Time Travel Omnibus, page 1174
“In here,” Leo said finally, nodding to a small hole in the side of the building, where brick had caved in and left a hollow.
The sounds of the men were already audible. Nine of them, together, practicing kaddish. Their voices rich—tenor, baritone, bass—rising and falling, like a song.
Two months earlier, the time traveler had appeared, and taught Leo the mourner’s Kaddish. Leo enjoyed the visit, but it was over too quickly, his agile brain easily memorizing Kaddish, even with all its graceful nuances.
Almost as though it were a parting gift, the time traveler gave Leo a job—assemble a Minyan of ten men, and teach it to them.
“My grandfather died in this ghetto,” the time traveler had admitted, looking off into the gray sky. “I can’t change that, but a Minyan reciting kaddish for the dead won’t change history. At least I can do that for him.”
It was a challenge to find men up to the task. Many men had the education, the linguistic skill, the talent for song. But Kaddish required daily recitation for a year. What Leo needed was to find men with the faith that they would be alive for that long.
But Leo found them, and they began to meet. Learning kaddish, learning Torah—what bits they’d each remembered—and learning about each other.
It was a relief to focus on something other than uncertainty. And a relief to be together in prayer.
“We’re all here,” Leo said, as the time traveler stooped to peek into the hollow. Cracks in the brick let in some light. Damp and infested, it swelled with voices. With men who rocked and swayed, their hearts leading forward.
The time traveler backed out of the space.
“You need one more for your Minyan,” he said. His voice small and colorless.
“But we have ten.”
“There were only nine men in that space.”
“Yes of course, but there’s me, as well.”
The time traveler stared into the sky. Steel gray clouds moved overhead.
Then he reached into his pocket, and pulled out a potato. He handed it to Leo.
Leo’s breath quickened. It was a large potato. Firm and fragrant. Beautiful, brown, shaped like an “8.” Solid in Leo’s palm. He brought it to his nostrils. The smell of earth filled his lungs.
“I could eat for three days on this potato,” he said happily. “But I thought—”
The time traveler’s jaw trembled.
“Oh,” Leo said quietly, “oh I see.”
His thumb found a small sprout on the potato’s skin. He rolled it around for some time.
Suddenly, his thumb stopped moving and his fingers snapped around the potato in a strong, resolute grip. He stood up as straight as he could. “If you could just tell me who will survive, I’ll give the potato to him.”
A sob escaped the time traveler’s throat. “I’d always heard you were a selfless man,” he said. Quickly, he pressed his lips together.
Leo blinked. Then his brow pulled back. He surveyed the time traveler with fresh eyes. Then he gave an approving nod.
“So tall and handsome,” he remarked. “And you’re a scientist?”
The time traveler wiped his eyes, and laughed. “Yes. My wife too.”
“And children? You have children?”
“A boy and a girl. And they have children.”
“Good,” Leo smiled. He gave the potato a light toss in his palm, like a baseball. “Good,” he said again. Then, almost as an afterthought, “How long do I have to find a tenth man?”
The time traveler ground the heel of his palm against his eye, then wiped his nose with the back of his fingers. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
“No of course not,” Leo muttered. “Still, I’ll need a few days.”
“You have that,” the time traveler assured him.
For a moment, they both hesitated. Then the time traveler gave a quick glance around, and seeing no soldiers, grabbed Leo and hugged him.
When he let go, he was again teary eyed.
Leo reached up and cupped the time traveler’s chin. “Thank you, time traveler.”
“Please don’t thank me, Leo. I couldn’t change anything.”
Leo smiled kindly. “But you’ve changed everything,” he tapped at his heart, “everything.”
After the time traveler disappeared around the corner of the building, Leo felt lighter than he had in years. Not even hungry, anymore, really.
He tossed the potato from hand to hand. Enjoyed the weight as it shifted from palm to palm.
It was a large enough potato that each man in the Minyan could have a few bites. Maybe not enough to fill their bellies, but it would be a fine thing to share a meal with those men.
A very fine thing.
The End
A FUTURE FAR TOO BRIGHT
Yosef Lindell
November 24, 2038
Dear Dad,
I’m in third grade and the teacher is Ms. Babayev. She’s from Azerbaijan which must be in outer space. She told us to write a real letter with stamps to someone we miss.
I know you’re a time traveler. Is that why you never come home?
Jesse
March 2, 2039
Jesse,
I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to reply. I didn’t get your letter until we got back from the future. The post office doesn’t have its own time machine—not yet at least!
But I suppose that what I just wrote won’t make much sense to you, because I haven’t explained what it’s like to be a time traveler. So let me try.
Being a time traveler is a privilege. Thousands applied, and few were selected. It’s also a big secret. Our research is called “temporal self-determination.” That’s a lot of hard words, but the idea is really very simple. You know how you shiver when you’re cold and sweat when you’re hot? Well, the theory is that sudden changes in time have measurable effects on the human body, just like changes in temperature. So our time machine takes us thirty years into the future, where the scientists run tests to see how our bodies handled the time shift. Then we return to the present to rest before shifting ahead thirty years again and running more tests.
More later.
Love,
Dad
July 4, 2039
Dear Dad,
How come you never wrote again like you said? I want to know about your time machine. Is it yellow? Does it have wheels? Do you have to pedal? Holden has a bicycle but Mom says I don’t get one.
Jesse
September 7, 2039
Dear Jesse,
I’m sorry I’ve been a poor correspondent (which means someone who answers letters), but I can only send letters to you when we’re in the present.
But I’m glad you asked about the time machine. When you get older, you’ll probably read a book by H.G. Wells. It’s a good story, but the time machine in it is much too small. You see, Mr. Wells never saw a real time machine, because they hadn’t been invented yet.
Our time machine is so large it fills several buildings. In fact, it’s not really a “machine” at all. We have laboratories, dormitories, and a control center filled with workers and computers. The truth is that the whole complex is an eyesore. The buildings are made of ugly brown brick and cement, and carefully hidden behind walls and fences to make sure they stay secret.
Also, the time “machine” doesn’t actually “move” like a car or bicycle. Thirty years in the future, there are scientists with better technology working in this same complex of buildings. These scientists know how to bring our “time machine” to their time. We call their complex the receptor building. When we time-shift, our complex merges with the complex in the future. The scientists make sure that our complex and their complex stay exactly the same, as I’m told even a minor difference between them could mess up the time-shift. I also think this is why we can only go forward thirty years and then come back, and never further forward or backward. I don’t really understand the science behind it because I’m just a test subject. But it’s such an honor to be part of this work. Some of the discoveries we’ve made are crucial to the success of the Mars colony ships launching in a few years.
I’m sorry you can’t get a bicycle. Maybe you can use your imagination. There’s no limit to that.
How’s school by the way?
Love,
Dad
September 27, 2039
Dear Dad,
I hate school! It’s so boring!! It’s fourth grade now, and the teacher always says things about multiplication and stupid chapter books. She never talks about fun things, like the new Mars ships or time travel. So I draw bad guy spaceships on my desk and then I pretend you come in your time machine and blow them up so I say “Pow!” and scribble them out and even though it’s only a whisper the teacher hears and makes me stay after class and erase everything. It makes my arm hurt.
The other kids laugh at me a lot. I tell Mom but she doesn’t do anything. When she comes and picks me up from Grandpa her eyes are all sleepy, so she mostly just kisses me and tells me to go to bed. She works so much at her jobs. She works at Columbia Presbyterian on 168th in the morning and Key Food on Broadway at night.
I wish you were here, Dad. I know you would set the other kids straight.
Love,
Jesse
October 16, 2039
Dear Jesse,
We’re shifting again soon, so I will be brief. I know school often isn’t much fun. But it’s so important. An education can take you anywhere. It’s even better than imagination. Think: if you go to college, you could be a scientist who operates a time machine, not just a test subject like me!
By the way, could you send me a pocket calendar with your next letter? I’m not allowed to have anything electronic, because it will interfere with sensitive equipment, so it’s awfully hard to keep track of time here. :)
Love,
Dad
December 1, 2039
Hey Dad,
Let me tell you about Julia May. She’s in my class. Her hair’s in pigtails. Can you believe it? Pigtails! Even though she’s already nine years old!
Her nails are yucky too. One is blue, four are pink, and the rest are green. When she showed me, I covered my eyes and pushed her hand away.
When I told her about you, she waved her finger at me like I was a bad boy. “There’s no such thing as time travel,” she said.
“Oh, yeah?” I said. “Tell that to my dad.”
I told Mom, “Girls are trouble.”
She just smiled. “I always said the same thing about boys.”
“Then why do people get married sometimes?” I asked her.
She sighed, and the corners of her eyes looked sad. “I’ve often wondered that too,” she said.
I think she looked sad because she misses you. I miss you too.
My birthday is soon. Maybe you can come home for it.
Love,
Jesse
P.S. Since you’re in the future sometimes, can you tell me what I’m getting for my birthday?
P.P.S. Am I married to Julia May in the future? ‘Cause I sure hope not.
January 5, 2040
Jesse,
There’s some things about time travel I need to tell you.
We’re not allowed to find out what happens in the future, at least not any specifics. You see, we don’t want to change the future. Changing the future is called cross-temporal contamination, and the scientists warn us about it all the time. Let’s say I told you that you were married to Julia May. Then let’s say you did everything you could to make sure it didn’t happen. That would create paradoxes I don’t even want to think about.
It’s better this way, but I do wish they let us go outside more. When we go into the future, they lock all the doors to the complex, because they don’t want us to go out and accidentally damage the timeline. At least there are windows. When I look out on the horizon, sometimes I catch a glimpse of the sun setting on the Hudson River, like droplets of fire swimming in the water. In those moments, I think of you.
I’m sorry I can’t come home for your birthday. Not yet.
Love,
Dad
January 17, 2040
Dad,
I had my tenth birthday without you. Without Mom too, because she has a new boyfriend. His name is Keith. He’s ok, but he smells like chewing gum and his hands are sticky when he pats my hair.
I stole Grandpa’s cigarette lighter and a candle and a stale Dunkin’ Donut from the fridge. I went to the tiny park on Broadway at 188th that’s just a fence around a hill and sat on a stump. As I lit the candle, I thought about what it would be like to build my own time machine and come and find you. Maybe I already built one. Time travel’s confusing like that. No one here even believes me when I talk about your time machine. I wish it didn’t have to be such a secret. It’s stupid to hide good things. When I thought about that, my eyes started crying a little, and I hated it. And then when I used the lighter I accidentally burned the donut a little. But I still ate it.
At school, I got something else for my birthday too. A kiss from Julia May. I don’t know if it was yucky or not.
Jesse
April 9, 2040
Dear Jesse,
You won’t believe what’s happened! It’s so incredible that I can barely keep my hand from shaking as I write.
Seventeen days ago, when we were in the future, the scientists took me to the Phase Variance Laboratory. There were some other scientists there wearing white coats who I had never seen before.
“This might surprise you,” they said.
I almost laughed. I’ve traveled through time, seen a brave new world. What could surprise me anymore?
Then I saw you seated in a metal chair. I knew it was you because your hair was still curly. And a father always knows his son.
How well you were dressed! You wore a dark suit and checkered tie with a matching pocket square. Your shoes were newly shined.
I was nearly delirious with joy, and for sure there were tears in my eyes. I hadn’t seen you since you were three years old.
You broke into a broad grin, and handed me a brown paper package.
I held the package and looked at the men in the white coats, but they didn’t say anything, so I opened it. Inside were all our letters, including ones that had not yet been written.
“I wanted you to be sure it was me,” you said.
I just nodded in a daze. Then I turned to the white coats again. “How is this ok?” I spluttered. “You always said no contact with anyone. And now you bring my son?”
One of the men nodded quickly. “The parameters have changed,” he said.
“You have reached the next phase,” said another, as he curled his lips.
Then the scientists attached electrodes to my arm.
“Can I shake your hand Jesse?” I asked you when they finished.
What a grip!
We talked for a long time. You told me about home and Mom and how Grandpa was still hanging on despite his emphysema. You said you worked for Wall Street as an investment banker. You described how your office overlooked the floor of the stock exchange, where brokers and traders race among four-story stock tickers, and a holographic bull and bear are locked in never-ending combat above a rotating holo-globe. You said that the toughest decisions and the biggest deals were yours.
It was getting late, and the scientists had left. I touched your arm, and your suit felt very fine. “Tell me,” I said, nearly in a whisper, “did they ask you to come?”
You shook your head. “No. I applied for this. I’ve been waiting a long time.” You hesitated for a moment. “I’ve missed you, Dad.”
I choked up. “Me too.”
You stood. “I have to go now, Dad.”
“Will you come again?”
“If they let me.”
But at the door to the laboratory, you turned around and walked back. You took my hands tenderly in yours. “You don’t need to worry about me anymore, Dad,” you said. “Things were difficult when I was young. You know. But that’s over now. I went to college, and I worked hard. My future is here, and I’m glad I can share it with you.”
You came every night after work for almost two weeks. You said goodbye before we returned to the present, but you promised you would come see me again when we were back in the future.
I may not have been able to make it home for your birthday, but this was a true gift. You see Jesse, your future is bright. Now I know it in a way no one else can.
Love,
Dad
May 16, 2040
Dad,
Cool. What else should I say? I mean, it’s great you met me, Dad, but does that mean we don’t meet for thirty years? It’s just too long to wait.
I’ll tell you something that’s made me think a bit. Julia May and me, we went to the park on Saturday. We went up the steps to the river, and down the stairs to the lawn where you can see the huge castle on the hill. Julia May said it’s a museum called the Cloisters, and you didn’t have to pay money to go in, but we would have to lie and say we were twelve. I didn’t want to go at first, but she said it’s cool because parts of the building were in a stone abbey a thousand years ago in France, and now they’re here in New York. I agreed to go because it sounded a little like your time machine. But when I told her my reason, she just frowned.
Anyway, inside there were a lot of crosses and pictures of unicorns. And then there’s this room with sculptures of dead people with their hands pressed together carved on the lids of stone coffins.
Julia May took my hand.
“They look creepy,” she said.
“Yeah,” I replied.
She gripped my hand a little tighter. “Do you think the Mars colonists will have to go in boxes like that?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really,” she said, but her hand trembled.
I told her I didn’t think they would need to go in boxes. Then I said to her that if the Cloisters were like a time machine, and the dead people its time travelers, they must not have made it through alright, and now they couldn’t tell us what things used to be like long ago. This time she smiled just a little and touched my shoulder. I trusted Julia May. So I told her all about your time machine and our letters and how much I missed you.
The sounds of the men were already audible. Nine of them, together, practicing kaddish. Their voices rich—tenor, baritone, bass—rising and falling, like a song.
Two months earlier, the time traveler had appeared, and taught Leo the mourner’s Kaddish. Leo enjoyed the visit, but it was over too quickly, his agile brain easily memorizing Kaddish, even with all its graceful nuances.
Almost as though it were a parting gift, the time traveler gave Leo a job—assemble a Minyan of ten men, and teach it to them.
“My grandfather died in this ghetto,” the time traveler had admitted, looking off into the gray sky. “I can’t change that, but a Minyan reciting kaddish for the dead won’t change history. At least I can do that for him.”
It was a challenge to find men up to the task. Many men had the education, the linguistic skill, the talent for song. But Kaddish required daily recitation for a year. What Leo needed was to find men with the faith that they would be alive for that long.
But Leo found them, and they began to meet. Learning kaddish, learning Torah—what bits they’d each remembered—and learning about each other.
It was a relief to focus on something other than uncertainty. And a relief to be together in prayer.
“We’re all here,” Leo said, as the time traveler stooped to peek into the hollow. Cracks in the brick let in some light. Damp and infested, it swelled with voices. With men who rocked and swayed, their hearts leading forward.
The time traveler backed out of the space.
“You need one more for your Minyan,” he said. His voice small and colorless.
“But we have ten.”
“There were only nine men in that space.”
“Yes of course, but there’s me, as well.”
The time traveler stared into the sky. Steel gray clouds moved overhead.
Then he reached into his pocket, and pulled out a potato. He handed it to Leo.
Leo’s breath quickened. It was a large potato. Firm and fragrant. Beautiful, brown, shaped like an “8.” Solid in Leo’s palm. He brought it to his nostrils. The smell of earth filled his lungs.
“I could eat for three days on this potato,” he said happily. “But I thought—”
The time traveler’s jaw trembled.
“Oh,” Leo said quietly, “oh I see.”
His thumb found a small sprout on the potato’s skin. He rolled it around for some time.
Suddenly, his thumb stopped moving and his fingers snapped around the potato in a strong, resolute grip. He stood up as straight as he could. “If you could just tell me who will survive, I’ll give the potato to him.”
A sob escaped the time traveler’s throat. “I’d always heard you were a selfless man,” he said. Quickly, he pressed his lips together.
Leo blinked. Then his brow pulled back. He surveyed the time traveler with fresh eyes. Then he gave an approving nod.
“So tall and handsome,” he remarked. “And you’re a scientist?”
The time traveler wiped his eyes, and laughed. “Yes. My wife too.”
“And children? You have children?”
“A boy and a girl. And they have children.”
“Good,” Leo smiled. He gave the potato a light toss in his palm, like a baseball. “Good,” he said again. Then, almost as an afterthought, “How long do I have to find a tenth man?”
The time traveler ground the heel of his palm against his eye, then wiped his nose with the back of his fingers. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
“No of course not,” Leo muttered. “Still, I’ll need a few days.”
“You have that,” the time traveler assured him.
For a moment, they both hesitated. Then the time traveler gave a quick glance around, and seeing no soldiers, grabbed Leo and hugged him.
When he let go, he was again teary eyed.
Leo reached up and cupped the time traveler’s chin. “Thank you, time traveler.”
“Please don’t thank me, Leo. I couldn’t change anything.”
Leo smiled kindly. “But you’ve changed everything,” he tapped at his heart, “everything.”
After the time traveler disappeared around the corner of the building, Leo felt lighter than he had in years. Not even hungry, anymore, really.
He tossed the potato from hand to hand. Enjoyed the weight as it shifted from palm to palm.
It was a large enough potato that each man in the Minyan could have a few bites. Maybe not enough to fill their bellies, but it would be a fine thing to share a meal with those men.
A very fine thing.
The End
A FUTURE FAR TOO BRIGHT
Yosef Lindell
November 24, 2038
Dear Dad,
I’m in third grade and the teacher is Ms. Babayev. She’s from Azerbaijan which must be in outer space. She told us to write a real letter with stamps to someone we miss.
I know you’re a time traveler. Is that why you never come home?
Jesse
March 2, 2039
Jesse,
I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to reply. I didn’t get your letter until we got back from the future. The post office doesn’t have its own time machine—not yet at least!
But I suppose that what I just wrote won’t make much sense to you, because I haven’t explained what it’s like to be a time traveler. So let me try.
Being a time traveler is a privilege. Thousands applied, and few were selected. It’s also a big secret. Our research is called “temporal self-determination.” That’s a lot of hard words, but the idea is really very simple. You know how you shiver when you’re cold and sweat when you’re hot? Well, the theory is that sudden changes in time have measurable effects on the human body, just like changes in temperature. So our time machine takes us thirty years into the future, where the scientists run tests to see how our bodies handled the time shift. Then we return to the present to rest before shifting ahead thirty years again and running more tests.
More later.
Love,
Dad
July 4, 2039
Dear Dad,
How come you never wrote again like you said? I want to know about your time machine. Is it yellow? Does it have wheels? Do you have to pedal? Holden has a bicycle but Mom says I don’t get one.
Jesse
September 7, 2039
Dear Jesse,
I’m sorry I’ve been a poor correspondent (which means someone who answers letters), but I can only send letters to you when we’re in the present.
But I’m glad you asked about the time machine. When you get older, you’ll probably read a book by H.G. Wells. It’s a good story, but the time machine in it is much too small. You see, Mr. Wells never saw a real time machine, because they hadn’t been invented yet.
Our time machine is so large it fills several buildings. In fact, it’s not really a “machine” at all. We have laboratories, dormitories, and a control center filled with workers and computers. The truth is that the whole complex is an eyesore. The buildings are made of ugly brown brick and cement, and carefully hidden behind walls and fences to make sure they stay secret.
Also, the time “machine” doesn’t actually “move” like a car or bicycle. Thirty years in the future, there are scientists with better technology working in this same complex of buildings. These scientists know how to bring our “time machine” to their time. We call their complex the receptor building. When we time-shift, our complex merges with the complex in the future. The scientists make sure that our complex and their complex stay exactly the same, as I’m told even a minor difference between them could mess up the time-shift. I also think this is why we can only go forward thirty years and then come back, and never further forward or backward. I don’t really understand the science behind it because I’m just a test subject. But it’s such an honor to be part of this work. Some of the discoveries we’ve made are crucial to the success of the Mars colony ships launching in a few years.
I’m sorry you can’t get a bicycle. Maybe you can use your imagination. There’s no limit to that.
How’s school by the way?
Love,
Dad
September 27, 2039
Dear Dad,
I hate school! It’s so boring!! It’s fourth grade now, and the teacher always says things about multiplication and stupid chapter books. She never talks about fun things, like the new Mars ships or time travel. So I draw bad guy spaceships on my desk and then I pretend you come in your time machine and blow them up so I say “Pow!” and scribble them out and even though it’s only a whisper the teacher hears and makes me stay after class and erase everything. It makes my arm hurt.
The other kids laugh at me a lot. I tell Mom but she doesn’t do anything. When she comes and picks me up from Grandpa her eyes are all sleepy, so she mostly just kisses me and tells me to go to bed. She works so much at her jobs. She works at Columbia Presbyterian on 168th in the morning and Key Food on Broadway at night.
I wish you were here, Dad. I know you would set the other kids straight.
Love,
Jesse
October 16, 2039
Dear Jesse,
We’re shifting again soon, so I will be brief. I know school often isn’t much fun. But it’s so important. An education can take you anywhere. It’s even better than imagination. Think: if you go to college, you could be a scientist who operates a time machine, not just a test subject like me!
By the way, could you send me a pocket calendar with your next letter? I’m not allowed to have anything electronic, because it will interfere with sensitive equipment, so it’s awfully hard to keep track of time here. :)
Love,
Dad
December 1, 2039
Hey Dad,
Let me tell you about Julia May. She’s in my class. Her hair’s in pigtails. Can you believe it? Pigtails! Even though she’s already nine years old!
Her nails are yucky too. One is blue, four are pink, and the rest are green. When she showed me, I covered my eyes and pushed her hand away.
When I told her about you, she waved her finger at me like I was a bad boy. “There’s no such thing as time travel,” she said.
“Oh, yeah?” I said. “Tell that to my dad.”
I told Mom, “Girls are trouble.”
She just smiled. “I always said the same thing about boys.”
“Then why do people get married sometimes?” I asked her.
She sighed, and the corners of her eyes looked sad. “I’ve often wondered that too,” she said.
I think she looked sad because she misses you. I miss you too.
My birthday is soon. Maybe you can come home for it.
Love,
Jesse
P.S. Since you’re in the future sometimes, can you tell me what I’m getting for my birthday?
P.P.S. Am I married to Julia May in the future? ‘Cause I sure hope not.
January 5, 2040
Jesse,
There’s some things about time travel I need to tell you.
We’re not allowed to find out what happens in the future, at least not any specifics. You see, we don’t want to change the future. Changing the future is called cross-temporal contamination, and the scientists warn us about it all the time. Let’s say I told you that you were married to Julia May. Then let’s say you did everything you could to make sure it didn’t happen. That would create paradoxes I don’t even want to think about.
It’s better this way, but I do wish they let us go outside more. When we go into the future, they lock all the doors to the complex, because they don’t want us to go out and accidentally damage the timeline. At least there are windows. When I look out on the horizon, sometimes I catch a glimpse of the sun setting on the Hudson River, like droplets of fire swimming in the water. In those moments, I think of you.
I’m sorry I can’t come home for your birthday. Not yet.
Love,
Dad
January 17, 2040
Dad,
I had my tenth birthday without you. Without Mom too, because she has a new boyfriend. His name is Keith. He’s ok, but he smells like chewing gum and his hands are sticky when he pats my hair.
I stole Grandpa’s cigarette lighter and a candle and a stale Dunkin’ Donut from the fridge. I went to the tiny park on Broadway at 188th that’s just a fence around a hill and sat on a stump. As I lit the candle, I thought about what it would be like to build my own time machine and come and find you. Maybe I already built one. Time travel’s confusing like that. No one here even believes me when I talk about your time machine. I wish it didn’t have to be such a secret. It’s stupid to hide good things. When I thought about that, my eyes started crying a little, and I hated it. And then when I used the lighter I accidentally burned the donut a little. But I still ate it.
At school, I got something else for my birthday too. A kiss from Julia May. I don’t know if it was yucky or not.
Jesse
April 9, 2040
Dear Jesse,
You won’t believe what’s happened! It’s so incredible that I can barely keep my hand from shaking as I write.
Seventeen days ago, when we were in the future, the scientists took me to the Phase Variance Laboratory. There were some other scientists there wearing white coats who I had never seen before.
“This might surprise you,” they said.
I almost laughed. I’ve traveled through time, seen a brave new world. What could surprise me anymore?
Then I saw you seated in a metal chair. I knew it was you because your hair was still curly. And a father always knows his son.
How well you were dressed! You wore a dark suit and checkered tie with a matching pocket square. Your shoes were newly shined.
I was nearly delirious with joy, and for sure there were tears in my eyes. I hadn’t seen you since you were three years old.
You broke into a broad grin, and handed me a brown paper package.
I held the package and looked at the men in the white coats, but they didn’t say anything, so I opened it. Inside were all our letters, including ones that had not yet been written.
“I wanted you to be sure it was me,” you said.
I just nodded in a daze. Then I turned to the white coats again. “How is this ok?” I spluttered. “You always said no contact with anyone. And now you bring my son?”
One of the men nodded quickly. “The parameters have changed,” he said.
“You have reached the next phase,” said another, as he curled his lips.
Then the scientists attached electrodes to my arm.
“Can I shake your hand Jesse?” I asked you when they finished.
What a grip!
We talked for a long time. You told me about home and Mom and how Grandpa was still hanging on despite his emphysema. You said you worked for Wall Street as an investment banker. You described how your office overlooked the floor of the stock exchange, where brokers and traders race among four-story stock tickers, and a holographic bull and bear are locked in never-ending combat above a rotating holo-globe. You said that the toughest decisions and the biggest deals were yours.
It was getting late, and the scientists had left. I touched your arm, and your suit felt very fine. “Tell me,” I said, nearly in a whisper, “did they ask you to come?”
You shook your head. “No. I applied for this. I’ve been waiting a long time.” You hesitated for a moment. “I’ve missed you, Dad.”
I choked up. “Me too.”
You stood. “I have to go now, Dad.”
“Will you come again?”
“If they let me.”
But at the door to the laboratory, you turned around and walked back. You took my hands tenderly in yours. “You don’t need to worry about me anymore, Dad,” you said. “Things were difficult when I was young. You know. But that’s over now. I went to college, and I worked hard. My future is here, and I’m glad I can share it with you.”
You came every night after work for almost two weeks. You said goodbye before we returned to the present, but you promised you would come see me again when we were back in the future.
I may not have been able to make it home for your birthday, but this was a true gift. You see Jesse, your future is bright. Now I know it in a way no one else can.
Love,
Dad
May 16, 2040
Dad,
Cool. What else should I say? I mean, it’s great you met me, Dad, but does that mean we don’t meet for thirty years? It’s just too long to wait.
I’ll tell you something that’s made me think a bit. Julia May and me, we went to the park on Saturday. We went up the steps to the river, and down the stairs to the lawn where you can see the huge castle on the hill. Julia May said it’s a museum called the Cloisters, and you didn’t have to pay money to go in, but we would have to lie and say we were twelve. I didn’t want to go at first, but she said it’s cool because parts of the building were in a stone abbey a thousand years ago in France, and now they’re here in New York. I agreed to go because it sounded a little like your time machine. But when I told her my reason, she just frowned.
Anyway, inside there were a lot of crosses and pictures of unicorns. And then there’s this room with sculptures of dead people with their hands pressed together carved on the lids of stone coffins.
Julia May took my hand.
“They look creepy,” she said.
“Yeah,” I replied.
She gripped my hand a little tighter. “Do you think the Mars colonists will have to go in boxes like that?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really,” she said, but her hand trembled.
I told her I didn’t think they would need to go in boxes. Then I said to her that if the Cloisters were like a time machine, and the dead people its time travelers, they must not have made it through alright, and now they couldn’t tell us what things used to be like long ago. This time she smiled just a little and touched my shoulder. I trusted Julia May. So I told her all about your time machine and our letters and how much I missed you.
