Time Travel Omnibus, page 727
“I’m not actually a scientist,” Gernshon said winningly. “Just a dabbler. I popularize new scientific concepts, write about them to make them intelligible.”
“Like what?” Jackie said.
Gernshon opened his mouth, closed it again. A boy suddenly flashed past on a skateboard, holding a boom box. Metallica blasted the air. Overhead, a jet droned.
Gernshon smiled weakly. “It’s hard to explain.”
“I’m capable of understanding,” Jackie said coldly. “Women can understand science, you know.”
“Jackie, sweetheart,” Harry said, “what have you got there? Is that your new book?”
“No,” Jackie said, “this is the one I said I’d bring you, by my friend. It’s brilliant. It’s about a man whose business partner betrays him by selling out to organized crime and framing the man. In jail he meets a guy who has founded his own religion, the House of Divine Despair, and when they both get out they start a new business, Suicide Incorporated, that helps people kill themselves for a fee. The whole thing is just a brilliant denunciation of contemporary America.”
Gernshon made a small sound.
“It’s a comedy,” Jackie added.
“It sounds . . . it sounds a little depressing,” Gernshon said.
Jackie looked at him. Very distinctly, she said, “It’s reality.”
Harry saw Gernshon glance around the park. A man nodded on a bench, his hands slack on his knees. Newspapers and MacDonald’s wrappers stirred fitfully in the dirt. A trash container had been knocked over. From beside a scrawny tree enclosed shoulder-height by black wrought iron, a child watched them with old eyes.
“I brought you something else, too, Popsy,” Jackie said. Harry hoped that Gernshon noticed how much gentler her voice was when she spoke to her grandfather. “A scarf.
See, it’s llama wool. Very warm.”
Gernshon said, “My mother has a scarf like that. No, I guess hers is some kind of fur.”
Jackie’s face changed. “What kind?”
“I—I’m not sure.”
“Not an endangered species, I hope.”
“No. Not that. I’m sure not . . . that.”
Jackie stared at him a moment longer. The child who had been watching strolled towards them. Harry saw Gernshon look at the boy with relief. About eleven years old, he wore a perfectly tailored suit and Italian shoes. Manny shifted to put himself between the boy and Gernshon. “Jackie, darling, it’s so good to see you . . .”
The boy brushed by Gernshon on the other side. He never looked up, and his voice stayed boyish and low, almost a whisper. “Crack . . .”
“Step on one and you break your mother’s back,” Gernshon said brightly. He smiled at Harry, a special conspiratorial smile to suggest that children, at least, didn’t change in fifty years. The boy’s head jerked up to look at Gernshon.
“You talking about my mama?”
Jackie groaned. “No,” she said to the kid. “He doesn’t mean anything. Beat it.”
“I don’t forget,” the boy said. He backed away slowly.
Gernshon said, frowning, “I’m sorry. I’m not sure exactly what all that was, but I’m sorry.”
“Are you for real?” Jackie said angrily. “What the fucking hell was all that? Don’t you realize this park is the only place Manny and my grandfather can get some fresh air?”
“I didn’t—”
“That punk runner meant it when he said he won’t forget!”
“I don’t like your tone,” Gernshon said. “Or your language.”
“My language!” The corners of Jackie’s mouth tightened. Manny looked at Harry and put his hands over his face. The boy, twenty feet away, suddenly let out a noise like a strangled animal, so piercing all four of them spun around. Two burly teenagers were running towards him. The child’s face crumpled; he looked suddenly much younger. He sprang away, stumbled, made the noise again, and hurled himself, all animal terror, towards the street behind the park bench.
“No!” Gernshon shouted. Harry turned towards the shout but Gernshon already wasn’t there. Harry saw the twelve-wheeler bearing down, heard Jackie’s scream, saw Gernshon’s wiry body barrel into the boy’s. The truck shrieked past, its air brakes deafening.
Gernshon and the boy rose in the street on the other side.
Car horns blared. The boy bawled, “Leggo my suit! You tore my suit!” A red light flashed and a squad car pulled up. The two burly teenagers melted away, and then the boy somehow vanished as well.
“Never find him,” the disgruntled cop told them over the clipboard on which he had written nothing. “Probably just as well.” He went away.
“Are you hurt?” Manny said. It was the first time he had spoken. His face was ashen.
Harry put a hand across his shoulders.
“No,” Gernshon said. He gave Manny his sweet smile. “Just a little dirty.”
“That took guts,” Jackie said. She was staring at Gernshon with a frown between her eyebrows. “Why did you do it?”
“Pardon?”
“Why? I mean, given what that kid is, given—oh, all of it—” she gestured around the park, a helpless little wave of her strong young hands that tore at Harry’s heart. “Why bother?”
Gernshon said gently, “What that kid is, is a kid.”
Manny looked skeptical. Harry moved to stand in front of Manny’s expression before anyone wanted to discuss it. “Listen, I’ve got a wonderful idea, you two seem to have so much to talk about, about . . . bothering, and . . . everything. Why don’t you have dinner together, on me? My treat.” He pulled another twenty dollar bill from his pocket. Behind him he could feel Manny start.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Gernshon said, at the same moment that Jackie said warningly.
“Popsy . . .”
Harry put his palms on both sides of her face. “Please. Do this for me, Jackie. Without the questions, without the female protests. Just this once. For me.”
Jackie was silent a long moment before she grimaced, nodded, and turned with half-humorous appeal to Gernshon.
Gernshon cleared his throat. “Well, actually, it would probably be better if all four of us came. I’m embarrassed to say that prices are higher in this city than in . . . that is, I’m not able to . . . but if we went somewhere less expensive, the Automat maybe, I’m sure all four of us could eat together.”
“No, no,” Harry said. “We already ate.” Manny looked at him.
Jackie began, offended, “I certainly don’t want—just what do you think is going on here, buddy? This is just to please my grandfather. Are you afraid I might try to jump your bones?”
Harry saw Gernshon’s quick, involuntary glance at Jackie’s tight jeans. He saw, too, that Gernshon fiercely regretted the glance the instant he had made it. He saw that Manny saw, and that Jackie saw, and that Gernshon saw that they saw. Manny made a small noise. Jackie’s face began to turn so black that Harry was astounded when Gernshon cut her off with a dignity no one had expected.
“No, of course not,” he said quietly. “But I would prefer all of us to have dinner together for quite another reason. My wife is very dear to me, Miss Snyder, and I wouldn’t do anything that might make her feel uncomfortable. That’s probably irrational, but that’s the way it is.”
Harry stood arrested, his mouth open. Manny started to shake with what Harry thought savagely had better not be laughter. And Jackie, after staring at Gernshon a long while, broke into the most spontaneous smile Harry had seen from her in months.
“Hey,” she said softly. “That’s nice. That’s really, genuinely, fucking nice.”
The weather turned abruptly colder. Snow threatened but didn’t fall. Each afternoon Harry and Manny took a quick walk in the park and then went inside, to the chess club or a coffee shop or the bus station or the library, where there was a table deep in the stacks on which they could eat lunch without detection. Harry brought Manny a poor boy with mayo, sixty-three cents, and a pair of imported wool gloves, one dollar on pre-season sale.
“So where are they today?” Manny asked on Saturday, removing the gloves to peek at the inside of the poor boy. He sniffed appreciatively. “Horseradish. You remembered, Harry.”
“The museum, I think,” Harry said miserably.
“What museum?”
“How should I know? He says, ‘The museum today, Harry,’ and he’s gone by eight o’clock in the morning, no more details than that.”
Manny stopped chewing. “What museum opens at eight o’clock in the morning?”
Harry put down his sandwich, pastrami on rye, thirty-nine cents. He had lost weight the past week.
“Probably,” Manny said hastily, “they just talk. You know, like young people do, just talk . . .”
Harry eyed him balefully. “You mean like you and Leah did when you were young and left completely alone.”
“You better talk to him soon, Harry. No, to her.” He seemed to reconsider Jackie.
“No, to him.”
“Talk isn’t going to do it,” Harry said. He looked pale and determined. “Gernshon has to be sent back.”
“Be sent?”
“He’s married, Manny! I wanted to help Jackie, show her life can hold some sweetness, not be all struggle. What kind of sweetness is she going to find if she falls in love with a married man? You know how that goes! Jackie—” Harry groaned. How had all this happened? He had intended only the best for Jackie. Why didn’t that count more?
“He has to go back, Manny.”
“How?” Manny said practically. “You can’t hit him again, Harry. You were just lucky last time that you didn’t hurt him. You don’t want that on your conscience. And if you show him your, uh . . . your—”
“My closet. Manny, if you’d only come see, for a dollar you could get—”
“—then he could just come back any time he wants. So how?”
A sudden noise startled them both. Someone was coming through the stacks.
“Librarians!” Manny hissed. Both of them frantically swept the sandwiches, beer (fifteen cents), and strudel into shopping bags. Manny, panicking, threw in the wool gloves. Harry swept the table free of crumbs. When the intruder rounded the nearest bookshelf, Harry was bent over Making Paper Flowers and Manny over Porcelain of the Yung Cheng Dynasty. It was Robert Gernshon.
The young man dropped into a chair. His face was ashen. In one hand he clutched a sheaf of paper, the handwriting on the last one trailing off into shaky squiggles.
After a moment of silence, Manny said diplomatically, “So where are you coming from, Robert?”
“Where’s Jackie?” Harry demanded.
“Jackie?” Gernshon said. His voice was thick; Harry realized with a sudden shock that he had been crying. “I haven’t seen her for a few days.”
“A few days?” Harry said.
“No. I’ve been . . . I’ve been . . .”
Manny sat up straighter. He looked intently at Gernshon over Porcelain of the Yung Cheng Dynasty and then put the book down. He moved to the chair next to Gernshon’s and gently took the papers from his hand. Gernshon leaned over the table and buried his head in his arms.
“I’m so awfully sorry, I’m being such a baby. . ..” His shoulders trembled. Manny separated the papers and spread them out on the library table. Among the hand-copied notes were two slim books, one bound between black covers and the other a pamphlet. A Memoir of Auschwitz. Countdown to Hiroshima.
For a long moment nobody spoke. Then Harry said, to no one in particular, “I thought he was going to science museums.”
Manny laid his arm, almost casually, across Gernshon’s shoulders. “So now you’ll know not to be at either place. More people should have only known.” Harry didn’t recognize the expression on his friend’s face, nor the voice with which Manny said to Harry, “You’re right. He has to go back.”
“But Jackie . . .”
“Can do without this ‘sweetness,’ ” Manny said harshly. “So what’s so terrible in her life anyway that she needs so much help? Is she dying? Is she poor? Is she ugly? Is anyone knocking on her door in the middle of the night? Let Jackie find her own sweetness. She’ll survive.”
Harry made a helpless gesture. Manny’s stubborn face, carved wood under the harsh fluorescent light, did not change. “Even him. . . Manny, the things he knows now—”
“You should have thought of that earlier.”
Gernshon looked up. “Don’t, I—I’m sorry. It’s just coming across it, I never thought human beings—”
“No,” Manny said. “But they can. You been here, every day, at the library, reading it all?”
“Yes. That and museums. I saw you two come in earlier. I’ve been reading, I wanted to know—”
“So now you know,” Manny said in that same surprisingly casual, tough voice.
“You’ll survive, too.”
Harry said, “Does Jackie know what’s going on? Why you’ve been doing all this . . .
learning?”
“No.”
“And you—what will you do with what you now know?”
Harry held his breath. What if Gernshon just refused to go back? Gernshon said slowly, “At first, I wanted to not return. At all. How can I watch it, World War II and the camps—I have relatives in Poland. And then later the bomb and Korea and the gulags and Vietnam and Cambodia and the terrorists and AIDS—”
“Didn’t miss anything,” Harry muttered.
“—and not be able to do anything, not be able to even hope, knowing that everything to come is already set into history—how could I watch all that without any hope that it isn’t really as bad as it seems to be at the moment?”
“It all depends what you look at,” Manny said, but Gernshon didn’t seem to hear him.
“But neither can I stay, there’s Susan and we’re hoping for a baby . . . I need to think.”
“No, you don’t,” Harry said. “You need to go back. This is all my mistake. I’m sorry.
You need to go back, Gernshon.”
“Lebanon,” Gernshon said. “D.D.T. The Cultural Revolution. Nicaragua.
Deforestation. Iran—”
“Penicillin,” Manny said suddenly. His beard quivered. “Civil rights. Mahatma Gandhi. Polio vaccines. Washing machines.” Harry stared at him, shocked. Could Manny once have worked in a hand laundry?
“Or,” Manny said, more quietly, “Hitler. Auschwitz. Hoovervilles. The Dust Bowl.
What you look at, Robert.”
“I don’t know,” Gernshon said. “I need to think. There’s so much . . . and then there’s that girl.”
Harry stiffened. “Jackie?”
“No, no. Someone she and I met a few days ago, at a coffee shop. She just walked in.
I couldn’t believe it. I looked at her and just went into shock—and maybe she did too, for all I know. The girl looked exactly like me. And she felt like—I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. She felt like me. I said hello but I didn’t tell her my name; I didn’t dare.” His voice fell to a whisper. “I think she’s my granddaughter.”
“Hoo boy,” Manny said.
Gernshon stood. He made a move to gather up his papers and booklets, stopped, left them there. Harry stood, too, so abruptly that Gernshon shot him a sudden, hard look across the library table. “Going to hit me again, Harry? Going to kill me?”
“Us?” Manny said. “Us, Robert?” His tone was gentle.
“In a way, you already have. I’m not who I was, certainly.”
Manny shrugged. “So be somebody better.”
“Damn it, I don’t think you understand—”
“I don’t think you do, Reuven, boychik. This is the way it is. That’s all. Whatever you had back there, you have still. Tell me, in all that reading, did you find anything about yourself, anything personal? Are you in the history books, in the library papers?”
“The Office of Public Documents takes two weeks to do a search for birth and death certificates,” Gernshon said, a little sulkily.
“So you lost nothing, because you really know nothing,” Manny said. “Only history.
History is cheap. Everybody gets some. You can have all the history you want. It’s what you make of it that costs.”
Gernshon didn’t nod agreement. He looked a long time at Manny, and something moved behind the unhappy hazel eyes, something that made Harry finally let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. It suddenly seemed that Gernshon was the one that was old. And he was—with the fifty-two years he’d gained since last week, he was older than Harry had been in the 1937 of Captains Courageous and wide-brimmed fedoras and clean city parks. But that was the good time, the one that Gernshon was going back to, the one Harry himself would choose, if it weren’t for Jackie and Manny. . .still, he couldn’t watch as Gernshon walked out of the book stacks, parting the musty air as heavily as if it were water.
Gernshon paused. Over his shoulder he said, “I’ll go back. Tonight. I will.”
After he had left, Harry said, “This is my fault.”
“Yes,” Manny agreed.
“Will you come to my room when he goes? To . . . to help?”
“Yes, Harry.”
Somehow, that only made it worse.
Gernshon agreed to a blindfold. Harry led him through the closet, the warehouse, the street. Neither of them seemed very good at this; they stumbled into each other, hesitated, tripped over nothing. In the warehouse Gernshon nearly walked into a pile of lumber, and in the sharp jerk Harry gave Gernshon’s arm to deflect him, something twisted and gave way in Harry’s back. He waited, bent over, behind a corner of a building while Gernshon removed his blindfold, blinked in the morning light, and walked slowly away.
Despite his back, Harry found that he couldn’t return right away. Why not? He just couldn’t. He waited until Gernshon had a large head start and then hobbled towards the park. A carousel turned, playing bright organ music: September 24. Two children he had never noticed before stood just beyond the carousel, watching it with hungry, hopeless eyes. Flowers grew in immaculate flower beds. A black man walked by, his eyes fixed on the sidewalk, his head bent. Two small girls jumping rope were watched by a smiling woman in a blue-and-white uniform. On the sidewalk, just beyond the carousel, someone had chalked a swastika. The black man shuffled over it. A Lincoln Zephyr V-12 drove by, $1090. There was no way it would fit through a closet.
