In Time I Dream About You

by Gene Gant

  I leaned over him, close to his face. “Dad, it’s me, Gavin. Can you hear me?” I reached out and took his hand. It felt as lifeless as a rock, cool and heavy. I squeezed, but there was no return motion, nothing to let me know he was aware that I was with him. My vision blurred suddenly. I didn’t realize I was crying until the tears tickled their way down my face.

  Hiss-whoosh. That sound was driving me crazy. Impulsively, I grabbed the rounded pillow speaker that dangled by its cord from one of the bed’s rails and thumbed the power button for the television. The flat-screen TV mounted on the wall opposite the bed flickered on. I turned the volume up just enough to wash out some of the robotic gasps and sighs of that damned breathing machine. After releasing the pillow speaker, I wiped my eyes to clear them and stared down at Dad.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered to him. “I’m sorry I can’t be here with you.”

  On the television was a late-night replay of one of the local channels’ newscast. I could only make out a word here and there as the anchors rattled on. God, how did this happen? How could this happen to my dad?

  I leaned close again, kissed Dad’s cheek. The skin there had the same cool touch. I had only minutes with him, just a few fucking minutes. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. I squeezed Dad’s hand again. I wanted him to know I was with him.

  “…bank shooting….”

  My brain latched on to the words immediately. I let go of Dad’s hand, turned quickly, and moved close to the television. The anchor, a thin blondish woman who looked sixty or so, was speaking crisply.

  “…four days ago at the downtown branch of First Detroit National that left security guard Donald Goode fighting for his life with bullet wounds in his head and neck. It was initially believed the shooting was the result of an attempted robbery of the bank. However, federal investigators revealed today that the shooter has been identified as nineteen-year-old Morris DeWitt, a member of the Cold Bloods street gang, and he was not there to rob the bank. His sole target was the security guard, and investigators suspect the shooting was intended as retaliation against another gang member….”

  I didn’t hear or see any more of the report. My consciousness whited out, first with shock, then with rage. I slapped the Off switch on the side of the television so hard I almost bashed the damned thing off the wall.

  Apache. That fucking, goddamned Apache!

  FOOTSTEPS, SOFT and hesitant behind me. I fought back a sob.

  “Gavin? I have to get you out of here now. A nurse is going to walk through that door in exactly fifty-nine seconds.”

  Cato had given me as much time as he could. I would forever be grateful to him for that. “Okay, man. Let’s go.” I mouthed a good-bye to Dad and moved away from his bed. I backed up until I could feel Cato right behind me. He raised his watch. With his finger he circled the dial.

  Blink.

  I was looking at my bare cot in solitary again, the cell dark and quiet. Fuck. Fuck! Fuck! My brain seemed to erupt straight through the top of my head. I kicked the cot against the wall, snatched off the mattress, and pounded it with my fists, screaming in blind fury with every blow.

  “Gavin, stop it! Stop it!” Cato grabbed me from behind. I was wild with anger and grief, sobs mixing now with my shouts. The emotions filled me to the point that I felt I could tear through the metal bars at the front of my cell with my bare hands. Cato was stronger than me, however, and he pinned my arms, pulling me back against the wall. He held me that way for a long time, until the blaze in my brain died down and I stopped heaving breath like a steam engine.

  “I’m okay,” I muttered. “Let go of me.”

  He did, and I sat down on the floor, my back against the wall.

  “Gavin, I’m sorry,” Cato said, his breathing a bit ragged from struggling with me. “I know you’re mad at me for it, but I couldn’t give you more time with your dad—”

  “Shit, Cato, I’m not mad at you. Come here.” I held out my arm, and he sat down next to me. I draped my arm around his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek. “I wouldn’t have seen my dad even for those few minutes if it weren’t for you. Thank you, that meant the world to me and I’ll never forget what you did. I’m just… upset that my dad’s been hurt so bad.”

  “Oh.” Cato relaxed his pursed lips, and he looked relieved. “Yeah, I understand how you feel. It’s not an easy thing when a parent gets hurt.”

  “Can we get out of here, go somewhere?” Even as I voiced the question, I hated what I was thinking, what I was plotting to do if I could distract Cato. “I don’t want to be in this cell right now.”

  “Sorry, man. There’s no way my boss is going to let me move you out of Escanaba again until I finish my mission. That was part of the deal I made to get you in to see your dad.”

  “Well… can you stay with me tonight?”

  His face melted into an emotional, tender smile. “Yeah, sure, Gavin.”

  Together we moved the cot into place and put the mattress back on the frame. I lay down, moving to one side on the mattress. Cato lay down with his back to me, and I put my arm around him. Our bodies snuggled together, naturally, easily, as if we’d been doing that for a lifetime. Cato took my hand and held it gently.

  He sighed. “Gavin?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You don’t have to say anything to this, and you don’t owe me anything. But…I think I love you.”

  Jesus. I wished I loved him too. It would be a good thing—the only good thing—in the fuck-swamp my life had become. Cato’s love was wasted on me. He deserved happiness, and I just wasn’t able to give him that. I hugged him to me and kissed his shoulder.

  That awful thought… that dreadful intention… came back to my mind. God forgive me.

  HE WAS deeply asleep, snoring softly.

  I got up from the cot slowly. Cato didn’t even stir as I moved away from him. He must have been dead tired. I stood over him, weighing everything in my head again. No, I didn’t have any other option; it had to be done.

  I carefully took his hand. The watch on his left wrist had a simple black leather band. I undid the tiny buckle, lifted the watch, and cinched it around my own wrist. The cell was dark, with only dim light filtering in from the hall, and I didn’t want to turn on the light in my cell for fear of attracting the guard’s attention. I had to hold the watch directly up to my eyes to get a clear look at it.

  The dial on the thing was a featureless circle of black glass, like the screen on a cell phone. Circling the dial was a ring of gold, one that didn’t seem attached to the watch in any way. It sort of floated there. This must have been what Cato turned with his finger, but I couldn’t see how it would work. I touched the ring. A digital display lit up on the dial with the number 2017. I put the tip of my finger to the ring again and spun it just a tad to the left. The number on the dial became 2016. Years. It was displaying years. Little by little, I spun the ring to the right, stopping when the display went back to 2017.

  Okay. Moving the ring around the dial changes time settings on the watch. Now what? There were no other visible control buttons or anything. How the hell did Cato get this thing to move him through time? As I stared, waiting for inspiration to hit, the number on the screen faded out and the tiny screen was black again. I touched the dial. The current date, 9/27/2017, popped up on the screen, and the time displayed below it, counting off by the second. I spun the ring to the left, and the numbers on the dial blurred. When I took my finger off the ring, the dial displayed a date, 9/16/2017, and below that a time, 0124—1:24 a.m. Instead of ticking off the seconds, however, this time display remained static, and just below it was a red button icon.

  I started to touch the icon and hesitated. September 16 was several days before my dad was shot. I spun the ring to the left, and the display blurred. When I stopped, the screen displayed 9/19/17, which was the day before Dad got shot. I adjusted the watch to 9/20/2017, 1446—2:46 p.m. I didn’t know the exact time of the shooting; the news report I saw only s
aid that it took place shortly after three that afternoon. Getting myself to the bank at 2:46 would be perfect.

  Ah. The bank. I needed to move not just through time, but through space. I figured pushing the button icon would activate something that would move me to the date and time displayed on the dial. But if I only moved through time, I’d come face to face with myself in this moldy little cell at 2:46 on the afternoon of September 20, 2017. How would that work out? Could the old me and the me from this moment actually exist together in the same room at the same time, or would it be like bringing matter and antimatter together? Ugh! How could I get to the Detroit First National branch in downtown Detroit?

  There had to be some control I was overlooking. I took off the watch and examined it front and back. Nope, there were no other controls visible. I secured the watch on my wrist again and stared at the date and time displayed on the screen. What else? What else was there to this fucking thing that made it possible to select a place in addition to a date and time? I touched the dial. Instantly a new display appeared, reading, “Timescan: GG-Escanaba 2017.” Then images began flitting across the screen, images of me from the moment of my arrival at the House of Hell. I touched the dial again and the display changed to read, “Timescan: DG-Detroit Receiving 2017.” Images appeared of an ambulance with its lights flashing frantically as it sped up to a hospital emergency room entrance and stopped. Two male EMTs hopped out, one from the driver’s seat and the other from the rear. Together, they hauled a stretcher out of the ambulance bearing the bloodied body of a man in a security guard uniform. This was the beginning of Dad’s treatment at Detroit Receiving.

  I touched the dial once more. This time, the display read, “Timescan: DG-Detroit 1st National 2017.” Images of Dad followed as he walked calmly in his uniform through the rear entrance of the bank to begin his shift, most likely on the day he was shot. These scans involved places and events relevant to what Cato had done for me. This must have been a part of how he managed to move in and out of specific times in specific places. I spun the ring, and the display changed to, “Destination: DG-Detroit 1st National.” The red button icon appeared below the words.

  Should I do this? Should I? It would change history. Cato had said changing history would change reality, an incredibly bad thing to do. But he’d also said my dad was essentially a nobody. Saving a nobody couldn’t make that much of a difference in the grand cosmic scheme. Could it? No way. It couldn’t be a bad thing to save a nobody who meant the world to me.

  I touched the icon.

  Blink.

  Chapter 8

  THE FIRST thing I saw was a big round clock with a black metal frame, hanging high on a wall of blond wood paneling that was streaked with sunlight. The hands on the clock were positioned at 2:46. It was a familiar sight, one that reminded me of Dad. I’d seen that clock every time I visited him at work.

  “Oh!”

  I turned sharply as a middle-aged woman in a pale green jacket jumped away, looking back at me as if I’d just pinched her butt. I must have popped out of nowhere right behind her. Her expression quickly went from surprise to alarm. She pointed at me, her whole arm trembling. Her yelp had caught the attention of the other people standing in line ahead of her. They were all middle-aged or older, and they all showed the same wide-eyed trepidation when they spotted me.

  And it hit me. In the sprawling, sunlit, high-ceilinged lobby of the main branch of Detroit First National, I stood in the middle of the floor wearing an orange jumpsuit with “Escanaba House of Corrections” stenciled in black letters on the front and back.

  Yeah, I hadn’t thought this whole space-time jump through.

  “Call the police!” A skinny old man with his pants cinched up practically at his chest was giving me such a hard glare I could see his outrage even through the black shades he wore. “Somebody call the police!” he shouted again.

  I’d barely been in the bank for ten seconds and things were already way out of hand. I couldn’t let myself get taken by the police, not before I finished what I’d come there to do. Anxious voices filled the air, rising and falling like a revving monster truck engine. People moved away from me, toward the rear of the lobby where the tellers sat secure behind a wall of bulletproof clear plastic. I stood between them and the main entrance, which obviously added to their unease. My first impulse was to walk out of the bank, but that would only make it more likely that the cops would come down on me. Maybe I could hide, get to a bathroom or something, try to find a change of clothes….

  Ahead of me, someone was pushing quickly and authoritatively through the throng of patrons. Moments later, he came fully into view. Both of us froze.

  Dad and I stared at each other.

  This was the father I remembered. Healthy and whole, ready for anything. It was like a gift from the universe. God! I wanted to rush over and hug him. Dad looked completely stunned, however, and that kept me from moving. He was the one who closed the distance between us, surprising me as he suddenly bolted forward and grabbed me firmly by the arm.

  He turned to the patrons behind him. “Ladies and gentlemen, the situation’s under control here,” he said to them. “You can go on with your business.” Then he hustled me off to the side, close to a vacant row of chairs lined against the wall.

  “Gavin?” he said, looking me up and down as if he still didn’t believe I was standing in front of him. “What are you… how did you get here? What are you doing? Did you break out?”

  I grabbed him, hugged him, unable to help myself. “Dad, you have to get out of this bank,” I said, holding on to him, my voice shrill with anxiety. “Get out now, go home or something.” My eyes were squeezed shut, and waves of emotion shuddered through me. Tears streamed hot and slick down my face.

  He took me by the shoulders and pushed me away from him. “Stop crying, son. Stop it.” I wiped at my face with the heel of my hand. Dad’s eyes, as he locked gazes with me, were set with a severity deeper than any I’d seen—and he’d given me plenty of severe looks over the years. “Gavin, this is crazy. You said you didn’t kill that boy and I believe you. But you were convicted and sentenced, and you can’t just run away from that. I’m getting money together to hire another lawyer, we’ll file an appeal, but you have to go back. You’re going to turn yourself in. I know a couple of detectives at the downtown precinct. I’ll call them. They’ll take you in and make sure you don’t get hurt.”

  “Dad, you gotta listen to me. You gotta get out of the bank, or you’re the one who’s gonna get….” I stopped myself. He was so worried about me he wasn’t paying attention to anything I told him. Sobs built suddenly in my throat. I swallowed hard and said, “Okay, Dad, you’re right. I’ll turn myself in. But I’m not gonna wait here for the cops. I’ll do it only if you walk me to the police station yourself. Right now. Please, Dad.”

  “Okay, son. Just calm down.” He grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me forward until my forehead was resting on his shoulder. The scent of him, a rich citrusy combination of the Irish Spring soap and the Right Guard deodorant and the coconut hair oil he’d used for as long as I could remember, surrounded me like a warm blanket, making me feel safe, as if I’d finally come home again. I didn’t want him to ever let go.

  Gently, he pushed me back. “Let me make a call and we’ll go.” He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. When the call was answered, he told the person on the other end—probably the guard who patrolled outside the bank—he was taking a break and would be back at his post in fifteen minutes. “Come on,” he said to me as he slid the phone back in his pocket, and then he quickly ushered me out of the bank.

  I felt relieved as we started down the wide crowded sidewalk beneath the warm fall sun. But I was still worried. I’d have to keep Dad away from the bank for a lot longer than fifteen minutes. That gang member Morris DeWitt was sure to hang around, and he’d just shoot Dad when he returned. It would have been better to get myself into a set of street clothes before making the space-t
ime jump, and to time my arrival so I could take down that Morris dude before he even made it into the bank. But hindsight did me no good, and I was too upset to program the watch for another jump. I had to deal with the situation as it was. At least Dad was away from the bank. We were walking fast. I heard Dad take a deep breath, and I figured he was about to say something to me.

  “Hey, Donald….”

  I thought the voice behind us belonged to the other security guard. Dad and I turned, and he said, “Yeah?” to the person facing us. Terror tore through my chest like a fierce, clawing demon. I mostly remembered Stone being behind the wheel of that red retro Grand Prix, driving Apache around, so it was strange to see him standing on the sidewalk in a black trench coat that was too thick for the unseasonably warm weather. I’d never known nor cared what his real name was, but I knew it now—Morris DeWitt. I knew it when I saw him peel back the flap of his trench coat and whip out a shotgun. He sneered nastily as he leveled the barrels at us.

  I started to shove Dad aside, but he was already moving. He hit me in the back with his shoulder, throwing us both to the side. The gun spat twin bolts of fire with a thunderous boom. Someone screamed. Footsteps pounded this way and that as people scrambled in chaotic movement around us. Dad had me down, covering me with his body. I yelled for him to run.

  I watched in panic as three men jumped Stone just as he pointed the gun at Dad. One of them tore the gun out of his hands. The second guy grabbed Stone by the collar, and in two moves like a wriggling fish, Stone slipped out of the trench coat and started to run. The second guy dropped the coat and, with the third guy, tackled Stone to the ground.