Time Travel Omnibus Volume 2

by Anthology

  Me, I had fishing and I didn’t care. Let the town wimps stew in their own juices.

  But that was all before my sister made polio up close and personal in the family and brought back memories to my aunt.

  But Aunt Noni became a ball of fire.

  I couldn’t go into the hospital to see my sister, of course—even though I had been right there when she started getting sick. Kids could absolutely not come down to the polio ward. This was just a small county hospital with about forty beds, but it also had a polio ward with two iron lungs ready to go, such was the fear in those days.

  My aunt took me to the hospital one day, anyway. She had had a big picture-frame mirror with her, from her house.

  “She’s propped up on pillows and can’t move much,” my aunt said. “But I think we can get her to see you.”

  “Stay out here in the parking lot and watch that window,” she said. She pointed to one of the half-windows in the basement. I stayed out there until I saw my aunt waving in the window. I waved back.

  Then my aunt came out and asked, “Did you see her?”

  “I saw you.”

  “She saw you,” she said. “It made her happy.” Yeah, I thought, the guy who kneecapped her with the croquet ball.

  “I don’t know why,” I said.

  Then Aunt Noni gave me some of my weekly allowance that my parents mailed to her in installments.

  I took off to the drugstore like a bullet. I bought a cherry-lime-chocolate coke at the fountain, and a Monster of Frankenstein, a Plastic Man, and an Uncle Scrooge comic book. That took care of forty of my fifty cents. A whole dime, and nowhere to spend it. If it would have been open, and this had been a Saturday, when we usually got our allowance, I would have used the dime to go to the movies and seen eight cartoons, a Three Stooges short, a newsreel, a chapter of a serial, some previews, and a double feature: some SF flick and a Guy Madison movie if I was lucky, a couple of Westerns if I wasn’t.

  But it was a weekday, and I went back to the office where my aunt Noni was the Jill-of-all-trades plus secretary for a one-man business for forty-seven years (it turned out). It was upstairs next to the bank. Her boss, Mr. Jacks, lived in the biggest new house in town (until, much later, the new doctor in town built a house out on the highway modeled on Elvis’ Graceland). Mr. Jacks’ house, as fate would have it, was situated on a lot touching my aunt’s, only set one house over and facing the other street back.

  He wasn’t in; he usually wasn’t in the office when I was there. Aunt Noni was typing like a bunny, a real blur from the wrists down. She was the only one in the family who’d been to college. (Much later I would futz around in one for five years without graduating.) She could read, write, and speak Latin, like I later could. She read books. She had the librarian at the Carnegie Library in town send off to Montgomery for books on polio; they’d arrived while I was having the Coca-Cola comic book orgy and she’d gone to get them when the librarian had called her. There was a pile on the third chair in the office.

  I was sitting in the second one.

  “I want to know,” she said as she typed without looking at her shorthand pad or the typewriter, “enough so that I’ll know if someone is steering me wrong on something. I don’t want to know enough to become pedantic—”

  “Huh?” I asked.

  She nodded toward the big dictionary on the stand by the door.

  I dutifully got up and went to it.

  “P-?”

  “P-E-D-A,” said my aunt, still typing.

  I looked it up. “Hmmm,” I said. “Okay.” Then I sat back down.

  “They’re talking like she won’t walk again without braces or crutches. That’s what they told my friend Frances in nineteen and twenty-one,” she said. “You see her motorboatin’ all around town now. She only limps a little when she gets really tired and worn out.”

  Frances worked down at the dress shop. She looked fine except her right leg was a little thinner than her left.

  “My aim is to have your sister walking again by herself by next summer.”

  “Will it happen?”

  “If I have anything to do with it, it will,” said Aunt Noni.

  I never felt so glum about the future as I did sitting there in my aunt’s sunny office that July afternoon. What if she were wrong? What if my sister Ethel never walked again? What would her life be like? Who the hell would I play croquet with, in Alabama in the summer, if not her, when I wasn’t fishing?

  Of course, a year later, the Salk vaccine was developed and tried out and started the end of polio. And a couple of years after that came the Sabin oral vaccine, which they gave to you on sugar cubes and which tasted like your grandfather’s old hunting socks smelled, which really ended the disease.

  We didn’t know any of that then. And the future didn’t help my sister any right then.

  My parents had of course taken off work and driven from Texas at the end of the first week; there were many family conferences to which the me part of the family was not privy. My parents went to see her and stayed at the hospital.

  What was decided was that my sister was to remain in Alabama with my grandparents for the next year and that I was to return to my dead hometown in Texas with my parents and somegoddamnhow survive the rest of the summer there.

  My sister Ethel would be enrolled in school in Alabama, provided she was strong enough to do the schoolwork. So I fished the Big Pond and the Little Pond one last time, till it was too dark to see and the bass lost interest in anything in the tackle box, and I went over the low hill to my grandparents’ house, robbed of a summer.

  Next morning we got the car packed, ready to return to Texas, a fourteenhour drive in a Flathead 6 1952 Ford. Then we stopped by the hospital. Aunt Noni was already there, her purple Kaiser parked by the front door. My parents went in; after a while Aunt Noni waved at the window, then I saw a blur in the mirror and a shape and I waved and waved and jumped up and down with an enthusiasm I did not feel. Then I got in the car and we went back to Texas

  Somehow, I did live through that summer.

  One of the things that got me through it was the letters my aunt took down from my sister and typed up. The first couple were about the hospital, till they let her go, and then about what she could see from the back room of my grandparents’ house.

  We’d usually only gone to Alabama for the summer, and sometimes rushed trips at Christmas, where we were in the car fourteen hours (those days the Interstate Highway System was just a gleam in Ike’s eye—so he could fight a two-front war and not be caught short moving stuff from one coast to the other like they had in the Korean War when he was running Columbia University in NYC). We stayed at our grandparents’ places Christmas Eve and on Christmas morning and then drove fourteen hours back home just in time for my parents to go to work the day after Christmas.

  So I’d never seen Alabama in the fall or the spring. My sister described the slow change from summer to fall there after school started (in Texas it was summer till early October, and you had the leaves finish falling off the trees the third week of December and new buds coming out the second week of January.) She wrote of the geese she heard going over on the Mississippi flyway.

  She complained about the schoolwork; in letters back to her I complained about school itself: the same dorks were the same dorks, the same jerks the same jerks, the same bullies still bullies. And that was third grade. Then, you always think it’s going to change the next year, until you realize: these jerks are going to be the same ones I’m stuck with the rest of their lives. (As “Scoop” Jackson the senator would later say—it’s hard to turn fifty-five and realize the world is being run by people you used to beat up in the fourth grade.)

  Third grade was the biggest grind of my life. My sister was finding Alabama second grade tough too; there was no Alamo, no Texas-undersix-flags. In Alabama there was stealing land from the Choctaws and Cherokees, there was the cotton gin and slavery, there was the War for Southern Independence, and then the
re was the boll weevil. That was about it. No Deaf Smith, no Ben Milam, no line drawn in the dirt with the sword, no last battle of the Civil War fought by two detachments who didn’t know the war was over six weeks after Appomattox; no Spindletop, no oil boom, no great comic-book textbook called Texas History Movies which told you everything in a casually racist way but which you remembered better than any textbook the rest of your life.

  I told her what I was doing (reading comics, watching TV) and what I caught in the city park pond or the creek coming out of it. It was the fifties in Texas. There was a drought; the town well had gone dry, and they were digging a lake west of town which, at the current seven inches of rain a year, would take twenty-two years to fill up, by which time we’d all be dead.

  I told her about the movies I’d seen once the town’s lone theater had opened back up. (There were three drive-ins: one in the next town west, with a great neon cowboy round-up scene on the back of the screen, facing the highway—one guy strummed a green neon guitar, a red neon fire burned at the chuck wagon, a vaquero twirled a pink neon lasso; one at the west edge of our town; and one near the next town to the east.)

  Anyway, I got and wrote at least one letter a week to and from my sister, my aunt wrote separate letters to me and my parents, they called each other at least once a week.

  Somehow, Christmas dragged its ass toward the school year; my parents decided we’d go to Alabama during the break and see my sister and try to have a happy holiday.

  My sister was thinner and her eyes were shinier. She looked pretty much the same except her left leg was skinny. She was propped up in bed. Everybody made a big fuss over her all the time. There was a pile of Christmas presents for her out under the tree in the screened-in hall that would choke a mastodon.

  I was finally in her room with no one else there.

  “Bored, huh?” I asked.

  “There’s too many people playing the damned fool around here for me to get bored,” she said.

  “I mean, outside of Christmas?”

  “Well, yeah. The physical therapist lady comes twice a day usually and we go through that rigmarole.”

  “I hope people got you lots of books,” I said.

  “I’ve read so many books I can’t see straight, Bubba.”

  “Have you read All About Dinosaurs?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “I’ve got my copy with me. You can read it but I gotta have it back before we leave. I stood in a Sears and Roebuck store in Fort Worth for six hours once while they shipped one over from the Dallas warehouse. The last truck came in and the book wasn’t there. They were out and didn’t know it. I’d saved up my allowance for four weeks! Without movies or comic books! I told anybody who would listen about it. A week later one came in the mail. Aunt Noni heard the story and ordered it for me.”

  “Bless her heart.”

  “I’m real sorry all this happened, Sis,” I said, before I knew I was saying it. “I wish we hadn’t fought the day before you got sick.”

  “What? What fight?”

  “The croquet game. You hit me.”

  “You hit me!” she said.

  “No. You backsassed Mamaw. She hit you.”

  “Yes she did,” said my sister Ethel.

  “Anyway, I’m sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she said.

  I really was going to talk to her more but some damnfool uncle came in wearing his hat upside down to make her laugh.

  My sister grew up and walked again, and except for a slight limp and a sometime windmilling foot (like my aunt’s friend Frances when she was very tired), she got around pretty well, even though she lost most of a year of her life in that bed in Alabama.

  I remember walking with her the first day of school when she had come back to Texas and was starting third grade.

  “Doing okay?” I asked. We lived three whole blocks from school then, but I wanted her to take it slow and not get too tired.

  “Yeah. Sure,” she said.

  I remember the day they handed out the permission forms for the Salk polio vaccine, which was a big shot with a square needle in the meat of your arm. My sister laughed and laughed. “Oh, bitter irony!” she said “Oh, ashes and dust!”

  “Yeah,” I said, “well . . .”

  “Have Mom and Pop sign yours twice,” she said. “At least it’ll do you some good.”

  “Once again, Sis, I’m sorry.”

  “Tell that to the school nurse,” she said.

  At some point, when we were in our late teens, we were having one of those long philosophical discussions brothers and sisters have when neither has a date and you’re too damned tired from the school week to get up off your butt and go out and do something on your own and the public library closed early. Besides, your folks are yelling at each other in their bedroom.

  The Time Machine was one of my favorite movies (they all are). I had the movie tie-in paperback with the photo of Rod Taylor on the back, the Dell Movie Classic comic book with art by Alex Toth, and the Classics Illustrated edition with art by Lou Cameron—it had been my favorite for years before the movie had come out in 1960.

  “What would I do,” I repeated Ethel’s question, “if I could travel in time? Like go see dinosaurs, or go visit the spaceport they’re going to build just outside this popsicle burg?

  “Most people would do just what I’d do: first I’d go to the coin shop, buy ten early 1930s Mercury dimes, then go back to 1938 and buy ten copies of Action Comics #1 with Superman’s first story, and then I’d go write mash notes to Eve Arden.”

  I’d just finished watching reruns of Our Miss Brooks on TV.

  “No,” she said. “I mean, really?”

  “No,” I said. “I mean, really.”

  “Wouldn’t you try to stop Oswald?” she asked. “Go strangle Hitler in his cradle?”

  “You didn’t ask ‘What would you do if you could travel in time to make the world a better place?’ You asked ‘What would you do if you could travel in time?’ “

  “Be that way,” she said.

  “I am that way.”

  And then she went off to work at some Rhine-like lab in North Carolina. That’s not what she set out to do—what she set out to do was be a carhop, get out of the house and our live local version of The Bickersons. (Bickering=Pow! Sock! Crash!)

  She first worked as a carhop in town, from the time she was fourteen, and then she got the real glamour job over in Dallas at the biggest drive-in cafe there, twenty-five carhops, half of them on skates (not her). She moved in with two other carhops there. A few months later, King and Bobby Kennedy got killed and half the US burned down.

  Something happened at the cafe—I never found out exactly what. But a week later she called home and said this research lab was flying her to North Carolina for a few days (she’d never flown before). And then she left.

  I started getting letters from her. By then our parents had gotten a divorce; I was living in the house with my father (who would die in a few months of heart failure—and a broken heart). My mom had run off with the guy she’d been sneaking around with the last couple of years and we weren’t talking much. I was in college and seeing the girl I would eventually marry, have a kid with, and divorce.

  My sister told me they were really interested in her, that other institutes were trying to get her to come over to them and that she wasn’t the only polio survivor there. My first thought was—what’s going on? Is this like Himmler’s interest in twins and gypsies, or was this just statistically average? This was the late sixties; lots of people our age had polio before 1955, so maybe that was it?

  Her letters were a nice break in the college routine—classes, theater, parttime thirty-six-hour-a-week job. Of course I got an ulcer before I turned twenty-two. (Later it didn’t keep me from being drafted; it had gotten better after I quit working thirty hours a week in theater plus the job plus only sleeping between three and six a.m. seven days a week.)

  “The people here are
nice,” she said. “The tests are fun, except for the concentration. I get headaches like Mamaw used to get, every other day.” She sent me a set of the cards—Rhine cards. Circle, triangle, star, square, plus sign, wavy horizontal lines. They had her across the table from a guy who turned the cards, fifty of them, randomly shuffled. She was supposed to intuit (or receive telepathically) which cards he’d turned over. She marked the symbol she thought it was. There was a big high partition across the middle of the table—she could barely see the top of the guy’s head. Sometimes she was the one turning the cards and tried to send messages to him. There were other, more esoteric ones—the tests were supposed to be scientific and repeatable.

  From one of her letters:

  I don’t mind the work here, and if they prove something by it, more’s the better. What I do mind is that all the magazines I read here think that if there is something to extrasensory perception, then there also has to be mental contact with UFOs (what UFOs?) and the Atlanteans (what Atlantis?) and mental death rays and contact with the spirit world (what spirit-world?).

  I don’t understand that; proving extrasensory perception only proves that exists, and they haven’t even proved that yet. Next week they’re moving me over to the PK unit—PsychoKinesis. Moving stuff at a distance without, as Morbius said, “instrumentality.” That’s more like what happened at the drive-in anyway. They wanted to test me for this stuff first. Evidently I’m not very good at this. Or, I’m the same as everybody else, except the ones they catch cheating, by what they call reading the other person—physical stuff like in poker, where somebody always lifts an eyebrow when the star comes up—stuff like that.

  Will write to you when I get a handle on this PK stuff.

  Your sis, Ethel

  “You would have thought I set off an atom bomb here,” her next letter began. She then described what happened and the shady-looking new people who showed up to watch her tests.