Time Travel Omnibus Volume 2, page 492
part #2 of Time Travel Series
He said, “Look, this is all nonsense. I don’t know how the fellow does it, but even granting it’s legitimate, you’re not being fair. Why stop where you did? Suppose I had married Georgette, do you suppose you would have stayed single? For all I know, you were already married at the time of my supposed wedding. Maybe that’s why I married Georgette.”
“I wasn’t married.”
“How do you know?”
“I would have been able to tell. I knew what my own thoughts were.”
“Then you would have been married within the next year.” Livvy grew angrier. The fact that a sane remnant within her clamored at the unreason of her anger did not soothe her. It irritated her further, instead. She said, “And if I did, it would be no business of yours, certainly.”
“Of course it wouldn’t. But it would make the point that in the world of reality we can’t be held responsible for the ‘what ifs.’ ” Livy’s nostrils flared. She said nothing.
Norman said, “Look! You remember the big New Year’s celebration at Winnie’s place year before last?”
“I certainly do. You spilled a keg of alcohol all over me.”
“That’s beside the point, and besides, it was only a cocktail shaker’s worth. What I’m trying to say is that Winnie is just about your best friend and had been long before you married me.”
“What of it?”
“Georgette was a good friend of hers too, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then. You and Georgette would have gone to the party regardless of which one of you I had married. I would have had nothing to do with it. Let him show us the party as it would have been if I had married Georgette, and I’ll bet you’d be there with either your fiancée or your husband.”
Livvy hesitated. She felt honestly afraid of that.
He said, “Are you afraid to take the chance?”
And that, of course, decided her. She turned on him furiously, “No, I’m not! And I hope I am married. There’s no reason I should pine for you. What’s more, I’d like to see what happens when you spill the shaker all over Georgette. She’ll fill both your ears for you, and in public, too. I know her. Maybe you’ll see a certain difference in the jigsaw pieces then.” She faced forward and crossed her arms angrily and firmly across her chest.
Norman looked across at the little man, but there was no need to say anything. The glass slab was on his lap already. The sun slanted in from the west, and the white foam of hair that topped his head was edged with pink.
Norman said tensely, “Ready?”
Livvy nodded and let the noise of the train slide away again.
Livvy stood, a little flushed with recent cold, in the doorway. She had just removed her coat, with its sprinkly of snow, and her bare arms were still rebelling at the touch of open air.
She answered the shouts that greeted her with “Happy New Year’s” of her own, raising her voice to make herself heard over the squealing of the radio. Georgette’s shrill tones were almost the first thing she heard upon entering, and now she steered herself toward her. She hadn’t seen Georgette, or Norman, in weeks.
Georgette lifted an eyebrow, a mannerism she had lately cultivated, and said, “Isn’t anyone with you, Olivia?” Her eyes swept the immediate surroundings and then returned to Livvy.
Livvy said indifferently, “I think Dick will be around later. There was something or other he had to do first.” She felt as indifferent as she sounded.
Georgette smiled tightly. “Well, Norman’s here. That ought to keep you from being lonely, dear. At least, it’s turned out that way before.”
As she said so, Norman sauntered in from the kitchen. He had a cocktail shaker in his hand, and the rattling of ice cubes castanetted his words. “Line up, you rioting revelers, and get a mixture that will really revel your riots—Why, Livvy!”
He walked toward her, grinning his welcome, “Where’ve you been keeping yourself? I haven’t seen you in twenty years, seems like. What’s the matter? Doesn’t Dick want anyone else to see you?”
“Fill my glass, Norman,” Georgette said sharply.
“Right away,” he said, not looking at her. “Do you want one too, Livvy? I’ll get you a glass.” He turned, and everything happened at once.
Livvy cried, “Watch out!” She saw it coming, even had a vague feeling that all this had happened before, but it played itself out inexorably. His heel caught the edge of the carpet; he lurched, tried to right himself, and lost the cocktail shaker. It seemed to jump out of his hands, and a pint of ice-cold liquor drenched Livvy from shoulder to hem.
She stood there, gasping. The noises muted about her, and for a few intolerable moments she made futile brushing gestures at her gown, while Norman kept repeating “Damnation!” in rising tones.
Georgette said coolly, “It’s too bad, Livvy. Just one of those things. I imagine the dress can’t be very expensive.”
Livvy turned and ran. She was in the bedroom, which was at least empty and relatively quiet. By the light of the fringe-shaded lamp on the dresser, she poked among the coats on the bed, looking for her own.
Norman had come in behind her. “Look, Livvy, don’t pay any attention to what she said. I’m devilishly sorry. I’ll pay—”
“That’s all right. It wasn’t your fault.” She blinked rapidly and didn’t look at him. “I’ll just go home and change.”
“Are you coming back?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Look, Livvy . . .” His warm fingers were on her shoulders—Livvy felt a queer tearing sensation deep inside her, as though she were ripping away, clinging cobwebs and—
—and the train noises were back.
Something did go wrong with the time when she was in there—in the slab. It was deep twilight now. The train lights were on. But it didn’t matter. She seemed to be recovering from the wrench inside her.
Norman was rubbing his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “What happened?”
Livvy said, “It just ended. Suddenly.”
Norman looked uneasily, “You know, we’ll be putting into New Haven soon.” He looked at his watch and shook his head.
Livvy said wonderingly, “You spilled it on me.”
“Well, so I did in real life.”
“But in real life I was your wife. You ought to have spilled it on Georgette this time. Isn’t that queer?” But she was thinking of Norman pursuing her; his hands on her shoulders . . .
She looked up at him and said with warm satisfaction, “I wasn’t married.”
“No, you weren’t. But was that Dick Reinhardt you were going around with?”
“Yes.”
“You weren’t planning to marry him, were you, Livvy?”
“Jealous, Norman?”
Norman looked confused. “Of that? Of a slab of glass? Of course not.”
“I don’t think I would have married him.”
Norman said, “You know, I wish it hadn’t ended when it did. There was something that was about to happen, I think.” He stopped, then added slowly, “It was as though I would rather have done it to anybody else in the room.”
“Even to Georgette.”
“I wasn’t giving two thoughts about Georgette. You don’t believe me, I suppose.”
“Maybe I do.” She looked up at him. “I’ve been silly, Norman. Let’s—let’s live our real life. Let’s not play with all the things that just might have been.”
But he caught her hands. “No, Livvy. One last time. Let’s see what we would have been doing right now, Livvy! This very minute! If I had married Georgette.”
Livvy was a little frightened. “Let’s not, Norman.” She was thinking of his eyes, smiling hungrily at her as he held the shaker, while Georgette stood beside her, and regarded. She didn’t want to know what happened afterward. She just wanted this life now, this good life.
New Haven came and went.
Norman said again, “I want to try, Livvy.”
She said, “If you want to, Norman.” She decided fiercely that it wouldn’t matter. Nothing would matter. Her hands reached out and encircled his arm. She held it tightly, and while she held it she thought: “Nothing in make-believe can take him from me.” Norman said to the little man, “Set ’em up again.”
In the yellow light the process seemed to be slower. Gently the frosted slab cleared, like clouds being torn apart and dispersed by an unfelt wind.
Norman was saying, “There’s something wrong. That’s just the two of us, exactly as we are now.”
He was right. Two little figures were sitting in a train on the seats which were the farthest toward the front. The field was enlarging now—they were merging into it. Norman’s voice was distant and fading.
“It’s the same train,” he was saying. “The window in back is cracked just as—”
Livvy was blindingly happy. She said, “I wish we were in New York.”
He said, “It will be less than an hour, darling.” Then he said, “I’m going to kiss you.” He made a movement, as though he were about to begin.
“Not here! Oh, Norman, people are looking.”
Norman drew back. He said, “We should have taken a taxi.”
“From Boston to New York?”
“Sure. The privacy would have been worth it.”
She laughed. “You’re funny when you try to act ardent.”
“It isn’t an act.” His voice was suddenly a little somber. “It’s not just an hour, you know. I feel as though I’ve been waiting five years.”
“I do, too.”
“Why couldn’t I have met you first. It was such a waste.”
“Poor Georgette,” Livvy sighed.
Norman moved impatiently. “Don’t be sorry for her, Livvy. We never really made a go of it. She was glad to get rid of me.”
“I know that. That’s why I say ‘Poor Georgette.’ I’m just sorry for her for not being able to appreciate what she had.”
“Well, see to it that you do,” he said. “See to it that you’re immensely appreciative, infinitely appreciative—or more than that, see that you’re at least half as appreciative as I am of what I’ve got.”
“Or else you’ll divorce me, too?”
“Over my dead body,” said Norman.
Livvy said, “It’s all so strange. I keep thinking, What if you hadn’t spilt the cocktails on me that time at the party? You wouldn’t have followed me out; you wouldn’t have told me; I wouldn’t have known. It would have been so different . . . everything.”
“Nonsense. It would have been just the same. It would have all happened another time.”
“I wonder,” said Livvy softly.
Train noises merged into train noises. City lights flickered outside, and the atmosphere of New York was about them. The coach was astir with travelers dividing the baggage among themselves.
Livvy was an island in the turmoil until Norman shook her. She looked at him and said, “The jigsaw pieces fit after all.” He said, “Yes.”
She put a hand on his. “But it wasn’t good, just the same. I was very wrong. I thought that because we had each other, we should have all the possible each other’s. But all of the possibilities are none of our business. The real is enough. Do you know what I mean?”
He nodded.
She said, “There are millions of other what ifs. I don’t want to know what happened in any of them. I’ll never say, ‘What if,’ again.”
Norman said, “Relax, dear. Here’s your coat.” And he reached for the suitcases.
Livvy said with sudden sharpness, “Where’s Mr. If?”
Norman turned slowly to the empty seat that faced them. Together they scanned the rest of the coach.
“Maybe,” Norman said, “he went into the next coach.”
“But why? Besides, he wouldn’t leave his hat.” And she bent to pick it up.
Norman said, “What hat?”
And Livvy stopped her fingers hovering over nothingness. She said, “It was here—I almost touched it.” She straightened and said, “Oh, Norman, what if—”
Norman put a finger on her mouth. “Darling . . .”
She said, “I’m sorry. Here, let me help you with the suitcases.” The train dived into the tunnel beneath Park Avenue, and the noise of the wheels rose to a roar.
WHEN TIME TURNED
Ethel Watts Mumford
I dropped in at my friend Dr. Lamison’s rooms, for I had been dull and bored all day and Lamison, partly by reason of his profession, partly because of his own odd humour and keen insight, is a delightful companion. To ray disgust he was not alone but deep in an animated discussion with an elderly gentleman of pleasant appearance. Being in no mood to talk to strangers, I was about to make my excuses and retire but Lamison resigned to me to remain. “Let me present my friend Robertson, Mr. Gage,” he said politely, as we both bowed with formality.
“Robertson,” he continued, and dressing me, “you will be interested in what this gentleman has to say on the Philippines—he has spent some years out there.’ ”
Mr. Gage smiled reminiscently. “Yes, I spent some little time in the Islands. In fact, I am just on the point of going there now, and am very sorry I shall not see them again.”
“What?” I asked. “If you’re going, why do you say you will never see the place again.”
Lamison broke in abruptly. “That is a long story. Let’s go on with the question we had in hand. You were saying that the Malays are singularly shrewd and cunning.”
Mr. Gage brightened visibly. “They are, indeed. Now, when I was in Manila,”—and he launched into a highly instructive lecture on the Malay and all his works, talking rapidly and tersely; his phrases full of vigour and originality, his descriptions vivid and picturesque; in fact, it has rarely been my good fortune to listen to so brilliant a conversationalist—though conversation it could hardly be called, for by common consent he had the floor to himself.
Occasionally I asked a question, or Lamison punctuated the discourse with nods of approval as he flicked his cigar ashes on the floor. From the Philippines we wandered to the Chinese empire and its destiny. Gage had spent two years in Tientsin and Hong Kong and was us well informed and interesting as man could be. His observation was phenomenal, and his memory likewise, and he had a way of presenting his facts that was positively evocative. I felt, after listening to him, that the recollections were my own, so distinctly did he force his mental pictures into my consciousness. He was eminently moderate in all his views, avoiding extremes and holding a mean of charity, and common sense that is, to say the least, unusual.
A flash of lightning that stared suddenly through the windows, and was followed by a terrific thunder clap, made us start and pause. Mr. Gage arose and, going to the window, looked out into the murky night, remarking as he did so on the suddenness and violence of storms in the tropics.
I seized the occasion to nod to Lamison. “What a brilliant chap,” I said. “I never heard a man express himself so well and sanely—who is he, anyway?”
“A gentleman and a scholar, also my guest for the present,” my host answered. “So you think him well balanced?”
“Eminently so,” I said heartily. “Not many men could state the facts of an international feud with such moderation.”
Dr. Lamison smiled a strange, grave smile. Our companion came back from the window whereon the heavy wash of the rain was now playing, and refilled his glass from the pitcher of shandygaff.
“So you are just on the point of making your first trip to the East?” Lamison asked, to my unutterable amazement.
Gage nodded. “Yes. In a few days I shall have decided.”
I looked blankly at him.
“Then I suppose you will have, your quarrel with the family by next week?” my friend went on.
Gage sighed deeply. “Yes, I shall have to go through with it again. Fortunately the worst stages come first, and I have been feeling the after effects for some days already.”
Lamison looked at my confusion with amusement.
“Tell Robertson about it all, old man,” he said. “He is perfectly trustworthy, and yours is such an interesting story. To begin with, tell him how old you are.”
Gage laughed, a quick boyish chuckle, and sprang up gaily, stretching himself before the sparkling fire. “Just three and twenty.” he answered hilariously.
I looked at ham carefully. His iron-gray hair, the infinitesimal tracery of lines that covered his face and hand like a fine-spun web, and the slight stiffness of his joints, in spite of his quick and rather graceful movements, bespoke a man in the later fifties. I understood now. He was doubtless one of the curious cases of mania which the doctor was constantly picking up and studying,
“Tell him how it happened,” Lamison suggested.
Gage’s face grew grave. “It’s very part of it—but on the whole I have been blest above all men, for I have lived my life twice over. It was this way”—he sat down once more in the easy chair from which he had risen; “I was devotedly fond of my wife—one of the most charming women in the world, Mr. Robertson ; but I lost her. She died, very suddenly, under singularly painful circumstances.” His mouth twitched, but he controlled himself.
I was away on business in Washington when the news of her sudden illness reached me. I waited for nothing, but left by the first train. I remember giving ten dollars to the driver of the cab I hailed on my arrival, if he would reach my house in ten minutes. Aside from that the journey is only a blur of strain and horror. My memory becomes clear again with the moment when I saw my doorstep, wet and shining in the rain. I noted the reflected carriage lamp on the streaming pavement. The servant who opened the door at the sound of the stopping of my cab was crying. The house was brilliantly lit and I could hear hurried footsteps on the floor above and catch a glimpse of the blue-clad figure of a trained nurse. I rushed upstairs and into my wife’s room. She raised one hand feebly towards me, and a flash of recognition lit up her face for an instant and then faded into waxen blankness. I can’t describe that hour—it is too keenly terrible for me to repeat and it is not necessary to the story.
At last it was all over, and her dear eye closed forever, as I thought then. A great emptiness settled upon my brain and heart. Then came a slow tightening and straining sensation somewhere inside the dome of my skull, that seemed as fast as St. Peter’s. A snap, sharp as a broken banjo string and perfectly audible, was its climax. Then I steadied myself and looked about. Nothing had changed. The room was still, for the others had gone and we were left alone together—my wife and I.
