Bob depletes the lift in the balloon till we settle to the ground with a thump. He hands Mym the cord as he vaults out of the gondola with some corkscrew stakes in his hand. I swing over the basket edge and the others follow me out.
Blake is smiling. He slaps me on the back. “We made it!” He turns and hugs Francesca. She’s smiling, too. We gather in a circle.
“It’s just one more short hop and you’re home,” Bob says as her returns from anchoring the balloon.
I reach out and shake his hand. “Bob, you’re a lifesaver. Seriously. How can we ever repay you?”
He smacks me on the shoulder. “It’s no trouble. Any friends of the Quickly’s are friends of mine. You don’t owe me anything. I’ve gotten plenty of help along my way too.”
Francesca steps up and gives him a hug. She then turns to Mym and hugs her, as well. “Thank you so much for helping us.”
“I’ve got something for you,” Cowboy Bob says. He walks to the gondola and leans over the edge into one of the storage areas. When he returns, he hands Francesca a small crystal fob and an envelope. “I found this anchor for you last night when I was going through my stuff from 2009. It’s off the ceiling fan chain in the office. It’s not till about two months from now, but if you guys run into trouble for some reason, come back and see me. I’ll make a point of stopping back by 2009 on my return trip.”
“Where are you off to now?” I ask.
“Since we’re up this far anyway, I might go farther and check out the London Olympics in 2012, or maybe Rio in 2016. I heard that one is a great time.”
“Bob is a big Olympic badminton fan, in case you were wondering,” Mym says.
“Who isn’t?” I smile. Bob grins back. I turn to Mym. “And will we be seeing you again, ever?” I try to sound casual.
“I’ll get your addresses.” Mym pulls out her MFD and speaks to it. “Catalog addresses.” She holds the device up. “Here. Just say them out loud and I’ll have them all.”
We each speak our contact info and she records it and stuffs the device back into her pocket.
“Do you have your anchor?” Cowboy Bob asks.
“Yeah, I have it,” Francesca says. She holds up the piece of wood from the clock.
“It’s about this high up,” Mym says, and holds her hand in front of her chest. “I can hold it up for you. That works the best.”
“You need to degravitize that sucker,” Bob says.
Mym reaches into the back pocket of her jeans and pulls out a cylindrical device about the size of a mini mag-light. Instead of a flashlight bulb, the tip has an open, cupped end. The device is silver but has a clear sight glass built into the handle.
“I’ll show you how to use this,” Mym says. “It doesn’t really get rid of gravitites, as much as relocates them.”
“It basically just yanks them out, so you don’t want to do it to anything living or organic,” Bob says.
“Yeah, dead wood like this is okay, since you aren’t that worried if the interior cells get a little damaged. It’s bad news for living cells though. Gravitites really don’t like to come back out of stuff,” Mym says. “So don’t leave it on in your pocket.”
I smile. “You sound like your Dad.”
Mym takes the piece of wood and sets it on the ground. She points out two small lights on the side of the device. One is red, the other is green. “The device has a built in temporal spectrometer of sorts. It won’t read frequency, but it will read gravitite concentration. You hold it up to your potential anchor and push the test button.” She demonstrates it on the wood. The red light comes on. “Red light shows the object still has gravitites in it.” She aims the device at a rock sitting near the chunk of wood. The green light comes on. “Green means it’s gravitite free. So the goal is, turn on the de-gravitizer function, and keep sweeping the outside of your anchor until all the gravitites are transferred. It basically just collects them into the chamber inside.”
She shakes the device and the blue solution in the sight-glass sloshes around. “Once it starts getting full, it takes longer to get stuff out because of how dense the gravitites get, but this one still has plenty of room. Eventually you can find a gravitizer to store them in, for when you want to reuse them on more stuff. That gets a little complicated, though, so you’re gonna wanna get some help with that.” She hands Francesca the de-gravitizer. “You want to try it?”
“I just point it at the wood?”
“Yeah, you have to put it right up against it for the removal part. But you can test it after from a few inches away.”
Francesca puts the cupped end of the device against the smooth surface of the wood. Mym squats down to help her. “You just move the safety cover over with your thumb and press that button.”
The device hums quietly when Francesca pushes the button.
“Ooh, I can feel something happening.”
“That’s probably the solution inside reacting to the new gravitites,” Mym says. “So just move it around the surface of the wood. Try to cover each area and then we’ll test it again.”
Francesca slowly sweeps back and forth over the wood, still keeping the cupped end touching it. When she pulls away and pushes the test button, the red light flickers a few times.
“Looks like you’re almost there. Must be a few left,” Mym says.
Francesca repeats the process on the back side of the wood and then hits the front again. This time, when she pushes the test button, the green light shines brightly.
“Nice job,” Mym says.
Francesca stands back up and nudges me. “I get a gold star in degravitizing.”
“You can keep that one,” Mym says.
Francesca double-checks the safety on the DG before she slips it into her pocket. “Thank you.”
“So that’s ready for use now,” Cowboy Bob says. “You guys ready to see home?”
“Very,” Blake replies. He’s grinning again.
Mym holds up the piece of wood with her fingers on the edges, a little lower than chest high. I set my chronometer and compare it to Blake’s, then step up next to Francesca. Blake sandwiches her on the other side. We both extend our chronometer hands to touch our fingertips to it. Francesca grips my right arm as I extend it toward my chronometer.
Bob and Mym are both watching us from beyond the board. “Tell St. Pete I said hi,” Bob says.
“Thank you for this,” I reply.
Mym looks me in the eye and winks. “Be good.”
We push the pins.
18
“When you run into yourself from another time, don’t worry too much about what you’re going to say. The universe won’t collapse if you fail to say exactly the right thing at the right time. Feel free to give yourself a few nice compliments, too. It’s not every day that you can surprise yourself with some sincere admiration.”
-Excerpt from the Journal of Harold Quickly, 1997
The clock says 6:30.
“We did it!” Francesca screams.
We’re immersed in the sounds and smells of urban daytime traffic again. Blake spots a woman on the street, opening her car door a couple dozen yards away, and sprints over to her. Francesca wraps her arms around me and hugs me with vigor. “We made it!” She leans her head back and looks me in the face. “We really did it!”
We’re back.
Blake returns from his brief conversation. “June 10th, 2009.” He beams. “We’re home!”
“Wow. We’re really here,” I say. We got it right.
“I’ve never been so happy to see downtown St. Pete in my life,” Francesca says. “I’m sorry for anything I ever said bad about you,” she yells with her arms wide open to the buildings around us.
Blake’s arm shoots up, and he points to the street. “That’s a cab.” The next moment, he’s sprinting into the street, heedless of the speed of the oncoming maroon mini van.
“Blake!” I shout. Oh God.
“You’re gonna get run over!” Francesca shrieks.
I break into a run to get to him. Blake holds his arms out to stop the oncoming traffic. The driver of the van blares the horn but slows and stops. Cars in other lanes continue to speed past.
“You fucking crazy, man? What’re you doing?” the driver yells, sticking his head out the window.
“I need a ride,” Blake says.
“Use your damn phone and call like everybody else!” the driver says. “I already have a fare.” I reach the curb and spot two middle-aged women in the back of the van, peering around the driver’s seat to get a better look at Blake.
Blake walks around the side of the van and looks past the driver’s head to address the passengers. “I’ll give you . . .” He reaches into his pocket and grabs out his wad of cash. “ . . . four hundred dollars for your cab.”
I can’t hear their response, but the next moment the sliding door opens and the two women emerge. The heavyset woman who descends second slings her purse onto her shoulder. “You don’t have to ask me twice!”
Blake meets them around the passenger side of the van and hands them a stack of bills. He then opens the passenger door and climbs in next to the cabby.
“I guess we’re going,” Francesca says from behind me, and climbs into the sliding door. I throw my backpack on the floor at her feet and then follow her in and slam the door.
“Thirteenth Avenue North and Twentieth Street,” Blake says. “Hurry, and I’ll make it worth your while.” The cab driver has found his motivation, and says nothing more as he gets moving.
The clouds grow darker as we approach the area around the softball fields. I eye the clock on the cabby’s dash. 06:38.
“We were at the field till what? 7:15 maybe?” I ask.
“If that,” Francesca says.
“We should be safe to get to Mallory’s as long as we don’t go by the field,” I say.
“I honestly don’t even care right now,” Blake says. “I just want to get there.”
Blake’s left leg is bouncing up and down in anticipation in the front seat. Francesca leans back into the cushions of the bench seat next to me. “I can’t believe we’re back. It’s so surreal.” She holds her hands to her face. “I can’t wait to see my own house again.”
“No one is going to believe us,” I say.
“It doesn’t matter,” Blake says. He leans forward to look at the stoplight, willing it to turn green.
“I wonder if Carson and Robbie are here yet,” I say. “We never really decided on a specific place to meet.”
“Maybe they’ll be waiting for us when we get home,” Francesca says.
“We could go by their places after Mallory’s to see if they are there,” I say.
“I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere after Mallory’s,” Blake says, pulling out the ring box from his pocket.
Francesca’s eyes widen. “Oh my God, are you going to propose to her right now?”
“I’m not waiting a single second longer than I have to,” Blake says.
“I think that’s your cue to drive faster,” I say to the cabby.
“You guys been gone a while?” the cabby replies.
“Yeah, you could say that.”
I catch a glimpse of the softball field light poles as we cruise down Ninth Avenue. They are already illuminated because of the darkening cloud cover. One of the clouds lights up from a flash of internal lightning.
When we pull up to Mallory’s house on Thirteenth Avenue, the clock on the dash reads 06:52. Blake is out the door before the van even comes to a complete stop. He heads for Mallory’s door without looking back. I give Francesca my hand as she steps out of the van and then lean down to address the cabby. I pull a hundred dollar bill out of my pocket and hand it through the window to him. He looks at it and nods, and then glances at Blake pounding on Mallory’s door. Maybe he’s wishing I were Blake. He’s still not getting four hundred dollars.
“Here, give my card to your friend there,” the cabby says. “I’m Roger. You guys ever need another ride, you give me a shout.”
I take the business card and turn in time to see Mallory’s face as she answers her door.
That’s a good smile.
Blake is frozen for a moment as he looks at her, but then grabs her with both arms and pulls her to his chest. Francesca and I walk closer, stopping near the front of Mallory’s car in the driveway. Blake’s face is buried in Mallory’s hair, but she has her head toward us. She opens her eyes and smiles at Francesca and me.
“I thought you guys had softball,” she says, looking from me back to Blake as he loosens his arms.
“We did,” I say. “Bad weather.”
“Mallory, I have something to say to you.” Blake locks his eyes on hers.
Francesca leans toward me and whispers, “Should we be standing here for this?”
“Too late now.” I smile.
Blake drops to one knee and shows her the ring box.
“Oh my God.” Mallory puts her hands to her face.
“Mallory, I’ve loved you since the day I first met you,” Blake begins. “I should have told you a million times a day. There’s not a single place on this earth I would rather be than with you. I’ve been through a lot the last couple of weeks, and the thing it taught me, is that I don’t want to spend a single minute more of my life without you.”
“Aww,” Francesca murmurs next to me.
He opens the box. “Mallory Watson. Will you marry me?”
Mallory’s mouth is hanging open as she takes the ring box from Blake’s fingers. It takes her a couple of seconds to respond.
“Yes . . . Yes, yes, I will. Oh my God. When did you—”
Blake is up and kissing her. After a few moments, I realize they’re not coming up for air anytime soon.
“Maybe we should give them a minute,” I say. Francesca nods and turns toward the street. We make a left at the sidewalk. Francesca uses the back of her hand to wipe away a tear. “Are you crying?”
“What? Of course I’m crying.” She sniffs. “That was really sweet.”
When we get a couple of houses down, I glance back to Mallory’s porch. They’re still at it. “Let’s walk around the block.”
“How are we going to get home?” Francesca says.
“Maybe once all the mushiness has died down, Blake and Mallory can give us a ride,” I say.
“Oh. Wait.” Francesca stops walking. “Aren’t our cars parked at the softball field?”
“Oh yeah,” I say. “That’s not too far to walk . . .” At that moment we start to get hit with a few large raindrops. Down the street, heavier precipitation is moving toward us. “Damn. I guess we should have packed an umbrella in this backpack.”
“I don’t really care. I’ll get soaked,” Francesca says.
We turn toward the softball fields and have made it about a block when the rain catches up to us. Squinting against the droplets, I watch a vehicle approaching.
“That looks a lot like Blake’s Jeep,” Francesca says.
“Yeah, it kinda does,” I reply, hoping we don’t get splashed by it.
Not that it’s going to matter. Rain or puddles do the same job.
The Jeep draws closer and I see a dark-haired man behind the wheel and recognize the surf shop sticker on the windshield.
No. This can’t be happening.
“Holy shit!” I blurt out.
“What?” Francesca says.
I don’t have to explain. The Jeep slows down and comes to a stop next to us. Blake has the Bimini top on the Jeep, but the sides are open and the doors are off, so he’s starting to get wet too.
“What are you guys doing, walking in the rain?” Blake asks. He’s wearing his softball clothes and he has shoved his bat bag between the seats to shield it from the rain.
Francesca’s mouth is hanging open. I grab her by the shoulders. She looks at me but her eyes drift back to Blake sitting in the Jeep. Rivulets of rainwater are running down her temples. I touch her face and bring her eyes back to me.
>
“Get back to the house. Get him out of there. I don’t care what you have to say, just get him out! I’ll be back for you.”
Francesca’s eyes focus on my mouth as I’m talking but she remains speechless. I drop my hands from her shoulders and take a step back. I take the backpack off and push it into her hands.
“We will fix this. I’ll come back for you.” I leave her standing there and dash around the back of the Jeep to climb into the passenger side. Francesca has backed away a couple of steps and is staring vacantly past the back of the Jeep.
“Is everything all right?” Blake asks, looking from me back to Francesca.
“Yeah, keep driving. We have to go.”
Blake shifts into gear and starts rolling, still keeping his eyes on Francesca.
“We need to get away from this street,” I say.
“I was headed for Mallory’s,” Blake says.
“Yeah, you can’t do that right now.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Um, it’s . . . supposed to be a surprise.”
“A surprise?” Blake looks over to me and then into the rearview mirror, where the figure of Francesca is slowly dwindling in his vision. “Why is Francesca acting like someone just kicked a puppy?”
“She was just upset the plan isn’t going right.”
That’s not really a lie.
We make it to a stop sign. “So where am I going?” Blake asks.
“Do you trust me?” I ask.
“Yeah, of course. You’re kind of weirding me out right now, but yeah. I trust you.”
“Let me drive.”
Blake looks at my face for a moment, and then unbuckles his seat belt. “Okay.” He slides out into the rain. I scoot over into the driver’s seat. As soon as he’s in, I start rolling.
I cut out to the main street and head north. Why are there two of him? And what am I going to do now?
“Can you at least give me a clue about what the surprise is?” Blake says.
“It’s kind of going to blow your mind,” I say. I turn right and head for Fourth Street. I need something to do with him. “Are you hungry?”
In Times Like These Boxed Set Page 36
