The awnings on the windows have changed color to a brilliant blue, and a number of children’s toys are strewn in the yard, along with a Big Wheel tricycle. The gutters of the house still have Christmas lights strung along them. Not getting any response from the bell, Blake pounds on the front door. A few moments later, Mrs. Watson opens it, looking younger than I’ve ever seen her. She smiles pleasantly and takes a brief look at Blake and me on her porch, then glances at the others standing on her front lawn.
“Hello, Mrs. Watson . . .” Blake begins, obviously shaken by her youthfulness and lack of recognition of any of us. “I’m looking . . . is Mallory here?”
“Mallory?” Mrs. Watson responds with a confused expression. “She’s sleeping. I just put her down for a nap. I’m sorry, who are you?”
Blake stares at her as if willing her to recognize him. “I’m Bla—”
“Pardon me,” I interject. “I think we have the wrong house. I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am.” The words feel strange coming out. I think she’s younger than me. I grab Blake by the arm to pull him off the porch. Blake looks awkwardly at Mrs. Watson, at a loss for words. She gives us a half-smile and watches me turn Blake around before she closes the door.
Francesca walks to Blake and holds his other arm. Carson and Robbie follow us back onto the sidewalk, where we stand in silence for a moment. Blake is staring, shell-shocked, into space. A middle-aged man with a Labrador walks around us and begins to walk away, when Robbie calls out to him, “Excuse me, sir?” The man turns. “I’m sorry, but do you happen to know the date today?”
“It’s the twenty-ninth,” the man replies.
“Of . . . June?”
“December.” The man looks at Robbie curiously now. He turns and continues walking a few more steps before Carson calls out to him this time.
“Sir, I’m sorry, but could you tell us the year?”
The man looks as if he’s going to say something sarcastic, but seeing the seriousness of all of our faces, he simply replies, “1985.” And continues walking.
It’s true.
No one says anything for a minute as we look at our surroundings with a new sense of wonder. Francesca finally breaks the silence. “It’s no wonder I’m cold. It’s freaking December.” Robbie rubs Francesca’s bare arms, which indeed have goose bumps on them, though the temperature can’t be much lower than seventy.
“This is the weirdest day of my life.” Carson holds his hands to his head.
“I call bullshit,” Robbie says. “That guy was in on it.”
“You saw Mrs. Watson,” I say.
“I never really met her before.” Robbie crosses his arms. “Maybe she got a facelift.”
“We’re in the eighties.” Francesca points her finger toward two kids walking down the sidewalk on the other side of the street. “No little kids are brave enough to dress like that in 2009.”
The two boys are wearing T-shirts and high cut running shorts with stripes down the sides. One has a pair of blue striped tube socks stretched almost to his knees. The other has the same socks in red. Both have backpacks and one is carrying a basketball under his right arm.
“Hey, kid!” Francesca yells. She walks across the street toward them. The two stop short on the sidewalk, unsure of what to make of this young Latina woman headed their direction. I follow her out of curiosity. The boys look to be elementary school age.
“How old are you, kid?” Francesca addresses the taller one in the blue socks. The boys exchange unsure glances. “You’re not in trouble or anything. I just have a couple questions for you.”
“I’m ten,” the boy replies.
“I’m ten and a half,” the shorter boy chimes in.
“What’s your favorite band?” Francesca says, still addressing the tall boy.
“I don’t know.”
“Doesn’t even have to be a favorite. Just name a band you like.”
It’s the shorter boy who responds. “John’s mom doesn’t let him listen to much, but I like Springsteen.”
“I can listen to stuff!” The tall boy shoves his friend’s shoulder. “Remember, it was me who got that one album from my brother when I slept over at your house.”
“That was Wham. That doesn’t count.”
Francesca turns to me. “See? They know about Springsteen and Wham. No ten year-old in 2009 knows Wham.” She nods to the shorter kid and heads back to the others.
“Was that it?” the tall boy asks me.
“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks, guys.”
As the boys walk past me, the shorter one switches the basketball to his left hand, and with his right hand, holds his fingers to his ear like a phone. He mouths, “Call me” to Francesca. She smiles, but her eyes are still serious.
When I get back to the other side of the street, I notice Robbie has both of his arms extended toward the sky. “Hey, man. What’re you doing?”
“We’re dreaming,” Robbie says. “That’s the only logical explanation. And if I’m dreaming, I should be able to fly.”
Carson smiles. “How’s that going for you, dude?”
Robbie looks back at us and slowly lowers his arms. “Shit. What are we going to do now?”
As I cross my arms, I take the opportunity to pinch myself. Damn. I’m not dreaming either.
Robbie speaks up again. “If we’re really in the eighties, and Mallory is a little kid, then we would be, too.”
“So we can’t go home?” Francesca continues the thought.
“I don’t know who was living in my apartment in 1985, but they probably don’t want company,” I say.
“Our parents are going to freak out if we show up saying we’re their kids from twenty years from now,” Robbie says.
“My parents aren’t even around here. Neither am I. My family was in Oregon in 1985,” I reply.
“My parents would be in Miami,” Francesca says.
“My parents would be here,” Carson says. “But, if we’re really in 1985, I think we would totally screw stuff up by interacting with ourselves when we were young right? Wouldn’t we change our own lives like Back to the Future?”
“This is really messed up,” Robbie says.
“We have to find a way back.” Blake hasn’t said a word till this response but he becomes alert now. Confronting Mrs. Watson was obviously enough to convince him that my theory is true. “We’re going back.”
“But how did this happen?” Francesca asks.
The blinds on the house move and I catch a glimpse of Mrs. Watson watching us. She has a phone to her ear. “Come on. Let’s get out of here,” I suggest.
Blake gives a longing look at Mallory's house, as if willing her to come walking out the door, but finally turns back to us. We go a couple of blocks without really having a destination.
The realization that we’re actually somewhere other than home quells the conversation. I retreat into my own thoughts, feeling almost guilty that my guess has come true. I cast occasional glances at the faces of my friends to see how they are faring with the news. Blake’s face is the most severe, his gaze unseeing, his mind disconnected from the world around us and likely tarrying with thoughts of the Watson house and Mallory. Francesca has linked arms with Robbie as if anchoring herself to something familiar. I watch the back of Carson’s head as we walk, wondering what might be going on in his mind. When we reach Ninth Street, he turns to face us.
“I’m starving. Was Dairy Inn here in 1985?”
“Yeah, it’s been there for a long time.” Robbie perks up. “I went there as a kid all the time.”
“Let’s walk down that way,” Carson says. “If we see a bunch of kids blabbing on their cell phones, we’ll know we’re just having a bad trip from the lightning or something.
“Does anybody have any money?” Robbie asks. “I left my wallet in my car.
“I have my wallet,” Francesca replies, pulling a small fabric bag from her pocket. “Did they have debit cards in 1985? I don’t have that much cash.”
/> “A card wouldn’t work even if they did,” I reply. “We wouldn’t have any bank accounts yet. I think I have a few dollars in my pocket.” I pull out the inner pocket of my athletic shorts and look inside.
We walk south along Ninth Street, relieved to have a destination, if only briefly. The telephone poles are decorated with holiday banners and the storefronts have occasional Christmas trees in their windows. Carson and Robbie lead the way while Francesca and I hang back to walk with Blake, who is merely trudging along behind. He has the ring box in his hand and is running his thumb across the top of it.
Francesca suddenly stops. “Guys . . . what if we’re dead?” We stop to listen to her. “The last thing I remember before this was that power line. What if that power line killed us?” Her face has gone pale.
“And for an afterlife we got sent to the eighties?” Carson smiles. “Does that make this Heaven or Hell? Ha!” He turns and keeps walking. “Good one, Francesca.”
Francesca narrows her eyes. “Yeah, you’re right, Carson. I forgot. This couldn’t be heaven, because you’re here.”
I smile. I have no idea what’s happened to us, but at least the company is entertaining.
We make it to the outdoor ice cream stand in a few minutes and it looks essentially the same as it always has, but I notice there are no kids with cell phones. Francesca pulls out her money and counts it. “I’ve got thirty dollars. What are we getting?”
I hand her the wad of ones from my pocket as well.
“Some burgers?” Carson suggests, as he looks at the menu.
“Wow, check out the prices!” I run my eyes down the menu board. “At least we get more for our money in the eighties.”
The price for burgers for all five of us comes to nine dollars, and Francesca hands the teenage cashier a ten-dollar bill. The girl takes it and stands there awkwardly for a moment. “Um, is this real?” she inquires.
“What?” Francesca asks, caught off guard.
“I haven’t seen money like this before,” the cashier replies. “I think I have to ask my manager about this.”
Francesca looks at the bill with its peachy coloring and sees the oversized picture of Alexander Hamilton. “Ah, yeah, those are the new ones,” she stammers back. “You know what, I need change anyway. Why don’t you take it out of this one instead.” She hands her twenty to the girl and retrieves the ten-dollar bill. The girl slides the older style twenty into the cash register and hands Francesca her change. Francesca smiles reassuringly, looks at me with wide eyes and turns back to the other guys who are congregated around a picnic table on the side of the stand.
“Well that almost didn’t work,” she says, as she walks up to them. She flashes the new style ten-dollar bill. “How are we going to spend this one?”
“I forgot about that,” Carson responds. “How old was your other money?”
“I think it was like 2003 or something,” Francesca replies. “But luckily she didn’t look at the date.”
“Yeah, last thing we need is to get arrested for counterfeiting while we’re here,” Robbie says.
The burgers come out and we sit at the picnic table eating them and sharing a couple of root beers. Francesca checks her phone, which is still searching for a signal. “I guess we don’t have to call the cops about our cars. We wouldn’t really have much to tell them. ‘Hello officer, we left our cars parked in 2009. Can you help us?’”
I laugh. It feels good to laugh, despite our obvious predicament. I notice Blake doesn’t smile.
“What’re we going to do for a place to stay tonight?” Francesca asks. “I think it’s getting colder.” She shivers in the cool breeze that’s wafting through the parking lot. The sun has dropped in the sky and the temperature has started to come down with it.
“How much money do we have?” Carson asks.
“Twenty-five dollars, but with the new ten it’s more like fifteen,” Francesca says. “Unless we find a way to spend that.”
“I think a hotel is out,” Carson says. “I’m a little scared to think what a fifteen-dollar hotel room would be like, even in the eighties.”
“We need to find somebody who can help us,” Blake says.
“Who do we know that would help us, that would be living here in 1985 and is close by?” I ask.
“What about a teacher or something?” Carson suggests. “Or maybe a family friend? Maybe we can say we’re distant relatives visiting or . . .” He trails off.
An older gentleman and a little girl in a Care Bears jacket are at the window of the stand buying ice cream cones. Robbie is watching them when he suddenly blurts out, “Wait, what did that guy say the date was?”
“December twenty-ninth, 1985,” I respond.
“I would have been . . . four,” Robbie says. “My grandparents died when I was four, but they might still be alive right now.” He talks excitedly. “I could have a chance to talk to my grandparents again before they die!” He looks at me. “I don’t know if that would screw things up as much as seeing our parents, but their house isn’t very far away.”
I consider this possibility.
“How are we going to explain who we are?” Francesca asks.
“What if we just tell the truth?” Robbie suggests. “I know it will sound weird, but it’s true. I’m still their grandson.”
"Are we going to totally screw up your life this way?" I ask.
"I don't see how,” Robbie replies. "I never really knew them that well to start with."
"I’m okay with it,” Francesca says. "Old people always have sweaters.” She rubs her arms and leans into Robbie next to her.
“We need help from someone,” Carson says.
"All right, then we should get going if we’re going to do this.” I arc my burger wrapper into a trashcan a few feet away. "We probably already screwed up the space time continuum or whatever just by being here, so we may as well be warm."
We follow Robbie north and then east into another residential neighborhood. It’s about fifteen minutes later when we finally turn onto our destination street. An alley provides access for the home's garages.
We walk past a set of trashcans that have a Christmas tree lying next to them with only a few strands of tinsel left on it. Robbie sees it and suddenly stops.
“What is it?” Blake asks.
“I just remembered something,” Robbie replies. “My grandma died before Christmas. I remember it. I was happy on Christmas that I still got a present from her, even though she’d died, and I felt so guilty later for thinking that. It’s past Christmas, so she would have died a few weeks ago.”
“How do you think your grandfather is going to be?” Carson asks.
“I don’t know. Probably none-too-good. He didn’t live much longer than my grandma. Mom always said she thought he died of a broken heart. It happened while we were on vacation. We came home early because we heard the news.”
We remain quiet, not wanting to intrude on this moment of Robbie’s.
“Do you want to try a different plan?” Francesca finally asks. “We don’t have to go there.”
Robbie is pensive. “No. We’re already here. Plus, I really would like to see him. I always had so much I wished I could have talked to him about, and this is a second chance. It’s not like these opportunities come along every day.”
He starts walking again and a few garages later, turns into the backyard of an old, Spanish-style home. The garage and house are tan and roofed with terracotta tiles. The lawn is green and healthy but looks like it hasn’t been cut for a month. We follow a flagstone path that connects the garage to a screened-in back porch, topped by a veranda with an iron railing.
"I haven't been here in such a long time," Robbie says. He walks ahead of us and enters the screened porch, stopping at the back door of the house. We file in behind him. Francesca tries unsuccessfully to pull the back of her shirt down to cover the singe on her backside. Carson notes his reflection in the back window and makes a quick attempt to straighten hi
s mussed hair.
The porch is cluttered with lawn care tools and patio furniture. A collection of colorful gnomes stare at me from a shelf like tiny sentinels.
Robbie takes a deep breath and knocks on the door. Inside the house, a dog barks. The barks are distant at first, but grow rapidly louder as the dog makes its way through the house.
"How big is that dog? Francesca asks.
"I remember him being really big," Robbie says. "But then again, I was four."
Francesca takes a precautionary step away from the door and accidentally bumps a small table, toppling a pot of potting soil off the edge. The pot shatters on the tile floor and sends ceramic pieces scattering.
"Oh crap,” she mutters, and scrambles to gather the pieces together. Blake and I are closest, and squat to help her.
The back door of the house opens and a grey-haired man in khaki pants and a light-blue Alligator polo, surveys us from the doorway. He’s barefoot and supporting his right side with a cane. His green eyes travel from my potting soil stained hands to Carson’s red hair and then finally settle on the face of Robbie, who is standing directly in front of him.
“And who might you be?” he inquires, looking into Robbie’s eyes.
A brown-and-white, Border collie mix dog wriggles through the man’s legs and proceeds directly to the three of us gathered around the remains of the flowerpot. He does a cursory sniff of the pile of dirt and licks Francesca in the face.
“Come here, Spartacus!” the man orders. The dog returns to its master’s legs, looking around happily. “Please pardon my vicious watchdog. He’s been lacking in social outlets recently.”
Francesca wipes her face but smiles back at his kindly gaze.
The man looks expectantly at Robbie now and says nothing else. Robbie has stage fright, faced with the awkwardness of explaining our situation. “Um, Grand . . . ah . . . Mr. Cameron,” he stammers. “We’re here because we . . . we are from . . . um, we need some help,” he finally manages. “I’m Robbie, and these are some of my friends.” He gestures to the rest of us. Francesca, Blake and I are now standing, trying to brush the dirt from our hands inconspicuously.
In Times Like These Boxed Set Page 9
