Mr. Cameron picks up items from a roll top desk with his free left hand, but upon seeing that the waste paper basket next to the desk is already full, simply sets them back down. He looks at us, and then gestures to follow him. “Why don't we go in here.” He leads the way into an adjacent room. "Less of a disaster."
We follow him into a spacious living area lined with floor to ceiling wooden bookshelves. Around the room, various comfortable looking armchairs and two love seats sit at right angles to one another. The seating surrounds a wooden table with a map of the world painted on it. I like the room immediately. It feels warm and comfortable. In the corner of the room is a birdcage, housing a pair of green parrots. The birds are chirping to one another and pay us little attention.
Robbie walks around the room in a state of nostalgia, looking at things he hasn’t laid eyes on in years. I find myself just as interested. Odd knickknacks are interspersed on the shelves among the books and all the objects look as though they have a story to tell. An ornate saber hangs on a hook with a copper hunting horn. There is a Mason jar of wooden dice and bucket of used wine corks. A wooden longbow leans on a collection of the works of Rudyard Kipling.
Looks like he’s had some adventures.
Mr. Cameron works his way to a high-backed leather armchair that has been turned to face the windows. He drags it toward the circle of other chairs and sits. He gestures to us to take seats, and we do, keeping our eyes on him as best we can, despite all there is to look at in the room.
"I’m sorry the place is not more ready to entertain," Mr. Cameron begins. "I’m afraid I haven’t been keeping it up to the usual standards. My wife passed away recently and I’ve not had the interest in maintaining the place as I once did. Call it a deficit of motivation if you will.” He smiles wanly and then continues. "So tell me more about how I may be of service. You’re a long way from home it seems."
"Well, yes and no," I answer. "We all live in St. Pete, but we can't really go home . . . we’re about twenty-three years early, so some of us wouldn’t be here yet, and some of us are from here, but are already here I imagine, so are sort of in a weird situation."
"We’re all in a weird situation," Francesca laughs nervously.
"Do you mind if I ask how you all found yourselves in this predicament?" Mr. Cameron asks. “Your explanation of your circumstances was a bit beyond me.”
"We’re still trying to figure that out ourselves,” Robbie says.
"There was a lightning storm and we got electrocuted,” Francesca says. "It burned a hole in my pants."
"Oh dear!" Mr. Cameron replies. "Are you in need of medical attention?"
"We’d thought about going to the hospital to get checked out but we hadn't made it that far yet. That was before we figured out where we were. The time travel thing sort of trumped all our other problems,” Robbie says. "But I think we’re okay. I know we got burned a little here and there but I don't think we’re in real trouble. At least I'm not. I don't know about you guys."
The rest of us express the same feelings, so Mr. Cameron continues. "So your main concern is that you find yourselves displaced, and are, I'm sure, looking for some kind of solution to the problem."
“We’re not sure where to start,” I say. “The whole situation is throwing us. We don’t really have a good explanation for what’s happening.”
Mr. Cameron nods. "While I’ve seen my fair share of Star Trek episodes, I’m afraid I’m not very knowledgeable about time travel, but I do know a thing or two about being in need of a place to stay, and I feel I would be a poor excuse for a human being if I did not at least offer you my hospitality in that area. You can see that I have more house here than I really need, and with my wife gone, all the space in here is downright dreadful."
"We’d really appreciate that,” Francesca says.
"It’s my pleasure," Mr. Cameron replies. "Besides, it appears I suddenly have an adult grandchild in my house, which is a rare and unexpected treat.” He looks at Robbie as he says this.
They have the same eyes.
“With all the people who have come knocking on my door of late to check up on me, I’ve been used to visitors, but you all are certainly the last thing I would have expected. I probably ought to have my head examined for even letting you in the door with a story like yours, but it’s pretty hard to argue with the truth staring you in the face.” He considers Robbie some more. “I remember your dad at your age. I don’t know if you’ve seen any photographs of your dad then, Robbie, but he was quite athletic too. Middle age got the better of him around the time you were born, but that happens to the best of us I suppose. How is our lovely family doing in the future?"
"Good,” Robbie replies slowly. "Really good. Everybody is pretty happy.” He suddenly looks uncomfortable talking about the subject with his grandfather.
"You said when you came in that you ‘remembered me from when you were a child.’ I take it I’m not featuring in our family's doings much in 2009.”
Robbie shifts in his seat and starts to speak, but stops himself.
"That’s all right," Mr. Cameron continues, "Unless the police finally catch up to me for all those banks I robbed and put me away,”—He winks at Francesca as he says this—"I shall assume I’m simply among the departed in 2009. It's okay,” he continues, looking at Robbie now. "We old people don't mind talking about death as much as you young people think we do. It’s a rather unavoidable topic at our age."
He doesn’t seem all that old to me. Mid-sixties maybe? I wonder what his wife died from?
Robbie relaxes a little but still seems unsure of where to take the conversation next. Mr. Cameron diverts into another topic however and it turns out he doesn't have to worry about it further. "Why don't you all tell me a little about yourselves? I’ve never met any time travelers before and I feel you must be tremendously interesting people.” He smiles and folds his hands in his lap, awaiting our responses.
"Um, I'm Francesca,” she starts. "I’m twenty-six and I work at a bank and . . . my family is from Cuba. Um, I don't really know what else. I have a cat named Toby. I’m feeling very awkward about having a hole burned in my pants."
"Wonderful!" Mr. Cameron exclaims, smiling at her candor. "And how about you gentlemen?"
"I'm Benjamin," I begin. “My family is all from Oregon. I work on boats at a marina and sometimes do boat sales. I’m pretty terrible at selling things, so it's not that great of a job, but it gets me on the water. These guys are pretty much my best friends." I look around at the others as I say this, realizing that there could be far worse people to be stuck in this situation with. "This is also my first time time traveling. It's been pretty interesting so far." I smile and stop talking.
“And all of you are friends with my Robbie here?” Mr. Cameron asks.
“Yeah, I actually grew up playing soccer with Robbie,” Carson says.
“We three went to high school together,” Francesca adds.
“Now we all play softball together,” Robbie says. “At least that was what we were trying to do when we ended up here.”
“You got here from playing softball?” Mr. Cameron raises his eyebrows.
“There was a storm and a power line hit our dugout. That must have had something to do with it. We don’t really know what happened. We just know that we were playing softball last night and we woke up here this afternoon.”
“It’s very fortunate you are okay,” Mr. Cameron says. “I was shocked once pretty badly in my younger days and I know it can be very scary. Nothing to the scale of a power line however.” He looks around at all of our faces. “I’m sorry that you are dealing with all of this, but I’ve learned over the years that while life is not always predictable or necessarily enjoyable, it certainly holds no lack of surprises.”
Mr. Cameron stands up slowly and smiles. “I feel I’m in for a treat having you fine young people as guests. I don’t feel at all that you are here to rob me. Why don't I give you the nickel tour?"
We
follow him out a side door different than the one we came in. We walk through a hallway that leads off of the front door and contains a collection of framed art. Most of them are impressionistic landscapes but I spot one Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post cover mixed in. The hall doesn’t receive any comment from Mr. Cameron and we proceed through it into another room, slightly smaller than the one we’ve just left.
"This was my wife Abby's sewing room," Mr. Cameron explains. There is a wooden spinning wheel with a stool and pictures of family members hanging on the walls. A quilt is draped over the back of a couch and there are a couple of armchairs facing a TV.
"Hey, is this you, Robbie?" Carson is looking at a group photo of Robbie's family.
"Oh, look at your mom!" Francesca exclaims. "Check out how young everybody looks. Your mom's hair is great."
"Wow, you were goofy looking back then too, eh Robbie?" I smile at the photo of the brown haired four-year-old.
"That was your family Christmas photo this year,” Mr. Cameron says. He looks at Robbie and back to the picture. "It’s fascinating. I can’t say as I understand a bit of this situation but it’s certainly remarkable. Don’t know how anyone will ever believe me. Probably say I’ve gone off my rocker.” He pokes Robbie in the shoulder with his index finger as if checking to see if he’s a hallucination. “But there you are.”
He seems really intrigued with Robbie. I guess I would be too if someone showed up at my door claiming to be my grandson.
Robbie smiles and then continues to follow his grandfather, who walks to the far side of the room. Mr. Cameron leads us up a wooden staircase into an upstairs hall. "This door leads to the roof.” He raps his knuckles on the left hand door closest to him. He then shows us each of the three bedrooms along the right. "You can put yourselves up in here if you like.” He points out the various beds in the rooms. "These two rooms share a bathroom you can use. I’m sure you can find some towels and such if you need them. There are twin beds in the middle bedroom, but I guess one of you may have to camp on the couch downstairs, as I think we’re going to be one bed short."
"That won't be a problem,” I say. "We’re happy to have anything really."
"Yes, this is incredibly nice of you,” Francesca adds.
"It really is my pleasure.” Mr. Cameron leads us down the hall to the glass door at the end. He points to the wooden door to the left before opening the glass door. "That's me."
The veranda overlooks the backyard and the path we walked to the house. A number of wooden chairs surround a circular table with a pot of geraniums on it. We spread out along the railing, taking in the yard and its lush landscaping.
“You have a really beautiful home,” Francesca says.
“Thank you,” Mr. Cameron replies. “Abby and I always took a lot of pride in it.” He looks out over the yard and his eyes grow slowly moist. I try to think of a way to change the subject politely but I can’t think of anything about the house that wouldn’t relate to the late Mrs. Cameron. Mr. Cameron straightens up and exhales a deep breath, brushing his hand under his eye to wipe away the beginnings of a tear. “Are you all hungry? I was going to fix myself something in a bit.”
“We actually ate recently,” I reply. “But we’ll definitely join you if you like.”
“Wonderful,” Mr. Cameron says, still looking at the yard as if trying to avoid our eyes. “If you’ll make yourselves at home, I’m going to get started on that.” He smiles at us quickly, and then turns back into the hall. “Come down when you’re ready. Come along, Spartacus.”
Spartacus follows his master with his tail wagging. Mr. Cameron holds the door open long enough for the dog to follow him through, and closes it behind him.
The five of us make a semi-circle along the railing.
“Your grandfather is really sweet, Robbie,” Francesca says.
“I wish he wasn’t so sad,” Robbie responds. “I feel like I’m interrupting him somehow, like I’m invading his grief.”
“He seems happy to see you,” Francesca says.
“Yeah, he seems very interested in you,” Carson slouches against the railing. “It’s great that he’s up for letting us stay here. I think he took the whole time travel thing really well.”
“Yeah, I was worried he’d never let us in after I finally got that out. How long do you think we’ll have to stay?” Robbie asks.
“Yeah, what exactly is our plan here?” Blake inquires. “How is this helping our situation? We’re in 1985. We don’t have any money. No one is going to know who we are. We don’t have any I.D. or even know how we got here. We’re seriously screwed.”
I realize that the four of them are looking to me for a response. I don’t feel especially qualified to be making any decisions. The walk here has mostly just been putting one foot in front of the other and trying not to flip out.
I step away from the railing and straighten up. “I think we should spend the night and see how things look in the morning. Maybe we can look for someone to help us. They have that Time Society group here supposedly, according to that newscast. Someone has to know something about this stuff. We’ll find them and maybe there’s a way we can sort this mess out.”
“We should have another look around the softball field too,” Carson suggests. “Maybe whatever happened, is going to happen again, and we can see how it works.”
“Could be possible I guess,” I say.
“I need to buy a toothbrush,” Robbie says.
“I need to buy some pants,” Francesca adds.
“I need to get something other than cleats to walk around in.” Carson looks down at the dirty softball cleats on his feet.
“Yeah, me too.” Blake swats at a bug that’s attempting to land in his scruffy facial hair.
“We’re going to be out of money in a hurry,” I say. “We’ll have to figure that out soon. For now, lets go down and hang out with Mr. Cameron and see how that goes. Then maybe after, we can walk down to a drug store and pick some things up.”
The other four agree and Carson leads the way through the door, trying to walk gingerly so as not to scratch the hardwood floor with his plastic cleats.
“Maybe you should just take them off,” Francesca suggests. Blake and Carson both stop and begin removing their cleats.
Robbie gets a whiff of a slightly singed foot smell and backs up. “Maybe you should just leave them on.”
"Oh shut up," Carson retorts. "It's not that bad."
Dinner with Mr. Cameron is rather subdued. It turns out he made extra helpings of chicken and rice for us, so we help ourselves in spite of our recent meal. We sit around the table and tell him about our lives and doings in 2009. Mr. Cameron listens politely to our conversation and asks questions, but after a few of Carson’s anecdotes about Carson and Robbie getting into trouble together in college, he lapses into silence.
We likewise concentrate on our chicken for a bit and cast periodic glances at one another. I accidentally drown my asparagus in gravy from the tureen and almost make a joke about it, but stop myself, unsure of how best to break the silence. We help clear the dishes after the meal and Mr. Cameron tells us the location of the nearest drug store. Blake and Carson opt to stay behind rather than don their softball cleats again for the walk. Robbie also decides to stay at the house. Francesca and I promise to do our best to retrieve the items they need for them, and once the dishes are all put away, make our way to the back door. Spartacus follows us.
"Is it all right if we take Spartacus with us?" Francesca inquires.
"Oh, of course. You'll be his new best friend," Mr. Cameron replies. "His leash is hanging on a hook on the back steps."
“Do you happen to have a jacket or a sweater I could borrow?” Francesca asks.
“Oh yes, I could find something of Abby’s in her closet perhaps, or if you want to use my windbreaker, it’s on the back porch too,” Mr. Cameron replies.
“That would be fine.” Francesca is elated to find that the jacket is long enough to cover t
he burn hole in her pants. Spartacus bounds to her with his tail wagging and positions himself at the screen door of the porch. Francesca fastens the leash and Spartacus bolts through the opening as soon as he can fit. He’s in a state of bliss, sniffing the flowerbed and a garden hose before Francesca and I even make it out the door.
The walk to the drugstore would’ve only taken a few minutes, but the journey is punctuated by detours through hedges and around a particularly odoriferous set of trashcans. Upon reaching the store, I hold on to Spartacus while Francesca goes inside to grab the items we need. A movie poster for Beverly Hills Cop is hanging in the window, and I’m reading through the cast, when my attention is diverted by three police cruisers racing past with their sirens on.
As I lean down to calm Spartacus, who is barking at the sirens, a fourth police cruiser pulls into the parking lot. Driving slowly, the officer eyes me briefly before pulling into a position near the entrance. He remains in the squad car and transmits on the radio.
The police car makes me nervous, though I can’t think of a valid reason why. I casually play with Spartacus, who has decided to chew on his leash to pass the time. In a few minutes Francesca comes out of the store with a bag.
“I found some cheap flip-flops in a bargain bin for Carson and Blake, and I got us all toothbrushes, but they didn’t have any shorts or anything. I’m going to have to find a clothing store . . .” She catches me eying the police car again. “What’s going on?” She looks over and sees the middle-aged officer watching us.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “I think we should get back to the house. Come on, fuzzball.” I give Spartacus’ leash a tug.
“Is something up with officer mustache over there?” Francesca asks as we take to the sidewalk.
In Times Like These: eBook Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 4