CHAPTER FOUR
Marie sat beside Rick at the library, watching in amazement as titles of books and magazines appeared on a screen in front of him. Whenever he found something that he thought could help them, a machine in front of her would print the title and its number on a piece of paper. She'd thought it would take hours and hours to find a handful of books. But in only 45 minutes Rick had a long list of books and articles. He filled out request forms for the articles and led her into more rows of books than she'd ever seen. He pulled out book after book, stacking them in her arms. When both had as many as they could carry, they went to check them out.
"We have 17 books and 21 articles," Rick told her when they were back at his house with their materials spread out on the floor in front of them. "I don't even know where to start."
"Can we wait a while?"
He looked at her in surprise. "You want to wait? Why?"
"I'm so tired . . . and-and . . . hungry. I didn't eat breakfast."
"I'm sorry--I didn't even think about that. It's nearly 1:30—you must be starved. I'll make us some lunch."
"In your wave oven?"
"Microwave oven." He smiled. "It depends on what you want."
He made them a salad and put two frozen lasagna dinners in the microwave. It wasn't the best lunch he could offer a guest from the 1920s, but it was the only thing he could think of to prepare in the microwave. Marie seemed fascinated by it.
"Lasagna in ten minutes. Incredible." She touched a forkful to her tongue, finding that it was too hot. She blew it and then tasted it. "Delicious."
"Not really. But I'll make you a good dinner."
She enjoyed her lunch, the conversation as well as the food. Rick told her about how easy it was to get on an airplane any day and go anywhere in the world, about machines that made the house warm in winter and cool in summer, about telephones you could carry in your pocket. It was all so amazing. She'd always felt that she was living in very modern times—electricity, automobiles, the new talkie. The wonders Rick described seemed like magic.
They settled down on his sofa after lunch. "I'll start with the books. You do the articles," Rick said. "See if they say anything about the possibilities of time travel and how you'd go about it."
Marie found the articles fascinating . . . but unbelievable. Some were highly theoretical, suggesting that all times existed simultaneously but offering no suggestions on how to move through time. Some cited earlier experiments involving time machines. Some people claimed to have traveled into the past, but they had no real proof. If these scientists were so interested in time travel and believed they'd gone into the past, wouldn't they have known about people like her, people who'd come from the past into the future--their present? But there was no mention of that.
Rick noticed her glazed eyes. "Are you tired?"
"A little."
"Found anything helpful?"
"No. Well, maybe. A number of scientists--men who called themselves scientists, that is--have built different types of machines, but I don't think you and I could do that. They had no really provable success, anyway." She shook her head, turning a page. "I don't understand this at all. There's a man named Stephen Hawking--"
"He's a very well-known scientist."
"Then maybe what this article says could be helpful. But I can't understand it. It has all these strange words--wormholes, white dwarfs, odd things like that. I can't follow this at all."
"Let me see it then." He reached for it and then handed her a book in return. "This book is a little older than the others. It's probably easier to follow."
As he read the article, he understood why she'd found it so difficult. Everything was presented in a way that made it seem like accomplished fact when in reality it was all theory. It was based on Einstein's theory of relativity. These wormholes Marie had mentioned were passages formed around black holes, which were collapsed stars. And it was all based on the assumption that something besides light could travel at the speed of light. In one small paragraph he found that the entire article was theory upon theory: no one had ever found a black hole or a wormhole or anything that could travel faster than the speed of light.
"You didn't miss anything," Rick told Marie, setting the article aside. "Scientists think that it would be possible to travel through time by going through these wormholes the author mentions, but it's all theory. Nobody has ever discovered a wormhole, and none of this stuff has ever been proven."
Marie sighed. "This book isn't hard to follow, but I'm rather skeptical. The author says that thought is the way to travel through time. He says that if you concentrate hard enough on getting to the time you want to visit, you can do it."
"Yeah, I found some ideas about that in the other books I read. Maybe--"
"But that doesn't explain how I came here. I wasn't thinking about 2011."
Rick found his face growing red. He'd been thinking about her. "Still, I think that's our best bet for getting you back to 1927."
"All right." She set aside the papers on her lap, closing her eyes. But seconds later she opened them. "I'm so tired–I don't think I can concentrate right now."
He glanced at his watch. "It's 5:45. Why don't you take a nap while I make dinner, and you can try after we eat."
"All right."
"Come on--you can sleep in a guest room."
"Wait." She pressed her lips together. "May I sleep here on the sofa? I-I'd rather not be so far from you."
"OK." He smiled, going to the linen closet and returning with a sheet. "Here you go. Yell if you need anything."
He went to search through the refrigerator and the cabinets. Barbecued chicken, baked potatoes, broccoli with cheese sauce . . . that should be OK. Dessert . . . hmmm. She'd probably like chocolate. There wasn't time to make anything, so chocolate ice cream would have to do.
He still couldn't believe that this had happened. He didn't believe in extraterrestrials, he didn't believe in ghosts, and he certainly didn't believe that people could travel through time. But here she was.
His mind reeled with the implications and unreality of it all. And the emotion that permeated his jumbled thoughts was guilt. He'd been preoccupied with thoughts of Marie ever since he'd seen her picture. Was it possible that his thoughts had somehow brought her here? But even if that were true, how could he have known that thinking about someone would cause her to appear? He'd loved studying history in school, and Abraham Lincoln had never appeared.
He scowled at the chicken as he took it from the oven. How was he going to help her get back? He didn't have much faith--
Marie's scream almost made him drop the chicken. Depositing the pan on the stove, he ran to the living room. She was sitting up, gasping for breath, a look of terror on her face. "What's wrong?" he asked, hovering over her.
"I want to go home! I don't belong here--I want to go home!" Her heart was beating wildly, and she was having a hard time catching her breath. The fear and panic that had faded with fatigue and the novelty of it all were suddenly back full force, and all she knew was that she was far from home and from everything she knew.
"Calm down. Calm down, Marie." He sat down, drawing her into his arms.
His embrace made her feel secure enough to swallow her fear. When her breathing had returned to normal, she pulled back to look into his eyes. "I want to go home."
"OK." He stroked her hair. "Why don't you close your eyes and just think about home? I won't touch you or say a word."
"All right." She closed her eyes and began thinking about Davis and how it felt to dance with him. She thought about her mother and father and brother and how they'd laughed and talked at meals before her brother had been disowned. She thought about Tom and the speakeasy.
She opened her eyes to see Rick watching her anxiously. She swallowed. "I'm still here."
"I'm sorry."
"Maybe I should go walk in the garden. That's h
ow I got here, so that's probably the best way to get back."
"That's a good idea, but it's getting late. You shouldn't be wandering around out there in 1927 or 2011. Why don't you wait until tomorrow morning?" He smiled, taking her hand. "Come on--dinner's almost ready."
She enjoyed the meal he'd prepared, and her eyes grew wide with delight when he set dessert in front of her. "I love chocolate ice cream!" she exclaimed.
"I'm not surprised." He smiled as she ate with relish. Every woman he knew loved chocolate, and it was rather comforting to think that there were some things that transcended time.
After they'd finished their ice cream, Rick rose and began to clear the table. Marie stood as well, saying, "I'll wash the dishes."
"No thanks--I have a dishwasher."
"A maid?"
"No." He chuckled. "Watch." He quickly loaded the dishwasher, poured in the soap, and turned it on. "The door is locked, and hot water will blast the dishes."
She blinked. "How?"
He laughed. "I have no idea."
After listening to the water in the machine for a few moments, she turned to Rick with a shy smile. "Can we watch a picture?"
"What kind of picture?"
"What kind are playing? I like romances more than anything."
"Oh--you mean a movie. Let me think." He didn't have a big collection of movies, and he didn't think it would be a good idea to take her out to rent one right now. "Why don't we see what's on television?"
"The box?"
"Yes."
"Don't you watch talkies on it?"
"Well, sort of. The programs aren't like movies--well, some of them are. Most programs are shorter--half an hour or an hour." He went to get the TV guide and found the listing for Saturday evening. A western had come on at 9:00. That would be a good place to begin, since it was set before 1927. "I think you'll like this western," he told her, turning on the TV with the remote.
She stared at the little box in his hand. "Did that box make the picture appear?"
"Yeah."
"How?"
He shrugged. "I don't--"
"Know." She laughed. "What happens if these things break?"
"I call someone to fix them."
"Oh--so there is somebody who knows how they work."
"Yeah." He grinned. "Just not me.”
He turned up the sound on the TV and flipped to the western. Marie watched as a beautiful woman listened to a man's heart and then went home to dinner with her family and then kissed her husband when they were alone. It was all so real! It looked as if they lived in a small western town and were a real family. "Are that woman and man really married?" she whispered.
"No. She's married to the show's producer, I think. It's her fourth marriage."
"Fourth!" She didn't know anybody who'd been widowed three times.
Before her eyes, the scene changed completely. A man was in the shower, and someone was singing. There were quick images of a woman in the shower, then a little girl, now the mother was wrapping a towel about herself, now she was toweling the girl's hair . . .
Marie tore her eyes from the picture to stare at Rick. "What is that?"
"What? The commercial? It's an ad--an advertisement for soap."
"An advertisement? People wear nothing but towels in advertisements?"
"Afraid so. I guess we're used to it. Most people don't pay much attention to the commercials." If she was shocked by that commercial, he'd have to be careful about what movies he let her watch.
She sat spellbound until 10:00, drinking in the commercials as well as the program. "Is that the end of the picture?" she asked in disappointment as the closing credits appeared.
"Yeah. Are you sleepy?"
"No. I wish that we could see another picture."
"Let's see what's on now."
"You mean there's another picture now?"
He laughed. "There's something on 24 hours a day."
"Really?" She beamed with delight. "Is there something funny playing?"
He found an "I Love Lucy" rerun listed and changed channels. For the next hour he got more pleasure from watching Marie watch the program than he could possibly have gotten from the program itself. She didn't take her eyes off the screen, and because it was free of sexual innuendo, she understood most of the comedy.
"That was wonderful," she sighed when the show was over. "Imagine--being able to see a picture in your own house whenever you want."
"That's another thing we take for granted. Lots of times I have it on when I'm reading and don't pay any attention to it."
"Why would you have it on if you're reading?"
"Just for the sound. So I won't feel alone."
"Oh. Does your family live nearby?"
"My sister lives in Charlestown, but my parents live in Florida."
"You must get lonely often."
"Sometimes."
She gave him the same shy smile that had accompanied her request to see a picture. "Could we have some hot cocoa?"
"Sure."
"Heated in the microwave oven?"
He laughed. "Yeah."
She began yawning as she finished her chocolate. She looked at Rick with sudden concern. "I-I suppose I must spend the night here."
"I have a guest bedroom."
"I-I have no night clothes or . . . or . . ."
"I'll find you something. If you're finished, I'll take you upstairs."
Although it was summer, he decided he'd better dig out the shirt to the winter pajamas his mother had bought him. It was thicker than a summer shirt and would give her a greater sense of modesty. Still, she stared at the shirt in her hand before raising her eyes to his. "This-this won't even cover my knees!"
"There's no one to see you. Here." He took a bathrobe from his closet. "You can wear this over it until you get in bed and when you get up. Would you like to take a bath?"
"Yes, please."
He led her to the bathroom and turned on the water. "Here's a towel and washcloth," he said, taking them from the closet and handing them to her. "Do you need anything else?"
"No, thank you."
"If you need anything, just yell." He smiled. "Goodnight, Marie."
"Goodnight."
When he was gone, she listened at the door. The rug that covered the entire house made it impossible to detect his footsteps, but after several seconds she felt secure enough to undress. It wasn't that she didn't trust him; she just felt ill at ease disrobing with a man she wasn't related to just inches away.
She took off her dress and laid it carefully over the commode. Then she removed the binding that kept the straight line of her dress from being spoiled. She should wash all her underclothes, since they were the only ones she had. But where would she hang them? Surely there was a place in the bedroom.
She turned off the faucet and stepped into the warm water. At the moment this all seemed more like a dream than a nightmare. An electric machine that washed dishes, the microwave oven, moving pictures in the house all day long . . . who could ever have imagined such things? But it was all so strange. She'd walked 84 years into the future. She'd spent the entire day alone with a man she'd never met before.
She'd . . .
She frowned for a minute, trying to see all this from his point of view. It must be as strange for him as it was for her--a woman from the past had walked into his garden. He didn't believe in such things any more than she did, but he'd done his best to help her get back. And he'd been so kind and considerate, introducing her to the marvels of his time, seeing to her comfort, holding her when she was frightened . . .
He really was very handsome, she mused, sinking deeper into the water. She'd been too preoccupied to really think much about it, but now she reflected on his lovely blue eyes, his perfect features, his smile. And he was so kind. Her own betrothed fled at even a hint of tears, but Rick had held her and stroked her hair. That was a highly
improper action, of course, but then, this was a situation for which no etiquette had ever been designed. And besides, it had felt so good.
The water was cooling, so she rapidly bathed, washed her clothes, and stepped out of the tub. The bath towel was big and fluffy and felt wonderful against her skin. She looked askance at the night shirt, however. She'd never worn such a thing. When she put it on, she found that it fit her like a tent. But oddly enough, she liked it. The big bathrobe almost reached her ankles, and she felt quite comfortable as she picked up her dress and wet clothing and went across the hall to the bedroom.
She found hangers in the closet and hung her clothes there. But once she was in bed, the dreamlike feeling dissolved. She was far, far away from home, in a strange place, and she didn't know if she'd ever get back. Tears trickled down her cheeks as she drew her knees up under the covers, her back against the headboard. She was too frightened to go to sleep. Walking in the garden was no longer safe--was sleeping? Would she wake up to--
A knock at the door startled her. "Y-yes?"
"Can I come in?"
She pulled the covers higher. "Yes."
Rick opened the door. "I saw the light on and wondered if something was wrong." He stepped closer. "You're crying! What's wrong?"
"Nothing new. I-I'm frightened, Rick."
He gazed down into those huge, shimmering hazel eyes and felt his heart melt. "It'll be all right, sweetheart." He sat down on the edge of the bed and drew her into his arms. "We'll get you back home. And until we do, I'll take care of you. I promise."
She drew comfort from his embrace for a few minutes. Then she drew back, trying to smile. "Why are you so kind?"
"A pretty girl from 1927 wandered into my garden. I could hardly put her out on the street."
"But it's more than that." She wiped her eyes. "You took me to the library, and you entertained me, and you made me laugh. And-and you held me to make me feel better." She slipped her hand into his, something she never would have done in 1927. "This has to be as strange for you as it is for me. But you've treated me so well, almost-almost as if you knew me."
He looked down at the small hand in his. "I, um, I-I've read a lot about the 1920s. When I finally realized that you really were from 1927, I-I thought it would be interesting to talk to someone from the ‘20s." He looked up with a smile. "What do beautiful 23-year-old girls do for fun in 1927?"
"It depends on the 23-year-old girl." She returned his smile. "Some like garden parties and cotillions. I like speakeasies. And I want to go to Hollywood."
He laughed. "Why?"
"It's so romantic--the moving pictures and the lovers and all the excitement. Is Hollywood still like that?"
"Well, there are still movies and lovers and excitement, but I wouldn't call it romantic."
"Why not?"
"Everyone takes drugs and gets drunk and has affairs."
"Oh."
She looked so chagrined that he regretted having spoiled her illusions. "Hey, don't look so sad." His thumb stroked her cheek. "If you were going to be around for a while, I'd find someplace exciting to take you."
She smiled then. "That's so thoughtful. But I suppose I won't have the opportunity, will I?"
"Nope. You're going home tomorrow." That thought made him sad. "Listen, Marie, do me a favor when you get back."
"What?"
"Really think about-about your marriage."
Her mouth fell open. "Why?"
"You're so fun-loving and free-spirited. Marriage to-to . . . certain types of men can . . . change that." He squeezed her hand. "Just think about it, OK?"
She nodded. Last night--had it been only 24 hours ago?--she'd considered that. Davis would never let her go to a speakeasy, much less to Hollywood. But he was so handsome and had many other wonderful qualities, and she was in love with him.
"Why don't you try to get some sleep?" Rick suggested.
"Can I leave the light on?"
"Sure. Why don't I go get a book and sit in here and read until you go to sleep?"
"That's not necessary . . . "
He turned back to look at her. "Would you rather I didn't?"
She smiled. "I'd rather that you did."
He returned with a novel that he pretended to read. His mind was replaying all the day's events, and he kept peering at Marie over the top of the book. She'd washed her makeup off, and she looked like a child, her lashes dark against smooth, rosy skin, one small hand beneath her cheek. She was such an innocent young woman and was, as he’d read, vibrant and fun-loving. Even her natural fear of having walked into the future was more often than not suppressed by her sense of adventure. He wanted to protect her, now and in the past.
When he was sure she was asleep, he went to his own room and took out the pages he'd copied before his sister’s dance. Marie Tranton, born 1904 . . . It didn't tell the date of her death. That was odd--he was sure it had been in this section.
His heart began racing as he scanned those pages. There was no mention at all of her death--or of her marriage. The only information was her date of birth, the names of her parents and brother, and the general family history.
He knew that the other information had been there before, and after his mind had completely rejected the impossible--that the print had changed when Marie had stepped from 1927 into 2011 (another impossibility)--he rapidly considered the implications of such an impossibility. Maybe the information about the rest of her life wouldn't appear until she returned. And maybe she wouldn’t marry Davis when she returned. What she did here might have an impact on how her life progressed in the past.
Rick closed his eyes. He wasn't used to theoretical reasoning. But there was one thing he was sure of: that sweet girl asleep in the next bedroom wasn't going to return to a life of misery if he could help it.