Time Travel Omnibus, page 1175
But after I was done, she just looked at me sadly. “You don’t really still believe all that, do you Jesse?” she said.
I turned away because I felt the tears coming, and I didn’t want Julia May to see me cry.
I so wanted to prove her wrong. I went to the library. When I asked for books on the Mars colony ships, the librarian sent me to the encyclopedias. But when I asked about time travel, she took me to the science fiction section. I don’t have an eyeglass portal like some of the other kids, so I spent a lot of time after that using the library’s Internet terminal. I poked around on websites, and joined message boards and asked questions. Everyone said time travel was impossible, just like Julia May did. But then I found the top-secret government stuff: Area 51, the Philadelphia Experiment and the Montauk Project, the Horizon Ripple of 2028. But other sites said these were all made up. I didn’t know what to believe.
But you always write back. And you’ve told me so much about the future already. It’s got to be true. Right, Dad?
Love,
Jesse
July 19, 2040
Dear Jesse,
I’m so sorry. A lot has changed, and it’s been hard to write.
You see, when we returned to the future, you didn’t visit again. When I asked, the scientists told me there was nothing to learn from more visits.
I told them it was cruel to bring you here and then send you away. But the scientists have little heart. They only care about their calculations, or the effects of minute quantum fluctuations, or maybe the paradoxes of relativity.
When I could no longer bear it, I went to find you myself.
I waited till dark. All the doors were locked, but I had watched the scientists go in and out so many times that I had memorized the code. At first it was easier than I expected. There was no alarm. The night was still and silent, and there was only a sliver of moon. No one followed me, but I kept low to the sweet-smelling grass to avoid the searchlights. Before long I had crossed the walkway above the rail line and found the wall.
I placed my hands on it, trying to feel the freedom of the river that lay beyond. I heard the rush of the water. But when I looked up, the concrete towered over me, and I saw razor wire strung across the top. There was no way out.
I had known that all along really, but, you see, I had to try.
I snuck back across the complex and crossed the tracks again.
They were waiting for me by the door to the dormitory, wearing their white coats.
I knew they would punish me, but I was not afraid.
Yet one of the scientists waved, as if in welcome. As her red hair reflected the wan moonlight, I realized I had never seen her before. “Congratulations,” she said. “You are ready to proceed with further testing.”
She told me she came from the future, thirty years ahead of where I was, sixty years from where you are now. She works in the same time machine complex. They were ready to transport parts of the complex to her time, and run further tests on select individuals to see how they responded to the sixty-year time shift. She told me that I was among those selected.
“Why?” I must have asked.
“You tried to escape,” she replied, “which shows initiative and resolve.”
The scientist must have seen the doubt in my eyes. “Come with me,” she said.
It was a command.
We climbed the ladder to one of the abandoned guard turrets together. When I looked out the window, I saw the Manhattan skyline for the first time since I arrived here, a sparkling, seething mass of light and color. Silent, but awake.
And then the scientist told me of the New York City she knew, the New York of my future. The air was cleaner, she said. Its skyscrapers rose ever higher. Airships of gold and chrome float on the skies, graceful as birds. And she said that sixty years was only the beginning. Soon, we would push further into the future. Ninety years. One hundred and fifty years. There was no limit to where we could go. She told me how lucky I was to glimpse a brighter future.
But when I looked out at the city, all I could think about was you, and how much further apart we would be.
Jesse, I am back in the present now, but we are going soon. Every day, the scientists take me to their labs to run more tests. They draw blood, they poke and prod me with strange instruments I have never seen before. They give me special orange clothes to wear for the shift. When I go, I do not know when I will be back.
Jesse, you asked me if all of what I’ve told you is true. If only my current predicament were not real. If only it were a nightmare from which I would soon awaken. My only comfort is these letters, which have brought us together despite everything. I fear it may be a long time before I can write again. But I will when I can. I promise.
You’re in my heart,
Dad
August 17, 2040
I was really scared when I got your letter. I must have showed it to Julia May half a dozen times. “My dad needs help,” I said. “Let’s go.”
“But where is he?” she always replied, shaking her head, not really believing me.
“Nearby. By the Hudson River. North of the city. Maybe in the Bronx.” I realized how silly I sounded. I didn’t know how to find you.
Then, three Thursdays ago, when I came home from the library, Mom was sobbing in the corner of her bedroom, her makeup running down her face. The room was a mess, clothing thrown about. All of Keith’s stuff was gone.
I quietly started cleaning up. As I picked up papers and a deodorant stick that had fallen from the trash can, I noticed a torn envelope addressed to me. The return address had your name on it, followed by a number. Below the number, it read, “Sing Sing Correctional Facility.”
I took the envelope back to my room. Your last letter, and its envelope, fit inside.
The truth tore me up inside. I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking of all the promises you had made and broken. Most of all, I just couldn’t understand why you would do this.
I showed the envelope to Julia May the next day. Her eyes widened. “Oh,” she said, and she put her hand to her mouth. Then she put her arms around me.
“I want to go there,” I told her as we held each other. “Come with me.”
She shook her head and her hair tickled my face. “We’re just kids,” she said, “we can’t go by ourselves. And we still don’t know where the prison is.”
“I need you Julia May.”
She didn’t say anything right away. Then she sighed and put a finger on my lips. “Ok, but my parents are going to kill me.”
We went to the library to figure out where Sing Sing was. By the end of the day, we were on Metro North’s Hudson Line heading toward Poughkeepsie. I didn’t tell Mom, of course.
The track goes along the river and the white cliffs called the Palisades. We passed the old nuclear power plant. Then, right after the train announced Ossining, we went right through your machine. I saw the walls, the turrets, and the bridge above the tracks. I pressed my face against the window pane and my tears slid down. Julia May reached out to touch my shoulder, but I shrugged her off.
When the train pulled into Ossining, Julia May touched me again. “It’s our stop, Jesse. Remember, the prison’s a ten minute walk from here. Let’s go.”
But I didn’t move.
She grabbed my hand. “Come on! This is what we’re here for!”
I shook my head.
“He’d want to see you,” Julia May pleaded. “He wouldn’t have written all those letters if he didn’t care about you.”
I felt so angry. “He’s a liar,” I shouted. “A fucking liar! I hate him!”
The conductor came round because we had missed our stop and he heard the shouting. “Where are you going?” he asked. “Where are your parents?”
I let Julia May do the talking.
When we got to Croton-Harmon, the conductor firmly took us both by the hand and put us on the train back to Grand Central.
I felt so small on the way back. Julia May didn’t say anything, and I didn’t want her to. When we rode through the prison again, I wanted to shout, but I knew you wouldn’t hear me.
We got back around midnight. Mom was waiting up, and the police were there in their cars. I think they took Julia May home. Mom slapped me hard across the face, but I can’t remember much of what she said. I just remember sobbing, and trying to squirm away from her, yelling, “I don’t want you anymore!” because Mom was part of the lie too.
“So you want your dad?” she yelled back. “That good for nothing! He’s been lying since the day I met him!”
Then why didn’t you tell me the truth? I wanted to ask her, but I didn’t, because I can’t talk to Mom the way I talk to you.
Eventually, we collapsed on the worn orange sofa, clinging to each other through our anger and tears, until we fell asleep.
Dad, I’m telling you all this because I want you to know how badly you’ve hurt me. I don’t think I can ever forgive you.
But there’s just something I’m turning over again and again in my head. I just don’t understand. Why did you do it? Why did you lie?
Jesse
September 5, 2040
Dear Jesse,
I don’t know how to begin, but I must. You’re right of course. I’ve lied to you. I kept getting in deeper until I couldn’t stop.
I know you’re wondering why I lied, Jesse, and I’m not sure I have a good answer. I could tell you about my own childhood, and how my lies allowed me to survive the streets, but that would not justify what I’ve done to you. So I will not make excuses, which are themselves half-lies, because then I would not be honest with myself.
But try to imagine how happy I was when I received your first letter two years ago. I wanted so desperately to have a relationship with you. I wanted to be different from my own father. In your innocence, you called me a time traveler. It seemed harmless enough, so I played along. But then the lies ballooned, and got away from me. You see, Jesse, when you reached out, I had to do everything I could to keep you, because you were all that I had. I needed you.
Jesse, much of what I’ve told you isn’t true. But that doesn’t mean it couldn’t be. God knows people like you and me gotta hold onto our dreams and fantasies, because sometimes they’re the only place that others let us be.
You see, I really do believe you have a bright future. To me, it’s as real as my orange jumpsuit, the walls around me, the river I cannot often see. So make me proud. Make it the best future you can, because your future, unlike mine, is still yours to make.
I hope you write again, even though I don’t expect you to forgive me. Whatever happens, I want you to know that my love for you is also real.
And that’s no lie.
Dad
January 5, 2041
Dear Jesse,
It’s hard when you’re one of the only dads in prison not getting a card for the holidays.
I suppose I didn’t really expect a card or a letter this year. You’re upset, and you have every right to be. I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry. I don’t know if I said that in my last letter. Maybe we can start over. Perhaps you could give me another chance.
Love,
Dad
January 15, 2041
Dear Dad,
When I was young and I was bad, Mom always sent me to the corner to stare at the wall. Once, when the living room window was open just a crack, I reached through to the planter outside and picked geraniums for her. When she saw, she squeezed me tight and said, “Oh Jesse sweetie, you’re just like your father, always trying to fix the past to make a better future.”
I think that’s why I thought you were a time traveler.
I’m not going to send you this letter. I don’t care that you feel left out. I don’t care if you miss me. I don’t know why I’m even writing another letter. Maybe I thought telling you how it began would make me feel better. Surprise—it doesn’t.
Jesse
May 28, 2041
Dear Dad,
Like you always used to tell me, things have changed.
Near the end of April, I went to visit Julia May because she asked me to. We hadn’t seen each other in a long time. We kinda went separate ways after the train ride. I guess I didn’t really know how to share that part of myself, the part about you, with anyone else. It doesn’t matter. There are a lot of other pretty girls in fifth grade.
I found Julia May outside her apartment building on 174th, sitting cross-legged on a mound of black trash bags and cardboard boxes. She was wearing a sleeveless yellow dress with polka dots, and her arms shone in the hot sun.
I asked her about the mess.
She came down and hugged me. Then she started to cry. “I never told you, Jesse. It was too hard. But my family’s going to Mars.” She gestured toward the trash. “Look at all this shit. Each person can only bring forty-five pounds. I’ve had to throw out almost everything.”
I felt like I had been punched in the gut. “Why are you going?” I asked.
She sniffed and dried her eyes on my shoulder. “So we can have a new life, I guess. A brighter future.”
I thought about you and your lies. “It’s not possible to start over,” I said. “Not really. There’s always the things we did, the choices we made. They can’t be undone.”
“I guess not,” she said. “But we can make new choices.”
We got to talking for a while, and she asked whether you and I have been in touch.
I shook my head.
“What do you really know about your dad?” she asked.
I told her I didn’t care anymore. But it wasn’t true.
“Jesse,” she said, “a person’s more than the bad things they’ve done, even if they’ve done a lot of bad things.”
“But his letters . . .”
“I know. Lies. But they were hopeful lies.”
Saying goodbye to Julia May was harder than I expected.
A few weeks later, when the rockets were ready to go, I got Mom, and we held hands and squinted at our crummy old TV as the rockets rose into the sky. Then I sat and thought about the hopes for a bright new future that rode with those brave people, until the fires winked out and all that was left was a trail of smoke and dreams. There was this pit in my stomach because I’ll miss Julia May, and honest to God I hope she makes it, just like I hope I make it too—wherever it is I choose to go.
Because you were right, Dad. My future’s up to me, and I’d better make it a good one. And now, when I read your letters again, I realize that’s what you’ve been telling me all along, because the stories you invented were not lies, but dreams. They’re about us, and they’re mostly good stories, and I don’t want them to end.
So I’m coming to visit. Mom’s going to take me, although she doesn’t want to. I don’t want to think about what it’ll be like too much, in case all the thinking makes me change my mind. But this much I know. When I come, I’ll bring a package with me. It will be no more than 18 inches by 14 inches, because it’s got to meet prison regulations. After I walk through the gates at Sing Sing and the metal detector, I’ll get to the visiting area outside the cell block, and we’ll look at each other awkwardly for the first moments. “The future is here,” I will say, as I show you my package of letters, this one among them.
Jesse
THE PRACTICAL GUIDE TO PUNCHING NAZIS
Alex Shvartsman
1. Act natural. You don’t want to give them a reason to suspect you. When they realize the data card is missing, somber men with humorless eyes will invade the lab. They’ll interrogate everyone, even the purebloods. Keep your head down and don’t draw attention to yourself. As far as they’re concerned, you’re not bright or motivated enough to be a Party member, let alone to break the encryption and steal the data. You’re almost entirely beneath their notice. When they fail to discover the thief, they’ll drag your boss away. He isn’t so bad, considering, but someone has to be held responsible. His removal is as unfortunate as it is inevitable.
2. Go to the library. Walk through the deserted halls, past the shelves filled with party dogma, thick hardcover tomes with spines that have never been cracked. All the way in the back find the small stack of dilapidated volumes misfiled decades ago by some brave librarian. Rifle through the dog-eared copies of Das Capital and Common Sense and The Fountainhead: a smorgasbord of ideas that share nothing in common except the fortune of surviving the purge because those in power are ignorant of these books’ contents. Pick the book espousing the philosophy that suits you best and hide the data card inside. Don’t worry; this is the last place anyone is likely to look.
3. Quit your job. Better yet, fail to grovel properly in front of the new boss and get yourself fired. Be patient. For the sake of your friends and family, let enough time pass that no one thinks to connect you with the eventual break-in and fire at the lab.
4. Study the past. Learn about the way people spoke and dressed and carried themselves from old books and movies. Figure out how people expressed themselves from the ancient Internet archives, if you can access them. Question anything written about the past since the Party came into power.
5. Prepare to blend in. The technology is experimental and imprecise. There’s no telling where you’ll end up, so you must bring all kinds of camouflage. This is especially important if your skin tone or bone structure or gender aren’t optimal for whatever decade you arrive in. Bring a Hugo Boss uniform and a Zhongshan suit, an ushanka hat with a hammer-and-sickle badge, and a red baseball cap, a white hooded robe and a leather trench coat.
6. Don’t hesitate. When the opportunity to break into the lab presents itself, retrieve the data card and go for it. Bring a can of gasoline. Pour it generously over the prototype and the computers. Whatever else happens, the Party cannot be allowed to perfect this technology.
7. Make history. Use the equations on the data card to program and activate the prototype. You’re ready to become the first human ever to travel back in time. Drop the lit match as you step through.
