by Dan Garmen
I didn't tell Amanda about any of this, nor did I tell her I made the decision, on the way back home, to leave Purdue, transfer, redshirt a year and then play my last year in college for Iowa. I decided I would do whatever was necessary to be near Molly, even if transferring meant being a walk-on and riding the bench all season, since Iowa probably wouldn't waste a scholarship on a one season player. None of that mattered though, because getting close to Molly, marrying her again and somehow resuming our life in this timeline was going to be my one and only goal.
I thought all of this through, and was in the process of figuring out how break up with Amanda, when a realization swept over me. There would be no Samantha in a life with Molly in this timeline. Sure, they could be a child or children, but no Samantha. Somehow, I knew any child we had wouldn't be the daughter I knew. I realized if I made a life here in this timeline with Molly, but not Samantha, the burden I alone would have to bear would be terrible, and it would be a burden I wouldn’t be able to live with. Alone in my apartment near campus, silently railing against the universe for the first time since returning to my own past, I cursed whoever or whatever had done this to me. I decided all of my “knowledge” of the future to be nothing but bullshit, I never traveled back from 2007, and I was the person I appeared to be to everyone around me. There weren't two Rich Girrards, only one, and it was me.
My first period of denial began.
I would never tell Amanda I had decided not to keep traveling this path and intended to try and reconnect with the life I'd had in 2007. Making that confession now would be devastating to her. I also didn't tell her any of this because though I'd been totally honest about never talking to Molly, saying I hadn’t seen her wasn’t completely true.
Amanda had seen her, too, but I couldn’t tell her about it, not because she would be jealous, but because this disclosure would throw my credibility and sanity back into considerable doubt.
On the front step of the house, Amanda looked away, shaking her head, the tears gone, but the anger had not even begun to abate. She stood up, and without saying anything, started walking toward the car.
“What?” I asked. “The Real Estate agent will be here in a few minutes,” I said.
Without responding, Amanda crossed the street and got into the front passenger seat of the car, clearly leaving me to tour the house alone. I considered my options on the front lawn of the house my father grew up in, as a white Ford Explorer pulled into the driveway.
The real estate agent had arrived.
He got out of the truck, a short, round, balding man in his 50s. Friendly looking, in a short-sleeved checked shirt with a tie knotted loosely enough to allow his top button to stay open. He held out his hand, introducing himself as John Wheldon, but informing me everyone called him “Jack”. In his hand he held nothing but keys, no briefcase, no folder. Not even a sheet of paper. I could tell from the phone number he worked out of Terre Haute, half an hour's drive away, and I felt a little guilty for bringing him all the way out here for this.
“So, Mr Girrard, what brings you to Belton?” Jack asked, glancing at my car, my wife visible in the front seat clearly not interested in the proceedings here.
“Call me Rich,” I replied, glancing back at the house. “Well, my father grew up in this house, and I thought I might want to get it back in the family,” I lied.
The real estate agent nodded, his eyebrows raised, but not smiling. He still seemed friendly, but didn't appear to be buying this. “To live here?” he asked. “Or investment?” He smiled a little ironic smile, at the thought of someone buying property in Belton, expecting its value to rise.
I smiled an ironic smile of my own, glancing at my wife in the car across the street. “That's exactly what my wife wants to know,” I said, seeing a possible path through Jack's doubt. “To be honest,” I said, lowering my voice to sound conspiratorial, “it's a kind of nostalgia thing. My family's scattered all over the country, and my job keeps me away for long periods of time. I've just been thinking about reacquiring roots.”
“What do you do for a living, Rich?” Jack asked.
“I’m a Naval Officer,” I answered. “Aviator. I'm a Bombardier/Navigator in A-6 Intruders.”
Jack's eyes went a little wide. “No KIDDING! Wow!” He said excitedly. I smiled and nodded, a little ashamed to be using my status as a commissioned officer in the Navy to cover bullshitting this gentleman.
“I was in the Corps,” Jack said eagerly, meaning he'd been a Marine. “Korea.” Then laughing, he added “You guys saved my ass a couple times!”
The A-6 first saw combat in the Korean conflict, most often serving up ground support for guys like Jack, ground pounding Marines besieged by attacking North Koreans and Chinese. By 1990, the Intruder was nearing the end of its service life, and we were all aware the coming struggle would probably be the last for our birds. Jack's reservations about my motivations for viewing the house had evaporated as our common culture, though separated by several decades of time, made him trust me implicitly. This made me even more ashamed of my actions, and I began running through the inventory of our liquid assets, thinking I might have to actually buy this house so I could sleep at night. Glancing over at the car in which Amanda sat, still immobile, the thought that I might need a place to live ran through my mind, too.
“Well, hell, you're here to see the house!” Jack said, flipping through his keys and starting toward the front door.
“I’ll be right behind you, Jack,” I said, as I turned to go and try to coax Amanda out of the car.
I walked around behind the rental and up onto the sidewalk, to talk to my wife. She had the window open and still stared off into the distance, ignoring me.
“Amanda, honey, I know you're upset. Please come into the house. The real estate agent's name is Jack Wheldon, and I need you to keep him busy as we're leaving, so I can slip away and unlock the back door.” I held my breath as I waited for her response.
After a few seconds of excruciating silent, still not talking, Amanda opened the car door and got out. We walked to the front door of the house, which Jack, now smiling broadly, held open for us. I'd only been in the house the one time, in 2007. When I was here as a child, ownership of the property had passed outside the family, to people we didn’t know. “The current owners did some very nice work, remodeling,” Jack narrated. “Nothing structural, mind you, but very nice.”
I nodded in appreciation. Jack was right, they had done a good job. The house appeared comfortable, homey, yet not at all dated. I looked over at Amanda, taking it all in as well, her face impassive. At least she had come in the house, I thought. As we walked through the kitchen, then the laundry room at the back of the house, and I made the decision to unlock that door before we left. As we completed the circuit, Jack nodded toward a door obviously leading to a stairwell, “There’s a basement,” he said, nodding toward a door that led to the stairs.
I acted surprised. “Oh! Yea, I remember my Dad telling me about them digging it after the house was built.”
“Really?” Jack asked. “How'd they do that?”
“Horses,” I answered, opening the door down to the basement. “They dredged the earth from underneath the house with big blade shovels pulled by horses, and carted it away.”
Jack, impressed, answered “Boy, that must have been quite an operation,” he said.
I nodded in agreement, starting down the steps to the basement, Jack following me as we descended on the narrow, unfinished wooden steps into the dark basement. By the light coming down from upstairs, a switch was visible, so I flipped it on, and a single light came on, illuminating the room. About half finished, with some exposed studs marking off a section of the room, it seemed as if someone had intended to create a separate space in the corner, but abandoned the project halfway through. The beams were still exposed, and located the center post in the middle of the room. A little thrill went through me as I realized the basement looked exactly as I remembered it from 2007,
17 years in the future.
Having seen what I needed to, I nodded and headed back to the stairway. Jack turned and started back up the stairs ahead of me. We reached the top, to find Amanda looking out the front window, her face still impassive. I was making a little progress, but this situation didn’t look good. My decision to tell her all of this had been a mistake, and I again berated myself for letting slip what I did at the restaurant.
Amanda turned to face us when the door to the basement shut, and asked Jack about what school a child living here would attend. As the real estate agent explained the county school system, I made another circuit of the living room, dining room, kitchen area, flicking the lock on the back door as I passed, unlocking it. When I returned to the living room, Amanda was nodding at the answer about the school situation, and I indicated to Jack that I had all the information I needed. We all three walked out the front door of the house, Jack not checking to make sure all the doors were locked.
Bingo.
Amanda and I said our goodbyes to Jack, promising to think about the house and to stay in touch. When we had parted, he shook my hand warmly and told me to “be careful” in the coming months. I smiled and said it'd be a “piece of cake.” Jack laughed as he started his Explorer, saying, “Don't be coy with me, young man. I know where that phrase comes from!”
Amanda stayed silent, not saying more than she had to the rest of the afternoon. We left Belton and drove to an even smaller town, an intersection of two highways, really, where four businesses in the town each occupied a corner. A combination post office, general store sat on one, a farm implement dealer another, a Tasty Freeze ice cream shop on the third, and a diner on the fourth, the restaurant’s specialty catfish pulled from the nearby lake, filleted and deep fried. We both ordered the special when we sat down. The dining room was one big, undivided area, almost full of customers and loud this evening. I don't think I'd ever seen Amanda this solemn and upset. The catfish tasted as delicious as I remembered, but dinner still left me with a dark, ominous feeling.
After dinner, I paid the check and we walked out into the twilight. The dark of night had arrived 30 minutes ago, so we started the return trip to the house. Amanda still refused to speak to me, instead, looking out the window of the car into the night. I had been so sure I'd figured a way out of this, coming here, somehow getting the coin hidden in the beam at my father's boyhood home and proving to Amanda I had told her the truth, but hadn't counted on the anger caused by my keeping this thing a secret for so long. What a mess. But, first things first, and as I braked the rental car to a stop across from the house, I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer the coin would be the first step in Amanda forgiving me for...What? Having the opportunity to do things differently and making the choice to be with her this time? I felt myself smile slightly as I realized no matter how many times I lived through these years, I'd never understand women.
I shut the car off and looked at Amanda, sitting next to me, a streetlight casting some shadows from half a block away. My wife looked back at me, her expression neutral. She wasn’t about to get out of the car again, so I sighed, reached into the back seat, retrieved the flashlight, screwdriver and pocket knife, all of which I'd purchased at a convenience store before dinner. I got out, shut the car door as quietly as possible, and crossed the street, heading around to the side door of the house, toward the door I'd unlocked before we left.
I breathed a sigh of relief as the door opened easily, and slipped in. Enough light shone in from the outside, so I didn't need the flashlight until I opened the door to the basement. I switched the basement light on, pulling the door shut behind me, and walked down the stairs. I didn't want to waste time, and walked to where the beam intersected the post in the middle of the basement. This should be easy, and I wanted to get the coin out of the beam and get the hell out of the house.
When I reached the beam, I could tell something wasn't right. There was no evidence of a compartment cut into the beam at all. Puzzled, I shined the flashlight at the place where the beam should have a section cut out and replaced, but the wood was solid. I didn’t understand. What the hell? This was the same house, the same basement, and between the time when my Grandfather put the coin in the beam in 1933 and when Annie and Liz made their discovery in 2007. I reversed the screwdriver, tapping the beam, listening for the hollowness indicating where the wood wasn't solid.
I couldn't find it.
What the hell?
The realization hit me all of a sudden. There was no coin here. My Grandfather had never put a gold coin in the beam of this house, because in this timeline, I won't travel from 2007 to 1933 to meet him.
Why wouldn't I? What would happen that would...
Oh, I thought, remembering talking to Thelma, almost 24 hours ago. I will die before I have the opportunity to travel back to 1933 in this timeline.
Shit.
Amanda.
I turned and took the basement steps two at a time, emerging on the ground floor. After crossing the kitchen, I opened the door to the outside, pressed and turned the lock before pulling the door shut. Within a few seconds, I was climbing back into the car, start the engine and pulling away from the curb. When we reached the edge of town, I turned to meet Amanda's eyes in the car.
“The coin wasn’t there,” I said.
She nodded, raising her eyebrows as if to say, No kidding.
“Obviously, this time, things are different. I don't travel from 2007 to 1933,” I continued, trying to sound confident, like I knew what the hell I was talking about.
“Clearly,” she replied.
What the hell to do? How was I going to get control of this situation? Not coming up with a simple answer, I elected to remain quiet as we drove into the night toward Indianapolis. Amanda did the same, at least for a while. Then, all at once, for the first time in several hours, my wife decided she wanted to talk about this.
We drove on I-70, because I had figured traveling back to Indy on the interstate was safer than on two-lane highways at night in the dark.
“I want you to tell me what's going on,” Amanda began. “No more talk about time travel, being 45 years old and waking up one morning 17 again. You're not old enough for a mid-life crisis, so that can’t be it. If another woman is involved, tell me now and we'll deal with.”
She paused for a couple seconds, but the time to talk to her hadn’t arrived yet. Why did women always assume another woman was involved? The Swordsmen have squadron story, probably apocryphal, about a crew that ejected after a catastrophic engine failure over Puget Sound. Navy SAR (Search and Rescue) fished them out and brought them in. Their wives were waiting when they stepped off the helicopter and both said at the same time “Who is she? What's her name?” We all know the story was made up, a joke, but it illustrated one of life’s truths.
Amanda continued. “I just don't understand. I don't think you're crazy, but this time travel thing…. But I can’t explain how you could know all these things.” She started to cry, more out of frustration, I knew, than anything else.
I sighed. “Sweetheart, I've told you everything. It's the truth”
More silence. I considered telling her about Walter, about his research, but decided bringing him into this would be grossly unfair. If this would somehow get “official,” I wouldn't want to end my friend's career over this.
Except for my wife’s soft sobbing, more silence. After a few minutes, Amanda had gotten her emotions under control and said, “The boys and I won't be going back to Whidbey with you. We're going to stay here for a few weeks.”
“What?” I asked, dumfounded. “Why?” This was a difficult situation, and believe me, I silently cursed myself for leaving those “future journals” in my desk and not being more careful talking to Dennis the night before, but had I really done something to justify the breakup of my family?
“Rich, I don't know what to make of all this. It's so weird and unbelievable.” Amanda looked at me with eyes that were sad, but reflecte
d a mind made up.
'Okay. Fine. I'll fly back home after Thelma's funeral tomorrow. You stay here at your Mom and Dad's,' I replied, trying to be reassuring and non-threatening. “What about Aaron's school?”
“I’ll figure it out,” she said.
We drove the rest of the way to Amanda's parents without saying a word.Arriving, we got out of the car, walked, exhausted, to the front door, and let ourselves in. We both checked in on the boys, kissed Aaron and Michael on the forehead and went to bed ourselves. Amanda fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, but I lay awake, thinking about everything that had happened today, and what the next few months would bring. I vowed to do everything possible to reassure my wife I was a sane and faithful husband, go fight in the war, come back to my family and continue this life. Whatever it took, I would do the right thing for my family. I would always do the right thing, no matter which timeline I inhabited.
Empty beer bottles sat in front of us on the coffee table between Pat and I in his den on Whidbey. Only two were mine, as I’d never been much of a drinker, but Patrick Maney was a different story. He had four empties to his credit, another in his hand. I’d lost my taste for the stuff tonight. "I really didn’t know you guys were having problems," my best friend offered again, clearly looking for more information than I’d given him so far.
"Old thing," I lied. "Stupid misunderstanding," I added, hoping to marginalize the problem so he wouldn’t ask me any more. Message apparently received, Pat gave up trying to get the real story.
“You need to bunk in here when Amanda comes back?" He asked. Amanda had called early today and we’d talked. Her attitude toward me had been cooler than I would have imagined, just a week ago, but she still believed there was more to this whole thing than I was telling her. Right, the “simple explanation” involving time travel. Who could blame her? She was coming back in two days, on Saturday, and thought it would be a good idea for me to be sleeping elsewhere while we sort this out. I’d asked her when we were supposed to do that, since the squadron deployment date could be any day now. She didn’t have an answer to that question, and the conversation got even more tense.