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Rick gazed at his white roses as he sipped his morning tea. He’d planted them himself. He thought that his garden looked rather old-fashioned—maybe the way it had looked in the 1920s, he mused, smiling. His mind had been wandering to the 1920s a lot lately. He and Sharon had had a good time at Teri’s dance, and the stereotypical costumes—drop-waist dresses, cloche hats, raccoon coats—had made him wonder what life had been like for Marie Tranton before she’d gotten married. Had she gone to lots of dances and parties? He wondered what radio programs she’d enjoyed and if maybe she’d preferred to read.
Sighing, Rick rose to go inside. He didn’t feel like being alone all day. Maybe he’d call Dirk and go play racquetball. Or maybe—
He stopped and turned around, hearing footsteps. Footsteps? Who would be out here? A neighbor's child, maybe?
He decided to investigate, although the fog made it difficult. To his knowledge, no children had ever come here, but he wanted to be sure that no one was trampling the flowers.
He almost ran into the girl looking at his fountain. "Excuse me. The fog is so bad that I almost didn't see you."
She was so glad to see somebody. "I seem to be lost. Can you point me in the direction of the large white house with four columns that faces Meadows Street?”
Rick stared at the girl. If he didn’t know better . . . no, that was silly.
Marie pressed her lips together, looking away from his stare. “Can you help me, sir?”
“Ummm, Meadows Street?” She was wearing a drop-waist dress in an odd design, and her hair was curled tight at the ends and flattened.
“Yes. Do you know the house?”
“No. What’s your name?”
“Marie Tranton. My father is Jefferson Tranton.”
Rick blinked as everything went dark for a second. This wasn’t possible. Someone was playing a joke on him.
His silence was making her uncomfortable. "If you could just point me toward Meadows Street . . ."
He swallowed. “Do you know what year this is?”
She frowned. “What year?”
“Yes. You know, 1850, 1875, 1900 . . . This year is ...”
“1927.”
Rick groaned, dropping his head into his hands. Things like this only happened in science fiction books.
Marie took a step backwards. “I-I should see if I can find my way home.”
“Wait. Listen—I think you’re more lost than you realize.”
“What do you mean?”
How could he tell her what he couldn’t believe himself? “I-I want to show you something. Come read my newspaper.”
“We have our own.” She turned to escape.
He caught her wrist. “Wait. I’m not going to hurt you. You-you don’t know how to get home, do you?” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Just come look at my newspaper. You don’t have to come inside. Just sit on my veranda, and when the fog lifts, we’ll-we’ll see if we can find your house.”
Afraid of becoming even more lost, she hesitantly followed him to some chairs and perched on the edge of one. The man ran inside, and before she could decide whether it was better to wait or leave, he’d returned with a newspaper.
Marie read one headline: "Obama Popularity Index Declining." Neither the words nor the picture meant anything to her. Then she checked the date: May 22, 2011. She raised her eyes to the man's. "This is a joke."
"No. I can't explain it--I don't believe in such things. But if you're not playing a joke, you've somehow come 84 years into the future."
She shook her head. "Such a thing isn't possible. This newspaper . . . false newspapers can be printed."
"Come inside and see the things in my house."
She shrank back, fearful again. "No."
"It's the only way you'll believe me. Do you know what a television is? A blender? A microwave?" When her eyes grew larger with fear, he knelt beside her. "I won't hurt you, Marie. You don't know how to get back home, anyway. Just trust me a little."
She didn't want to. But he was right--she didn't know how to get home. Slowly she rose, not taking the hand he extended but following him inside.
"This is a microwave oven," he told her, patting a white and brown box. "It cooks things really fast--it can heat something like rice in less than a minute." When he saw her incredulous stare, he opened the refrigerator and took out a bowl of mixed vegetables. "Feel."
She touched the cold food. "How does the box work?"
"Frankly, I'm not sure. Invisible waves somehow heat the food from the inside out." He put the bowl in the oven and set it for one minute. "Do you have electricity?"
"My father had our house wired a few months ago."
"Do you have a television?"
"A what?"
"How about a radio?"
"Yes. And electric lights."
She jumped when the microwave beeped. Rick took out the bowl, and when he peeled back the paper, steam came out. He extended the bowl, and she touched the food. It was hot. She looked at him in wonder. "How can it be so hot so fast?"
He shrugged, putting the bowl back in the refrigerator. "We have a lot of conveniences we take for granted. We know what they do and don't think much about how they do it."
He led her into the living room and picked up the remote. "I bet you'll like this." He turned on the TV.
Marie gasped. "A talkie! Like `The Jazz Singer'! In your house!"
"Yeah. I have cable, so I get about 75 channels." He flipped through several, and Marie, transfixed, could only stare in wonder.
Rick turned it off. "Let's see . . . what else might be new to you? You have cars, I guess."
"Automobiles?" She was still staring at the now blank screen. "Yes." She finally tore her gaze from the screen to look around at the strange objects, the unusual furniture. This was the house of a mad inventor or . . . No. How could she have walked from her garden into the future?
Rick squeezed her arm. "I know. I'm confused too. This isn't possible."
She looked up at him. "Is this Meadows Street?"
"No. I don't know where Meadows Street is. This is Stuart Street."
"Oh--I know where that is! It's in the Back Bay, not far from my house!"
Rick looked skeptical. Even if that was true, it was becoming evident that she'd somehow stepped out of 1927 and into 2011.
"Do you have an automobile?"
"Yeah."
"If I give you directions, will you take me there?"
"OK. Let's go."
The automobile in the garage was different from any she'd ever seen. It--"Oh!" Marie exclaimed, jumping at the abrupt grating sound. "What's . . ." She stared at the garage door as it slowly rose. "Who's lifting the door?"
"Nobody. It's electric." He opened the car door for her.
She eyed the interior cautiously. "Don't you have to crank it up?" she asked when he got in without doing so.
"No." He turned the key, put the car in reverse, and backed out of the garage.
She gave him directions, trying not to notice how different all the houses in the neighborhood looked. "There--over there! That's my house!"
She jumped out before he could stop completely and ran up to the front door. Rick dashed after her, grabbing her arm before she could open the door. "We'd better knock."
"But this is my house."
"Let's ring, just in case. If someone you don't know answers, let me do the talking."
Annoyed, she stood straight with eagerness as he pushed a button that she had never seen before. A woman opened the door. "May I help you?"
"Mrs. Tranton?" Rick asked.
"No. I don't know anyone in the neighborhood by that name."
"Thank you--sorry to have bothered you."
Rick had to take Marie's arm and guide her back to the car. "Listen--we'll go to the libr
ary and see what we can find about time travel,” he told her as he slid behind the wheel. “We'll figure out how to get you back. A lot of people are interested . . . Marie, don't cry. We'll get you back."
She'd covered her face with her hands and was sobbing. How had this happened? What had actually happened? Was she losing her mind? Was this some fantastic hoax? Everything was so strange. How was she ever going to get home?
Rick put his key in the ignition but then turned to look helplessly at the terrified girl. "It'll be all right, Marie." He leaned over to hug her.
He was a stranger, and she knew she should push him away. But she needed so much to be held. She cried until she had no more tears, and then she sat up, sniffing and wiping her eyes.
Rick handed her his handkerchief. "It'll be all right," he repeated softly.
She took the handkerchief and blew her nose. "Do you have a mirror?" He pulled her visor down. She used the mirror to wipe the tears and kohl smudges from her face. Glancing at him, she said, "I don't know your name."
"Rick. Rick Newman."
"This must be strange for you as well."
"You can't imagine."
"I think I can." She raised the visor. "Can we go to the library now?" If this wasn't her home, she was going to find a way to get back.