by Amy Saia
A few minutes later, Will pushed away from the table and quietly announced he was going upstairs, and I said the same thing I always said: “Don’t put me in your book!”
After he left, I lowered an unscrubbable plate and filled the sink to the top so everything could soak. I heard the sound of a door closing upstairs and waited another minute or two, all the while contemplating myself in the dark kitchen window. A young face stared back, one I both sympathized with and hated. I stuck my tongue out at it before reaching into a corner cabinet for a pack of cigarettes.
Outside, the sky was clear with the stars pulsating like glitter. Brushing off a pile of leaves, fresh rejects from a large oak, I took one of the decrepit backyard loungers we’d bought at a garage sale and lit up. My thoughts turned to Jesse again. This time I was mad. Why should I suffer so much guilt over the whole thing? I didn’t ask him to sacrifice himself. I was the one who was supposed to be sacrificed. If Jesse had only told me about his plans, I would have ripped them apart right there on the spot, and he’d still be alive, and I’d be—
I took another drag.
The rhythmic sound of typing passed through a window above, and I paused to glance in its direction. I loved Will. I was married to Will. I had to keep reminding myself. No matter how many times I rewound and replayed, the ending would be the same. Will was the one I wanted, and I was lucky to be alive and smoking a cigarette. Jesse had done me a favor. The stupid idiot.
He’d hate my smoking, too. He’d tell me I was being stupid and childish, but he wouldn’t condemn it, only tease me about it. Can’t wait to see you with leather skin, Emma. That’ll be a great look.
Taking one last drag, I crushed the cigarette into a planter and hid it in the soil. Then I dropped a pile of mints into my mouth and chewed like crazy. Next in the ritual was to flip my hair over a million times until it smelled like crisp autumn air, not ashes. There. I’d done something rebellious and could be Superman’s perfect wife again. Actually, sometimes William was more like Clark Kent. Nope. Strike that. He was more like Ward Cleaver. A very sexy, yet annoying, Ward Cleaver.
I pushed off the lounger to go inside. Maybe I stood up too fast. Or maybe it was a lack of oxygen from one little cigarette. Whatever it was, the second I rose to my feet, a million black spots filled my vision, collecting, gelling into a dark mass. I remained perfectly still.
The spots grew. They met and gathered into a form. A human form. My heart raced. The stance, the height, the body shape. But it couldn’t be. There was no face, no eyes, only empty black.
Next thing I knew, I was coming to on the grass with a galaxy of stars shining down above me, scattering all the darkness.
From inside the house came the sounds of William. He was headed for the back door. He’d find me all laid out, because apparently I’d fainted, and it would only cause worry and concern. He’d ask what happened, and I couldn’t tell him what I’d seen. The form of Jesse’s body had appeared right before my eyes, a faceless vision, black as a raven. I scrambled to my knees and shoved the pack of cigarettes into the pocket of my jacket before he passed by the doorway.
“Everything okay?” Will asked, stopping to peek out for a moment. “What are you doing out here? I thought you’d be in bed.”
“Nothing. Everything’s fine.” A sudden anger filled me. Why did he always have to show up asking questions? Couldn’t I have any privacy? If he wasn’t trying to read my thoughts, he was asking me to tell him my every move. And it always seemed like I was doing something wrong. “Except, could you please not sneak up on me like that anymore?” I still wanted to be in the moment. Maybe the spots would have formed into something real. Something permanent. “I was trying to relax. It’s been a tough week.”
Will appeared taken aback. “I’m sorry. I just happened to see that you were out here.”
“You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“Won’t happen again.”
Getting to my feet, I said, “You don’t always have to agree with me. Just stop being so careless, that’s all.”
“Okay.”
I huffed out loud. “Why do you always agree with everything I say?”
“Because you’re right.”
“No, I’m not.”
Will stared at me for a long time. I saw him sniff at the air. “Have you been smoking, Emma? Is that why you’re acting so defensive?”
“No.” Geez. Liar.
Will leaned in the doorway, and I saw a moth fly past his shoulder into the house.
“You’re letting bugs in.”
He shrugged.
“Okay, I had one cigarette. I told you, it’s been a hard week.”
“How long?” he asked.
“What?”
“How long have you been smoking?”
Another moth flew in, and I envied it. Oh, to be a moth and not me. This wasn’t fun anymore. This marriage stuff was work, and I was turning out to be rotten at it, with piles of dishes and laundry, lies, and soup for dinner. Any day now, Will would ask for a divorce. Oh God, I’d wanted him so bad, but I didn’t understand anything about being someone’s wife. Especially Ward Cleaver’s.
What if he did ask for a divorce?
I missed Jesse, but I would die if I lost William.
Smiling coyly, I pulled the half-empty pack out of my pocket and handed it to him. “So what? I’m weak. A stupid, weak human. That’s why you love me, right?”
He wasn’t laughing. Will took the pack and lingered over its remnants. For a second, I thought he would pull one out and light up. His eyes held a kind of sparkle upon seeing them. Instead, he tapped the box on the doorframe a few times before tossing them into the kitchen trash. He turned to me. “I want you to live a very long time, Emma. Not just a few years. Not just a few decades. I understand what death is like, and I can’t stand the thought of you being gone. Do you understand?”
“Sure I do. I feel the same way about you.”
I walked up and put my arms around him. Will’s body was so warm; it made me safe and happy. His arms wrapped around me, too.
“Do you really mean that?” he asked. “You aren’t sorry we got married, are you?”
My head popped away from his chest, and the breath in my lungs stilled. “Of course not.”
“Because sometimes I worry that we should have waited. You’re so young, and—”
“We’re the same age!” I had to remind him of this on a weekly, sometimes daily, basis.
I caught my reflection in the blackened glass of the storm door. I did appear young. And he, even in his nineteen years, held a certain distinction betraying his real age. His inner age.
Sighing, I also noticed I was a long-haired hippie in ripped jeans and bare feet, while Will was all Brylcreemed hair and cuffed blue jeans. When I turned my chin up to kiss him, I said, “No. I never think about it.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.
He hesitated before meeting my lips with his. “Good.” And then his lips turned to liquid warmth.
We kissed for a while, and it cured everything, made me forget. His kisses were hot and determined. Electric. “It’s in the lips, too,” I said after a while, wincing and pulling away.
“Hmm.” He captured me again, but the shocks grew so strong I couldn’t go on.
“Stop,” I said, rubbing at my mouth.
“Damn.”
“This is crazy. Tell me again why this electric shock therapy of ours is a good thing?” I asked.
Will sighed. “It’s good because it means I can . . . that we can . . .”
“We can what?”
“I don’t know,” he said, with a hint of sadness.
An image crossed in my mind of him in a 1950s setup. Only it wasn’t a museum, it was real. He fit in, but the image I saw of me was all wrong. Coifed
hair, red lipstick, and a pillbox hat with a mesh veil.
“You want to go back,” I said, throat tightening. Him going back would be much worse than a divorce. No, William. No. Not you, too. I couldn’t lose both you and Jesse in my lifetime.
“Emma, it’s just a fantasy. Just something I dream about once in awhile.”
“You want to. That’s why the shocks are good.”
“I could never really do it.”
I rested my forehead against his. “No, William, you couldn’t. You’re here, in 1980, with me. And you can never go back.”
I felt pain radiate from him, like grief. It was so strong that my whole body began to seize up.
“I don’t really want to,” he lied. “It was just a passing thought.”
I kissed him, despite all the sizzling pain, and kept kissing until it numbed down. I wanted to make him appreciate how good things were now, here and now. This is what we had fought for, right? We were lucky to be alive, both of us. He wanted to revisit his time, but he couldn’t. I wanted Jesse to be alive, but it could never happen. We both wanted things that were impossible.
“Ready to go in?” William asked, pulling away. His eyes gazed into mine, and I knew he was bitterly disappointed. Kissing and making love in the present could never replace the idealistic fantasy of his past. And then I thought: He’ll never belong. I’ve brought him here, but he will never fit in, no matter what I do.
I slid a hand through his hair, through all the greasy Brylcreemed locks, and formulated new plans to help him accept present day. I wouldn’t stop; I would be tough and persistent. He would love 1980, and 1981, and 1982 . . . and all the years beyond.
I would make him.
Chapter 3
Monday came around too fast. I bit my tongue all morning while entering data into the TRS-80. Will seemed on edge, sorting out books and checking the new boxes of technical manuals which had come in. I pretended to ignore his old getup of cuffed Levi’s, blazer, button-up flannel shirt and greased hair, and gave a smile when he turned to me. How could I complain about someone so gorgeous? If he wanted to appear straight out of an old LIFE magazine, then so be it. He’d even worn his fedora, which I had stolen and momentarily placed on my head. I tipped it at him, and he cocked a grin.
His fantasies about going back in time? I had my own opinion on those and would tell him tonight. People couldn’t dream all day, or eat sugar all day, or make love all day, and he couldn’t fantasize about revisiting the past. It was one thing I could never allow. He was here, now, with me. It was okay if he found comfort in his museum-like office now and then. But nothing more.
I heard a commotion at the desk and glanced up to see a familiar face, but not necessarily a good one. It was the guy everyone referred to as “Weed” in my algebra class. He’d offered some to me once, and I had almost accepted. It would be like old times—Jesse and I in the record store back in Springvale. A night I couldn’t forget.
“Hey, man! I dig the clothes!” Weed reached across the checkout counter to knock William in the arm with an over-excited fist.
“Thanks. How may I help you?”
“I gotta check out this pile of books.” Weed slung an armload onto the counter. “Got a test tomorrow.” He leaned in and added with a whisper, “There’s a party coming up, but we lost our connections. You think you can score us a keg or two, maybe some harder stuff? With that getup you’re wearing, you look really official. I got the dough, but I never pass those stupid ID checks. What do you say?”
“I say . . . no.” Will grabbed the stack of books and worked on stamping their checkout cards, one by one.
“Oh, come on! Don’t let me down.”
William was firm, yet friendly with his refusal. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t get you any liquor. It would be wrong. Why don’t you concentrate on passing these tests of yours instead of figuring out how to get drunk? Don’t waste your youth on cheap thrills.”
“Because I’ll need to get really drunk after I take these stupid tests. Come on, man, you’re the same age as me. You get how it is.”
“Yes, I do, unfortunately. I remember well the mistakes of being young. Better watch out, because it’ll end quicker than you think.”
Weed stood there in disbelief. He looked at me for help, but I lowered the fedora over my eyes and waited for him to grab his books and walk off. When I peered under the brim he was still there, staring. “Hey,” he said, eyes lighting up, “I know you.”
I vigorously shook my head and mouthed the word “no.” No, you don’t know me. Not in front of Will, that is. Go away.
Weed frowned, grabbed his books, and left. William came over and knelt down next to me. “Are you hiding?”
“No.”
He popped the hat off my head and held it up to shield our faces. His lips met mine with a slow kiss. I’d gotten used to the sharp zaps and was really starting to like them again.
“Tell me what you were like when you were ‘young’ young,” I said, glad about Weed’s departure. The mere thought of Will finding out I had once gotten high filled me with guilt. I’d never told him about the night, or the ones before it. Those memories of Jesse were mine to keep—they were all I had.
“I was boring, just like I am now.”
“Sometimes you’re not very boring.”
He kissed me again, then accidentally lost hold of the fedora. It bounced out of his hands and rolled under the desk. Retrieving it with a quick swipe of the hand, he stood up and secured the hat over his head with a nice tip-down over the right eye for effect. “Let’s not talk about the old William.”
I stood up and slipped an arm into his, leaning up to his height. “Let’s do.”
He began to whistle distractedly, which meant he wasn’t going to spill a thing. Then all his thoughts locked up so it was impossible to get any memories out of him. “Maybe it’s too painful to talk about,” he finally said. “I’d love to go back and change things. Perhaps then I wouldn’t have to carry these memories that haunt me.”
My heart stopped like a train on a broken track. “You can’t change memories.”
“But I could fix them.”
I fell back against the counter. “No, William, you can’t.” My eyes pleaded. Then, finally, I said, “I want to speak to you about it tonight.”
Books dropped into the return box. They tumbled down into the bin with loud clatters, and Will bent over and reached inside to collect each one. “Talk?”
My mouth felt dry. Was it too late? Had he already made up his mind to go back, without me? But he couldn’t. It would be like cheating, and William wasn’t a cheater. He was a good, all-American boy in cuffed Levi’s.
And sometimes the way he talked, acted, and kissed was more like the past than the present.
¤ ¤ ¤
For an hour I stared at my sketchpad, willing myself to finish the outline of Jesse’s body I’d started on Friday. Cowboy Jim let out a long whistle. “Man. That is some thinkin’ you’re doin’ over there. Maybe you should give up on that one.”
“No, I have to do this. I have to.” I raised my pencil to sketch Jesse’s jaw. After a deep breath, I met charcoal to paper and curved it up to form his whole face. Then the hair. But not the eyes. Not yet. I spent a long time making his hair as authentic as I could; wild and shining with little tangles in spots. I remembered how often he used to comb his hand through it, especially when he was about to say something witty or when he thought he’d gotten my goat, which was almost always.
I sat back and stared. It was a like a ghost, with no face, no soul. Like the vision I’d seen Friday in the backyard. An empty human who should be there, but wasn’t. My throat ached, and then my head began to throb. I closed the pad and opened a smaller one to make abstract doodles with a black, felt-tip marker. Jim told me about the time hi
s daughter crawled into the horse stables when his wife was on a shopping trip. He talked on and on, and it worked to erase the thoughts running through my head, but not the ache. Five minutes before the end of class, I saw a familiar figure by the open classroom door. William.
“Hey, Jim, can you hold that story and finish it tomorrow?”
He glanced up and saw William standing there. “Sure thing, Blondie.”
I shoved my supplies into my assigned slot in the sorting wall before making my way to the doorway. “Hi.” Good lord, my husband was handsome. I caught a few girls in class stopping their projects to stare at him.
“Hi,” he said with a grin.
“You never come here.”
“Just wanted to see this teacher of yours. Was he rude to you today?”
“No.” Mr. Hershel hadn’t spoken to me at all; I figured he was still sore about the radio stunt I’d pulled on Friday. Peering over my shoulder, I saw how he watched us from his desk. When he saw me glance his way, he cleared his throat and picked up a magazine in an obvious attempt to appear busy. He casually flipped his long brown hair with a free hand, the same way Jesse would have. “Don’t you have a class to go to—all the way across campus?” I rubbed at a sudden stab of pain behind my right temple.
“That him?” Will asked.
“Yep.”
“Hmm.”
I zipped my backpack and pulled it to rest on one shoulder. “What about your class?” I repeated.
Tensely watching Mr. Hershel for another second, Will mumbled, “Oh, well, guess I’m going to be late.” He relaxed and stared down at me. “Another headache?”
“Yeah. Another.”
“Then let’s skip both our classes. I think we’ve earned it, don’t you?”
I agreed, skipping sounded like a great plan. It was Monday, and a whole week of work and school lay ahead in unending rigidity. Yes, skipping would be a good break, for once.