordered them to get me out of the house.

  Outside was an army of soldiers. I could see people staring out their windows in the houses across the street and entire families standing in driveways or on front lawns. I had no doubt this would be topic A at the next meeting of the neighborhood watch group. A helicopter sat on the street and I was led to it. The pilot looked vaguely familiar, even though he wore a helmet and mirrored sunglasses that covered most of his face. Then I noticed his thick forearms, which were unmistakable. Taylor shook his head almost imperceptibly, and I pretended not to recognize him as I sat beside him. I’d been waiting to be rescued by Taylor and had begun to doubt it would ever happen. Dawn Powell was right. Seeing him unexpectedly again was a kick. I still loved Taylor.

  “Do you know how to fly this?” I whispered.

  “I’ve been taking lessons since you left.”

  “I’ve only been gone six days.”

  “You’ve been gone six months in our time.”

  I was confused. “We had a hard time tracking you down,” he explained. “But we can show up at any time in the past. So, what seems like one minute to you might be ten years to someone in the future.”

  The helicopter slowly lifted off the ground. I could see Carol and Junior down on the front lawn standing inside a circle of rifle-toting soldiers. The two of them waved to me.

  “How did you find me?”

  Taylor didn’t reply as we ascended, allowing us a view of the coast and the redwoods. He headed north past the Smith River, then landed in a field. He handed me a time travel bracelet and told me to put it on. Then he said, “Push the button on the underside on the count of three.”

  I did, and we reappeared in the living room of our apartment. It was disorienting to be back, and I stared at Taylor. We were both older, but the passage of time didn’t seem depressing any longer: it seemed commendable, as if every liver spot and wrinkle were medals and ribbons awarded for extraordinary valor. That fantasy lasted for all of five seconds, but it was encouraging while it persisted. Bartleby loped over, wagging his tail. While I petted him, he reminded me that a loving dog’s welcome never loses its potency.

  “Welcome back, John,” Taylor said before we hugged and kissed.

  I’d thought that once I was in the present again, my mind would immediately be flooded with all the new memories that Junior had experienced. But my memories were indistinct, almost as if my new set of memories had been laser-printed over my old memories, making everything illegible and difficult to make out. I only captured fleeting moments, an image, a taste, or a smell, but I wasn’t sure of their veracity. It seemed my father didn’t die of alcoholism but had died of a heart attack a few years after he would have died from drinking, but I wasn’t confident of either memory. And I recalled the cover of a graphic novel I’d written called In Time This Will Seem Funny about a group of time-traveling gay and lesbian superheroes. But I couldn’t remember the story, making me wonder if it was something real or something I once imagined. I could see several covers for Dark Cloud but sadly nothing after issue #6. There was also a horrifying memory of a drunken George W. Bush putting his mouth around my . . . I quickly tried to squelch that thought and pretend that it didn’t happen.

  I had a million questions, but the first thing I asked Taylor was: “Are you Republican? Do you support Bush and Cheney?”

  He glared at me. “Are you mental?” he asked. “I’ve never supported them.” I looked at him closely. He appeared to be genuinely insulted. But I thought, If he wasn’t a Republican, then why did he build a time machine for Bush and Cheney? Then it dawned on me. He built the time machine to give me a chance to save Carol. I gave him the hottest kiss we’d had in years.

  Then I reached inside my jacket and fished my cell phone out of the inside pocket. The cell phone that still had Carol’s number listed. I was impatient to know and afraid to find out. I sat down in a chair for a minute and looked over at Taylor. He nodded his head. I turned it on and waited for the screen to appear. I scrolled down and pressed “Contacts.” I quickly scrolled down to the Cs. There it was: Carol. No last name was required. There had been only one Carol in my life. I became so anxious that I almost dropped the phone and fumbled pressing her name before hitting talk. It rang three times before someone answered.

  “Hi, Groovy.”

  Acknowledgments

  The first person I want to thank is Michael Carroll, who read a time-travel short story I’d written and told me, “I think this should be
a novel.”

  I also want to thank all my friends who’ve given me invaluable advice and support: Christopher Bram, Draper Shreeve, Patrick Ryan, Fred Blair, David McConnell, Darrell Crawford, David Rakoff, Edmund White, Eddie Sarfaty, Court Stroud, Tim Miller, Alastair McCartney, Chris Shirley, Joe Radoccia, Brian Baxter, Jaffe Cohen, Maggie Cadman, Keith McDermott, Jackie Haught, Phyllis Bloom, Jeremy Adams, James Latus, John Arnold, Curt Bouton, Priscilla Gemmill, Elvira Kurt, Chloe Brushwood-Rose, Glenn Rosenblum, Mark Freeman, and especially Don Weise.

  Of course, every aspect of this story has been run past my go-to guy on story and everything else: Michael Zam.

  My editor Raphael Kadushin has been incredibly supportive and insightful. And I also want to thank the entire helpful and hardworking staff at the University of Wisconsin Press.

  My biggest thank you is reserved for my agent and friend Rob Weisbach. Without him, this book wouldn’t have happened.