Time Flying

by Dan Garmen

  Thelma ended the discussion with “Well, drop one of those bombs right on Saddam's head, would you, child?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  Driving back to Amanda's parents' house, I realized I hadn’t been surprised when Thelma told me what brought her back to her own timeline. Just like in the four cases Walter found, dying ended her time travel experience. I started wondering if I would have the time to go to Belton to test something I had been thinking about. We were only in Indiana for a week, but the town my father grew up in was a little over an hour away from the West side of Indianapolis, and I figured I could find the time to go. For the first time in a long time, I found myself thinking about the letter from my Grandfather which had started all of this. Ever since the day I first talked with Thelma about what had happened to me, and she told me of her experience, I became more confident I would eventually return to 2007 and be able to resume my life, even though I had become more than a little attached to life in this timeline. Now, the certainty I would have to die to get back to 2007 disturbed me.

  I got back as dinner was being cleared away, the boys going up for baths. I had told them not to wait dinner for me, and Amanda, busy with Michael and Aaron's meal, had not eaten much. So, we decided to leave the baths to Gramma and Grampa and go out. I asked Amanda where she wanted to go, and she looked at me, head cocked to one side, a lopsided grin on her beautiful face. I smiled back and without waiting for any verbal response, said, “Get your coat on.”

  In the car on the way to the restaurant, I told Amanda about Thelma, how frail she appeared, but also how strong and sharp she sounded when I talked with her. But, despite the positives, I told Amanda Thelma didn’t have long. I talked with Darnell on the way out and he said the doctors had her on a lot of morphine, Pancreatic Cancer being one of the most insidious forms, progressing so fast and so silently, by the time they discovered cancer, it was almost always too late to do anything about it. We made plans to take the boys to see Thelma the next day. It occurred to me as we were talking I should have changed out of my uniform, but by the time I thought of it, Noble Roman’s Pizza came into sight, so I turned into the parking lot, found a space for the rented Town Car and parked.

  Noble Roman's Pizza remained much like we remembered. The design had been updated a few years before, but the layout appeared to be the same as when we were in high school. The pizza tasted as good, too, but the waitresses were so much younger. We followed the hostess as she led us toward the window seat she thought we would like, we passed by the table we sat at on the night Amanda and Steve argued after the events on the basketball court, sending her straight into my arms.

  Amanda stopped. “Can we sit here?” She asked.

  The hostess shrugged and said, “Sure,” laying the menus down on the table. Amanda sat down in the same seat she'd sat in when I made the speech which changed the path of our lives. I sat down in my seat and met the same smile that had been on her face that night. The smile that even 15 years later, still seemed to make everything in my world brighter and sharper.

  We ordered, and after our drinks came, Amanda looked at me and said, “You kissed me for the first time at this table.”

  “Hmmm…” I replied, considering her statement. “As I remember, you kissed me.” I theatrically appeared to consult the memory and then said, “Definitely. You were the one kissing me.”

  “Well, if I hadn't, where would we be?” She said in explanation.

  Boy, if she only knew the answer to that question, I thought. I felt a little remorse for hiding my time traveling “situation” from Amanda. I mean, it was the only thing I hid from her, but admitted to myself the “one thing” was pretty big. But how could I tell her about this? How to tell her about another life she was not a part of? A life and world where our boys didn't even exist? And if she even believed me, how to answer what her life is like in that timeline?

  So, I settled for the easy answer. “We wouldn't be here, sweetie, and I like it here, so thank you for kissing me.” I replied, reaching out to hold her hands across the table.

  “So do I,” she said.

  This time, I half stood to kiss her, which only seemed fair.

  “Well, goddamned deja-view,” a voice behind me bellowed. I sank back into my chair and turned to see a vaguely familiar face. The name came to me almost immediately, along with the realization his use of “deja-view” carried no irony at all. Whatever Nicky Collins had been doing these past 15 years, I was confident none of it involved libraries. His brother, Steve was an intelligent drunk. Nicky, on the other hand, was a stupid one. 50 pounds heavier than I remember him, a couple of days from a razor, with the somewhat dazed look of a man who hadn’t been sober for at least a day before he last shaved. I'm a veteran of more than a few shore-leave blowouts, and recognized an ambulatory drunk before me.

  I glanced back at Amanda, looking at Nicky like something unpleasant and somewhat smelly. Right on both counts.

  I didn't want to stand up to greet him, since in his inebriated state he might have interpreted it as an aggressive move. So, I smiled and said, “Hey Nicky! How the hell are you?”

  He swayed a little, glanced over at Amanda and said slowly and deliberately, “I’m doing GREAT. Making shitloads of money. I'm in Real Estate with my brother STEVE. Remember STEVE Amanda?”

  I glanced over at my wife, still looking at Nicky as though she'd smelled something bad, but didn't want to say anything. Several seconds passed as Nicky showed he intended to wait for Amanda's answer, she once again made me proud to be her husband, and the man she chose to spend her life with by replying “Not really.”

  I loved her answer.

  At first, Nicky appeared to be ready to blow his stack. His cheeks flushed red, and I prepared to jump up and put an end to this if he made a move toward Amanda, but a tiny bit of discretion pushed through the alcohol and he laughed, looking down at me. “Rich Girrard! Wow...What are you, in the Coast Guard? Great uniform!” Nicky laughed as he said it, in his mind emphasizing the sarcasm in his statement.

  “Navy, Nicky, and thanks,” I replied.

  “So, you're a SEAman, huh? A SEAMAN. You're SEA-MUN.” More laughter from the big man, as he got louder by the second. I noticed the people sitting at the tables around us looking at Nicky in much the same way Amanda still did.

  “That’s FUNNY, Nicky. Never heard that one before,” I said, thinking how fortunate it was for this dumbass that Pat wasn’t here. Nicky outweighed my best buddy and flying partner by at least a hundred pounds, but Pat would have had this overgrown pudge on the ground, begging for mercy by now. I’ve seen him do it before, most dramatically to a drunken, mouthy Marine in a Subic Bay dive bar on our last cruise. Nothing about the fight had been fair or pretty, and in truth, could have been characterized as “short and brutal.” We were out of the bar before any of the Marine's buddies got close, or the MPs from Ranger’s Shore Patrol arrived. Pat grew up the youngest of 6 Irish Catholic boys in the “Southie” section of Boston, and as such, didn’t spend his youth reading, he spent it surviving.

  When I knew Nicky Collins 15 years ago, his limitations were evident. No one expected him to end up curing cancer, solving any of Hilbert's Problems or even being able to support himself without breaking the law in some way. Sitting at Noble Roman's in Indianapolis in 1990, I realized how accurate off of our predictions had been.

  “No, Nicky, he's an officer,” another voice from behind me said, but I kept my eyes on the still swaying Nick Collins. Our new visitor continued, “And those gold wings mean he's an aviator, a flyer, who lands big jets on ships, sometimes at night. So, why don't you thank him for his service to our country, and go somewhere else. Maybe home to sleep it off.”

  Nicky had turned his head around to the left to regard the speaker who looked though familiar, once had a chance to glance at him. I recognized him from somewhere, but couldn’t place where. No one spoke for a few heartbeats, until Nicky grunted a short laugh, stepped back, and walking around
the bigger guy, left.

  We watched Nicky leave the restaurant, half weaving, half stalking out the door, and I stood up, held out my hand and said, “Thanks. The last thing we needed tonight was a problem with a drunk civilian.” It was clear to me this young man was military, either currently serving, or ex. His build suggested Marines, but the haircut and his use of the word “aviator” meant he knew the difference between the gold wings of an NFO (Naval Flight Officer) and those of a Pilot, so I guessed Navy.

  As I reached out and shook his hand, I said, “Rich Girrard, VA-145. I remember you from…” and then it hit me, “Ben Davis, right?”

  The man smiled, pleased to be recognized. “CPO Dennis Martin, sir. I'm a yellow-shirt on Big John…” he said, meaning he served as a sailor who directed the movements of aircraft on the deck of the carrier, in his case, CV-67, the USS John F. Kennedy, “But yeah, I...went to Ben Davis,” he explained, ducking his head a little in confirmation.

  “My wife and I were coming in and saw Nicky in his usual state, drunk and making friends.” Dennis continued, a somewhat rueful smile on his face, and shaking his head as he explained his interjection into the situation.

  “Well, again, thanks,” I said. “Why don't you join us?” I glanced over at Amanda, as she smiled and nodded.

  Dennis seemed a little uncomfortable. “Oh, I don't want to intrude, sir.” Officers and enlisted personnel socializing was fairly rare, and discouraged by the military, but despite my being in uniform, we were both on leave, and besides, knew each other before each of us joined the Navy.

  “You wouldn't be intruding,” I answered. “We're just out for a pizza without the kids.”

  “Well, okay. Thanks,” Dennis said, turning and waving his wife over.

  I had the feeling I'd met Dennis before, but couldn't think of the context. When his wife reached our table, we couldn’t help noticing she was pregnant, six months or so along, her face familiar to me as well.

  “Allison!” I heard Amanda exclaim as she jumped up, came around the table and hugged the girl. “Oh my goodness! Look at you!”

  Obviously, they had known each other. Dennis helped Allison into one of the chairs, and we all sat down, the big man not as uneasy now, concentrating his attention on his wife, who I learned had been on the High School Band drill team with Amanda, three years younger. My wife asked the usual questions, “When are you due?” “Boy or girl?” “Names?” But when the basic “pregnancy screening” questions were done, and Amanda had updated the couple on our boys, talk turned, as it always seems to do so, to the Navy.

  “Big John's in the Gulf already, isn't she?” I asked Dennis, surprised an experienced yellow-shirt would be on shore leave during a cruise, but I didn't want to ask, in case he'd had to come back for a bereavement leave. Even a death in the family, though, wouldn't guarantee a sailor could get home during a deployment. An aircraft carrier has a crew of somewhere around 5,000 people, and every single one of them did at least one important job, often two or three. A deployed ship have no “extras.”

  “Yes, sir, I broke my arm on our last WESTPAC and had a few complications, but I had another surgery…” Dennis stretched his left arm out and turned it over, palm up and down a couple times, “Good as new. I fly out to rejoin the ship next week, just in time for the fun,” he added with a wry smile, as the waitress stepped up to the table and took our pizza order, dropped off some drinks and left.

  “What about you, sir? VA-145 flys off Ranger, right?” Dennis asked.

  “Yea...We're heading out soon, I think.” I recognized both Dennis and his wife, but still, we had security drummed into our heads on a regular basis, so I didn't talk about anything someone couldn't learn by reading Navy Times.

  “Where are you going to have the baby?” Amanda asked Allison, since Dennis would be at sea when she gave birth.

  “With my folks. We live in Norfolk, but our families are all here in Indy, so…” Amanda and I both nodded. With both a baby and the war coming up, being with family was the right choice for everyone. More support for Allison and less worry for her husband, half a world away.

  “So how'd you break your arm, Chief?” I asked.

  “We were recovering a flight of Tomcats at night, and one had a hook problem after he caught his wire, but nobody got the word to the LSO bringing in the other one. By the time they realized the first bird was still on deck and called ‘bolter,' the leader had to firewall his throttles and drive off the side of the ship. I happened to be in the way, with no place to go but the catwalk over the side,” Dennis replied.

  A “bolter” is when an aircraft, for some reason, isn't going to be able to make a safe landing land on the deck, or if its tailhook misses all of the cables stretched across the deck of the ship to stop the jet. The relatively small flight deck of an aircraft carrier means the choreography of moving airplanes around has to be timed with precision, or things can quickly get very dangerous.

  “Big John was blue water, so they had to do the best they could onboard,” Dennis said, meaning when the accident happened, the ship was in the middle of the cruise, too far away from land to evac him to a better equipped medical facility. I nodded, appreciating the quick reaction this big guy had to make, and his courage, jumping off the side of an aircraft carrier, hoping to hit a narrow metal catwalk 12 feet or so down, or missing, ending up in the water at night.

  Dennis turned to Allison, smiled and hugged her with his right arm. “It could have been a LOT worse.”

  I nodded, remembering reading the incident report, no idea I had gone to high school with the yellow shirt involved. Most Air Wings stood down for a day to reevaluate and refresh deck operations and make sure the series of events leading up to the accident didn't happen to them. A similar accident had happened a few years before and a sailor, a green-shirt fuel handler, I think, lost his life. In both cases, the Pilot and RIO had been recovered with only minor injuries.

  A few minutes later, our pizza came and we ate, talking about Indy, changes to our hometown, and things that hadn't changed. Nobody said anything about Nicky, who Dennis had been acquainted with in high school, but I'm sure we all reflected on him as part of the latter group — things that hadn't changed. I realized Dennis and Allison had been two of those “nameless faces” belonging to people I'd gone to high school with, who I passed in the hallway almost every day, but had no idea of their names. I didn't think I'd ever had a conversation with either of them, until Dennis reminded we had.

  We were talking about Coach MacLaren, when Dennis said, “You know, I was there the day you passed out in the hallway.”

  I nodded, the memory of a much shorter and thinner Dennis and his underclassman friend standing over me in the hallway finally dropping into place in my head, satisfying the irritating feeling I knew him, but not able to place him. I replied with a laugh, “Well, I didn’t completely pass out.”

  The now big man frowned and said, “Yes sir, you did. You kind of went rubbery at the knees, fell against the lockers and slid down. I had to shake your shoulder for at least 10 seconds before you opened your eyes,” he said with confidence.

  I laughed. “Okay, I guess I passed out. I remember you being there. You were a lot shorter and skinnier then!”

  Dennis shrugged. “I had a big growth spurt my senior year, and started weight training. I tell you, that was a big day! Talking to Rich Girrard, and then Coach MacLaren came up to us and asked what happened. A pretty big day!”

  I smiled, a little embarrassed about being referred to as some kind of celebrity. “Yea, I remember it,” I said, looking away, thinking back, “It was my first day back here, and everything was...so strange…” I left off, glancing at Amanda, who had a puzzled expression on her face.

  Dennis and Allison were listening and curious about my choice of words, too, but not as intent as my wife. “I mean, I'd been sick for a couple days, and it was my first day back at school...I probably went back too soon.”

  They both accepted my exp
lanation, but by the expression on Amanda's face, she didn’t. Furious with myself for after all these years keeping the secret of what had happened to me, and how I came to be living 30 years in my past, slipping up and saying what I said.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  After good-naturedly arguing over the check and extracting a promise to send us a birth announcement, we said good-night to Dennis and Allison in the parking lot. Amanda hugged both of them, before Dennis threw me a quick but sharp salute. I returned it, and offered him a handshake as well, thanking him again for handling Nicky Collins so well. We wished each other well on our upcoming deployments and left.

  Amanda and I drove in silence for several minutes before she finally started talking.

  “Rich, we need to talk about something,” Amanda began. When I started to open my mouth to interrupt, she said, “No, let me finish.”

  I nodded, not saying anything.

  “I love you. You're the most wonderful father and husband I can imagine, and you've made me very, very happy.” Amanda paused, looking at me, waiting for my eyes to meet hers. “I love our life together,” she said.

  My attention returned to the road ahead, and I nodded.

  “I’m worried because I think something important is going on you’re not telling me about.”

  Again, I nodded, my eyes still on the road.

  “A few months ago, I was looking for some stamps, and found two notebooks in your desk. Hon, I wasn't snooping, really. But, I flipped through one of them and started reading. After a few minutes, I realized it was some sort of a journal with notes...about the future…”

  Amanda paused, obviously waiting for me to say something in response.

  “Yeah,” was the only thing I could think of to say.

  Amanda signed and continued. “If the dates are accurate, you wrote 5 years ago, about Iraq invading Kuwait, and according to the news, you’re going to be right.”