Time Sensitive

by Elyse Douglas

  I shut my eyes, shaking my head. “I know all this,” I snapped. “I don’t need to hear it again.”

  “I’m sorry, Charlotte…”

  I opened my eyes, sudden anger rising. “Alex, what you’re about to do is too risky and immoral. You are going to rupture history. Who knows what chaos could come from it?”

  Alex laughed, but it was a dark laugh. “Look at the chaos we were experiencing every day back in 2018. Look at what’s going on in this city now in 1968. Flower children protesting; students burning draft cards. A pointless war killing thousands of young men. Good men, who are being wasted in those rice patties. I’ve got to try this.”

  “You can’t change history, Alex. It’s already happened.”

  “Charlotte, use your smart head. We’re both here. We’ve already changed it. If you save your family, you will have changed history big time. I’ll do the same with my mission. That’s why we both came here, remember?”

  I looked away, sighing audibly.

  Alex softened his voice. “Look, Bobby Kennedy was riding a wave of change, struggling to put together a coalition of haves and have-nots. They were working tirelessly to end the war in Vietnam, which we know now was an absolute disaster for the United States. RFK was also tackling the problems of race and poverty.”

  I held up a hand. “Alex, had RFK survived and won the presidency, he would have found it nearly impossible to get us out of Vietnam. And withdrawing a half million men from Vietnam would have taken at least a couple of years. Also, regarding poverty, he would have run head-on into organized labor, and they were powerful in those days. Big labor did not want to create low-paying jobs for unskilled workers. That would have threatened the powerful unions. Alex, all I’m saying is that your mission may not produce the results you’re hoping for. Killing Sirhan Sirhan may not fix anything at all, but only make things worse. Anyway, Nixon will most surely be elected, not Bobby Kennedy. You’re taking a big chance.”

  Alex pushed up, glaring down at me with an inflammatory face. “I didn’t come all this way on a chance, Charlotte. I don’t just intend to kill Sirhan Sirhan. I also plan to kill Richard Nixon.”

  He must have seen that my face was blank with shock.

  Alex closed the distance between us and leaned in close. “Yes, Charlotte. Not chance. Action. Don’t you remember the paranoia that pervaded the White House during the administrations of Johnson and Nixon, as public discontent over the Vietnam War grew? Think about how it poisoned everything and everyone. I’m sure you were in the thick of it at the NSA.”

  The hair at my neck was damp and sticky. I licked my dry lips but couldn’t find any words.

  Alex grinned with satisfaction. “Think of it, Charlotte. The Vietnam War will come to an end; the riots will end; there will be no Watergate scandal, and the country will be spared Nixon’s corruption and the humiliation of his resignation. In other words, those turbulent times, which set the stage for our own turbulent times, will have never happened.”

  I stared ahead into unknown distances, pulsing with anxiety.

  Alex squared his shoulders. “You see, it’s not really about politics. No, not really; whether you’re a Republican or a Democrat. It’s about saving the country from itself. I’m sure you remember Eugene McCarthy. He was also campaigning to become the Democratic candidate. I spent hours memorizing his speeches. In one of his best he said,

  ‘I run because this country is now involved in a deep crisis of leadership; a crisis of national purpose—and a crisis of American ideals. It is time to substitute a leadership of hope for a leadership of fear. This is not simply what I want, or what most of us want. It is, I believe, the deepest hunger of the American soul.’”

  I stared coldly at Alex, seeing a sharp, predatory face, and it scared the hell out of me.

  Alex continued. “So you see, Charlotte, it’s about saving the country from its worst instincts. I time traveled so I could help make the world a better place, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.”

  CHAPTER 22

  The knot of fear in my gut didn’t diminish after Alex left my hotel room for the airport. I tossed and turned until mid-morning, finally forcing myself up, calling room service and ordering a light breakfast. While I ate a corn muffin and sipped black coffee, I used the hotel stationary to jot down some ideas.

  Should I contact some of my old colleagues at the NSA and tell them of Alex’s plans? But how could I? A security check of my alias, Charlotte Wilson, would reveal I had no past or present. Charlotte Wilson was a nobody in this time, and my passport would quickly be exposed as a fake. If they somehow tracked me down, they’d lock me up, and I wouldn’t be able to complete my mission: saving my family.

  But I had to do something. The people at TEMPUS had lied to me and used me. If they had told me the true reason I’d been selected, would I still have agreed to time travel? I don’t know. Still, my moral and ethical compass propelled me to act—I had to try to tell someone.

  About an hour later, I decided to contact two colleagues at the NSA anonymously, Kent Reed and Ed Kazenas. I would send them a letter through priority channels, knowing they’d receive it swiftly. Even though we received many such “crazy” letters frequently, as did the CIA and FBI, I had to try to get through. If I worded the letter just right, perhaps if I included specific facts and closed with secret information they would recognize, maybe, just maybe, they would act. Maybe they would contact the FBI, CIA, LAPD and Secret Service, and stop Alex from killing Sirhan and Richard Nixon.

  I purchased stationery and a pen from the gift shop and finished the letter to my colleagues an hour later. I then wrote a short letter to young Charlotte, adding events about her life that only she and I would know. After reading it, I was certain she’d meet me, demanding answers. I would deliver young Charlotte’s letter in person, when the family was away from the house.

  I would have to find a way to have the letter delivered to the NSA, and I didn’t want the letter traceable to me.

  I dressed modestly, grabbed a broad-brimmed hat and sunglasses, and left the hotel.

  I caught a cab and traveled to 16th Street NW to the Hay-Adams Hotel. If anyone tried to locate the sender of my letter to the NSA, and if they identified the bellhop, they’d start their search at the Hay-Adams, not the Willard.

  Once inside, I found a courteous and ready bellhop. I handed him the sealed priority letter and a twenty-dollar bill. I kindly asked him to have it sent via messenger to the NSA. I told him it was for my daughter who worked there.

  He grew nervous and doubtful until I handed him another twenty. His smile and bow were reassuring. Would he have the letter delivered, or would he pocket the money and toss the thing aside? I had to hope that the letter would be sent and received.

  Back at the hotel, I dozed for an hour before I was awakened by Jay’s phone call. He was downstairs, waiting to go for a drive.

  In Jay’s car, I had difficulty stilling my jumpy thoughts and focusing on where I was.

  Jay glanced over. “Are you still with me, Charlotte? You seem a hundred miles away.”

  I snapped back to the present, managing a strained smile.

  “I’m sorry… I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep very well last night.”

  Jay smiled broadly, removing a hand from the steering wheel, indicating toward the day. “If you want, I can pull over and you can take a little cat nap.”

  “No, no, Jay. I’m okay. Really.”

  “I want you to enjoy yourself. Here we are out on a beautiful sunny day, having ourselves a great time. Oh look, there’s the Sunoco station.”

  After Jay and I finished our sandwiches and beer, we drove to Marlow Heights, my old neighborhood. I felt butterflies in my stomach as I directed Jay to Temple Hill Road, had him turn right on Leslie Avenue and then drive slowly along the tree-lined street until we came to 2407. The 1960s era had brought an influx of split-level homes and brick Ramblers. Our house was neither. And when I saw it, I nearly cried out in j
oy.

  There it was. Our historic two-story turn-of-the-century house was there. The graceful white porch with a swing was there, where Lacey and Lyn had swung, kicking their feet, laughing. The four bedrooms, three baths were still there. The two sets of pocket doors, open staircase and back staircase were there. The walk-in bays, the original kitchen pantry, the wood floors, the gingerbread accents on the exterior, all there.

  Jay pulled to the curb while I stared, overcome with emotion. I knew the family was at the Marlow Heights Shopping Center, enjoying the carnivals they ran every summer.

  I left the car with tears swimming in my eyes. I walked purposefully down that front walkway, climbed the four concrete stairs to the porch and slipped the letter I’d written to young Charlotte under the front door.

  Would the note convince her to meet me? I could only hope. I asked her to meet me the next day, Sunday, at 7 p.m. at Duke Zeibert’s Restaurant, just off Connecticut Avenue.

  After we drove away, Jay was aware of my emotional state.

  He said, softly. “Would you like to go to the free concert at The Watergate? It might be pleasant to sit along the banks of the Potomac River.”

  I stared ahead, praying that young Charlotte would show up.

  “Yes, Jay. I think that would be very nice. I had forgotten about those concerts.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Duke Zeibert’s Restaurant was long gone in 2018, but in the 1960s, I had often met friends from work there. It was decorated in wood and open brick, with white tablecloths, a rustic wagon wheel chandelier and soft blue carpet. Large caricatures of the owner engaged in various sports hung on the walls. For many years, it was the place for politicians and businessmen to meet for power lunches. It would be a little more subdued on a Sunday during dinner.

  When I’d made the reservation, I’d asked to be seated at a table near the mahogany bar, knowing that the noise level would be high, thereby masking our conversation.

  I arrived early, at 6:45, and was seated with a menu. I slipped on my reading glasses and was all nerves and moving hands. I had only to glance at the menu to recall what the place was known for: Duke’s Delights: Boiled Beef in Pot, Boiled Chicken in Pot, Maine Lobster and thick-cut Prime Rib of Beef.

  At 7 p.m., I ordered a daiquiri, in memory of the old days. It was only 50 cents, and the entrees averaged six dollars.

  At ten minutes after seven, I sipped the daiquiri, hoping the rum would help to soothe a mounting disappointment. At 7:15, the noise level swelled, and the friendly waiter drifted over to ask if I’d like to order. I said I’d wait. I ordered another daiquiri.

  At 7:22, I saw her. In my note, I’d described my physical appearance and told her where I’d be sitting. She nervously searched the room and, when she found me, her face expressed an anxious tension. I’m sure mine did too. I sat frozen in my chair.

  The print dress she wore had short sleeves and cheerful yellow and blue stripes. I recalled that I had purchased it at Lansburgh Department Store, and it wasn’t as comfortable as it had been in the fitting room. I easily remembered the store was on the 400 block of 7th Street, N.W. in the shopping district. It had closed in 1973.

  But what I had forgotten were those shoes. They were navy blue with small square heels and a single Mary Jane strap, just like a doll’s shoes.

  Young Charlotte’s upturned nose, fine neck and hair-sprayed modified beehive all gave her a convincing elegance. Men at the bar noticed her and swiveled around on their bar stools to gawk. I didn’t recall drawing that much male attention, but then I was always living in my head, wasn’t I? A head packed full of a hodgepodge of languages and data that I was constantly shifting around and trying to interpret.

  She approached, and I hardly breathed, as if expecting an attack. The young, toothy hostess indicated toward the chair opposite me, but young Charlotte ignored her and remained standing. Finally, the hostess gave a little shrug, dropped the menu at the place-setting and moved away.

  My young self stared at me, not with a small amount of malice. “Who are you?”

  I found my voice. “Please sit down.”

  “Not until you tell me who you are and what you’re after.”

  Men still had their interested eyes on her.

  “Do you want to make a scene, Mrs. Vance?” I asked, looking about. Three people at the next table were looking on curiously.

  I knew that the younger me was private and did not like attention. She lowered herself in the chair but kept her burning eyes on me.

  “Would you like a drink?” I said, fighting for calm.

  There are no words to describe the absolute terror that struck as I stared at a living, breathing image of myself from another time. I felt an astonished agony. I wanted to cry, laugh and run away. I wanted to blurt out all the wisdom I had learned the hard way. I wanted to express the regrets and bare my soul, as I felt my time was running out and my death was inching ever closer. I wanted to say that unless you listen to everything I say, and believe it, and take it to heart and act on it, you will feel like the lowest person on this planet and hate yourself for the rest of your life.

  She projected an impression of strength, but I knew she was shaken.

  The waiter appeared, and she brushed him away, her hard eyes locked on me.

  She lowered her voice, just enough so that I could hear. “What do you want?”

  I coolly took sips from my cocktail, waiting for her to calm down.

  “I’m a friend,” I finally said.

  Her eyes enlarged. “A friend of whom? What? How did you know those things about me? Nobody knows those things you wrote about me in your letter,” she said, in a harsh whisper, as she glanced about self-consciously. “Nobody. Those were private and personal things. How did you know I burned my diary back in 1961? Who have you been talking to?”

  I tried to give her an honest expression. “I wrote those things in the letter so that you would meet me. I’m not out to hurt you or your family in any way.”

  She narrowed her suspicious eyes on me, and when she spoke, her voice trembled. She was obviously frightened. “Who are you working for? Which agency?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t work for any agency. Mrs. Vance, all I’m asking is that you relax and listen to what I have to say.”

  She sat back dismissively, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. Her eyes slid away from any direct glance. “So talk. I’m listening. And make it fast. I don’t have much time.”

  “You don’t have time because you’re always going to the office, aren’t you? You’re rarely home for dinner with your family, and they miss you. No, Mrs. Vance, you work till 10 or 11 p.m. and then drive home, still preoccupied with the details of your job. You kiss Lyn and Lacey, pull the sheet up to Lacey’s chin, because she always kicks the sheet off. She has bad dreams, you know. She awakens at least twice a week, screaming. Paul goes in to comfort her. Most of the time, you’re not home yet. You’re working. Paul tells you about Lacey’s bad dreams, but often you’re preoccupied with, oh, let’s say, Minaret.”

  Young Charlotte jerked erect, shooting me a startled glance. She leaned in toward me, her face suddenly flushed with alarm.

  “What are you saying? How do you know about…” She lowered her voice even more. “How do you know about Minaret? That is top secret.”

  I nodded. “Have I got your attention, Mrs. Vance?”

  She sat as still as a statue, and I could almost hear her mind working.

  I continued. “Who decided to task the NSA with monitoring certain communications to high level government officials, Mrs. Vance? The simple fact is that the NSA is now secretly intercepting the telephone calls and telegrams of at least two U.S. senators, at the White House’s request. I won’t mention names.”

  Young Charlotte’s face kept changing expressions: shock, concern, confusion. Her face twisted and went vacant. Slowly, it cleared, and her voice took on a threatening edge.

  “I’ll have you arrested and thrown into pris
on,” she said, through clinched teeth.

  I wondered if I had gone too far. “Mrs. Vance… My point is, your family should come first. You should go home tonight and be with your family. Work will always be there. Work can wait. Kids can’t wait. They grow up fast and if you’re not there, you’ll miss one of the most important parts of your life, and when you get to my age, you’ll have a mountain of regrets and so much pain that you can barely get on with your day.”

  Young Charlotte’s eyes changed. Her voice was hesitant and low, and it held fear. “Who are you? How do you know all these… secrets?”

  I gave her a sweet and sad smile. “Please listen to me, Mrs. Vance. Please listen very closely. On June 4th, don’t go to work. Take your husband and children on a trip. Take them anywhere. Go visit your father in Vermont. Go visit your best friend in college. She lives in Virginia Beach. You’ve always loved Ocean Beach. Go to Ocean Beach, or any beach. Whatever you do, take your family and leave town before the night of June 4th. Please listen to me and do this, Mrs. Vance.”

  I saw a new blaze of fear rise in her eyes. She shot up and the force of her anger was palpable.

  “If you ever try to see me or my family again; if you ever call me again; if I ever hear from you again, I will have you arrested and locked away. Do you understand me?”

  I looked up into her eyes and tried to convey warmth. “I don’t care what happens to me, Mrs. Vance. Please just do as I say.”

  In that searing moment, our eyes truly met. Her eyes deepened and probed mine, as if she were peering into a dark room, searching for light. Suddenly, she stumbled backwards, grabbing the back of a chair to brace herself.

  Had she recognized herself in me? I nearly pushed to my feet but paused, hope building.