The Time Telephone

by Connie Lacy

  She shrugged her shoulders, which caused me to laugh out loud. Talk about ‘don’t judge a book by its cover.’ I had judged Rikki from the very beginning, thinking she had ulterior motives for befriending me. I also thought she had everything under control and knew exactly where she was headed. Miss Perfect. But maybe there aren’t any real Miss Perfects.

  ~Eighteen~

  A kiss

  Grandma was impressed with my photographs, if I do say so myself. She called them wonderful, artistic, beautiful, striking, and fourteen other adjectives. And she loved the picture of Pap’s teeth. She even asked if I could make her copies of a couple of them so she could frame them and hang them in the living room.

  I really wanted to show Kieran too so I called him up and asked if we could come over. I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say he was pleased.

  Grandma took a small tin of gourmet cookies. The Mehtas welcomed us like we were their best friends and showed us into a cheerful TV room with framed family photos covering the walls. The smell of warm, sweet chocolate filled the house like the aroma of family. Kieran was parked on a yellow sofa with his broken leg propped up on a matching ottoman. He clicked the TV off as we entered the room.

  There were introductions all around and Grandma made a fuss over little Thomas who had dark brown hair and green eyes. Nina was very pretty with long black hair, but looked less Indian than Kieran.

  “Nina, I’m so glad to finally meet you,” I said.

  “Me too,” Grandma said. “I hear you’re heading into a profession with a future.”

  “Well, that’s the plan,” Nina said, smirking at Kieran as if to say ‘I told you so.’

  “You have a particular kind of job in mind?” I asked.

  “Right now I’m focused on hotel management.”

  “I understand managers at the top hotels make very good money,” Grandma said.

  “You hear that, Kieran?” Nina said.

  “Good to know,” he replied. “In case I need to hit you up for a loan someday.”

  She laughed and then hurried after Thomas, saying it was past time for his bath. Thomas squealed and ran from his mommy.

  “Good luck, dear!” Grandma called after her. “She’ll do well. She’s got a great personality and, obviously, a lot of drive.”

  She nodded at Kieran’s parents who smiled in reply.

  “Thomas sure is cute,” I said.

  “He’s got a lot of drive too,” said Dr. Mehta, laughing.

  Like she was reading my mind, Mrs. Mehta, an earth mother with frizzy orange hair, suggested the adults have coffee in the kitchen. She brought Kieran and me a plate of warm brownies and left us alone in the family room.

  “How’s it going?” I asked, gesturing towards his cast.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m getting used to it.”

  “I’m so impressed with Nina, in spite of what a certain grumpy younger brother told me.”

  “All right, all right.”

  “I can’t believe you were so critical of her.”

  “Well…”

  “I mean she’s a real go-getter. Kind of like my grandmother when she was young.”

  He cleared his throat.

  “Hadn’t thought of that,” he admitted.

  “I want to show you something,” I said, deciding to let him off the hook, at least temporarily.

  I opened the large manila envelope I’d brought and pulled out my stack of photographs.

  “Wow,” he said. “Did you print these yourself?”

  “Rikki helped me this afternoon.”

  I sat down next to him.

  “Where?”

  “Her dad’s darkroom. It’s so cool.” I paused and looked at him. “And she told me you called her a racist.”

  He sighed.

  “How could you do that?” I said.

  “Well, she accused me of being a sexist.”

  “She did?”

  “Yeah, when we were in that photography class. She said I talked down to girls.”

  I raised my eyebrow.

  “I’m not sexist,” he said. “But I realized maybe my sister’s situation made me think girls weren’t as smart as guys. And you’ve been giving me non-stop grief about it. So I’ve been making an effort.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “You know, when it happened – when she got pregnant – my folks were, like, devastated. They never said so, but I’m pretty sure they were humiliated. I mean, my dad is a doctor. And that’s not what a doctor’s daughter is supposed to do. So a part of me was angry.”

  “Sounds like you’re the one who was humiliated.”

  “Now, wait a minute.”

  “Well?”

  He sighed again and screwed up his mouth.

  “Your parents seem totally supportive,” I said.

  “They are. And Nina’s working hard. Of course, Thomas is great. Smart as a whip. A real handful, though. Nina chose the name Thomas because it’s European and Indian.”

  “It’s Indian?”

  “Yeah, Thomas the Apostle visited India so a lot of boys in India are named Thomas.”

  “No kidding. And the name Nina? Don’t tell me – it’s a double name too.”

  “Yep. It’s a Hindu name meaning ‘beautiful eyes’ and it’s a name in lots of western countries too.”

  “You are a veritable font of information.”

  “Let’s look at your pictures,” he said.

  So we started through them.

  He laughed out loud when he got to the photo of the false teeth.

  “I love it,” he said. “I hate to say I told you so, but I predicted correctly that you’d be a professional in no time.”

  He flipped through the prints, handling them with great care, gushing about what a natural photographer I was. Of course, I ate it up, especially coming from him. And then he got to the last picture – the one of him I snapped on that chilly day at the farmhouse by the pecan tree.

  “I think you’ve captured the real me.”

  He laughed and I laughed.

  “How’d you like to take a photography class with Mr. Washington this summer?” I asked. “He teaches a summer course.”

  “You gonna sign up?”

  “Of course.”

  He leaned towards me and made a show of looking at the door to make sure no one was coming.

  “That’s the best offer I’ve had since I was eleven and my dad asked me if I wanted to visit the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum in Washington. And I said ‘duh.’”

  I giggled.

  Just for a second I imagined the two of us in the dim, orange light of the darkroom, side by side, watching images appear on photographic paper in a shallow tub. Our arms would touch accidentally. We’d gaze into each other’s eyes and then Kieran would lean towards me until our noses were almost touching. I would close my eyes and part my lips and wait for him to kiss me. I would put my hand on his shoulder and then our lips would meet and it would be heaven. A sweet, soft kiss. My heart would pound. In fact, I could hear a pounding, swishing noise in my ears at that very moment.

  And, before I changed my mind, I leaned over and kissed him on the lips. And he kissed me back.

  “Could we try that one more time?” he whispered afterwards. “It’s always advisable to replicate your experiments to verify…”

  I kissed him again just to shut him up. And it was amazing how fast he caught on.

  “There’s something to be said for falling in love with an older woman,” he said.

  I punched his good arm.

  So we ate brownies and talked about photography and what we’d like to take pictures of. And about how cool black and white pictures are and stuff like that. Kieran’s parents even had some photography books that we looked at, sitting so close together on the couch that half the book was on his lap and half was on mine. And our legs were touching, which struck me as kind of romantic.

  ~Nineteen~

  Mitch

  Right aft
er lunch on Sunday the doorbell rang.

  “That must be Carl,” Grandma said, jumping up to answer the door.

  I heard her greet someone warmly and then she led a man into the kitchen where I was still sitting at the table. But it wasn’t Carl. It was a nice looking black man, about thirty-five or forty. I had no idea who he was but sensed that Grandma was pleased to have him here.

  “Megan,” she said, “This is Mitch Johnson. He’s a…”

  “Cameraman, videographer,” I said. “I know.”

  But I was confused as I stared into his troubled eyes.

  “I thought…” I started. But then I remembered reading that my mother had changed her plans at the last minute and she was by herself when the bomb exploded.

  He tried to smile but it didn’t come easy.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” Grandma asked, gesturing for him to sit at the table.

  He shook his head and continued to stand.

  “I wanted to come by to express my condolences,” he said. “I wasn’t here for the memorial or the funeral.”

  “That’s awfully nice of you,” Grandma said.

  “And I wanted to tell you,” he said, looking directly at me, “that your mom told me that morning she got a tip there might be violence at the market. She said no point in both of us going. She said she’d use her computer and set it up for a Skype report. That I should shoot some B-roll and upload it so she could use it.”

  I was racking my brain, trying to sort out my memories. I recalled telling Mom on the telephone that her cameraman was killed too. But I also remembered reading that she was solo that day.

  “When I talked with her the second time that morning,” he continued, “I asked her who tipped her. And she said ‘you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’ And I said ‘try me.’ And she said ‘my daughter.’”

  Grandma looked from him to me.

  “She said you had a vision or a dream or something. She said you told her I would die along with her that day and leave two children and a wife at home. And she said at first she thought you were just feeding her a line or something. But then she wondered how you knew I was the one scheduled to work with her that day and how you knew I was married with two kids. She also wondered how you knew where she was gonna do her live shot. She said she thought about it and decided she didn’t want to risk it, at least not for me. I thought, you know, it wasn’t like her to be superstitious. And I kind of thought maybe something else was going on that she didn’t want to tell me about. But I said ‘whatever.’ And then, well, you know what happened.”

  He paused for a moment but didn’t take his eyes off me.

  “So I want to thank you for saving my life. Although I sure wish she would’ve listened to you and changed her plans too.”

  Grandma gave me a confused look, trying to figure it out.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” I said.

  But my mind was racing. I remembered two different versions of the explosion. So Mom did listen to me. And my calls had saved his life even if they hadn’t saved hers.

  “Jody was a real professional,” he said. “A class act.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Well, I better go,” he said, nodding as he edged towards the front door.

  “Thank you so much for coming by, Mitch,” Grandma said. “Very kind of you.”

  After showing him out, Grandma returned wearing a bewildered expression.

  “I’m always the last to know,” she said, waiting for me to explain.

  What was I supposed to say? So I just shrugged. As I reached for my crutches so I could escape to my room, the doorbell rang again.

  “That must be Carl,” she said.

  I was hobbling as fast as I could go, hoping to avoid chit chat with Carl and Grandma. Nothing against Carl. It’s just that Mitch’s visit had shaken me up. I thought maybe I’d work on a poem.

  “Megan! Where are you?” Grandma called when I was about halfway down the hall.

  “Gotta rest a bit,” I replied, hoping to make my getaway. “I’m very tired.”

  She said something to Carl but I couldn’t make out the words. Then I heard his voice. Then hers.

  “All right,” she called.

  I closed my door and sat on my bed with my poem notebook. But my mind was muddled. No poetry popped into my head. Anger bubbled up again. If Mom believed me enough to warn Mitch, why didn’t she believe me enough to change the location of her live shot?

  I collapsed on my bed, holding my head in my hands, mumbling under my breath: “Why, why, why?”

  ~Twenty~

  Toodle-oo

  When I finally ventured out of my room again to forage for food, Carl was gone and Grandma was standing at the kitchen counter wiping something with a cloth. She turned when she heard me and I saw what she was cleaning. It was the time telephone.

  “Carl drove out to Libby’s to get it for you,” she explained. “I told him where it used to sit in the parlor and he said he had to pick his way through the rubble. But he wore gardening gloves to protect his hands and he found it under some roofing tiles. He said the tiles probably protected it from the rain, which was a lucky break. But he said it was scary seeing how the house disintegrated, knowing you were inside when it happened.”

  She paused to inspect her handiwork.

  “Kieran said this is what you went back for,” she added, turning to me. She had a quiet smile on her face like she expected me to show some appreciation. But her expression immediately changed to one of uncertainty.

  I felt like I’d had the wind knocked out of me but tried not to show it.

  “Yeah, I thought I might like to keep it,” I lied.

  “Shall I put it in your room for you?”

  I honestly didn’t know what to say. I thought I’d never see the antique phone again. But I nodded.

  She carried it to my room and returned, offering to fix me a sandwich. I opted for a bowl of cereal in front of the TV. I was afraid to go to my room. I wished she hadn’t sent Carl to get the telephone. Not sure why, but I felt some trepidation about it. So I parked myself on the couch the whole evening, watching movies. I finally forced myself back down the hallway after Grandma called it a night.

  I closed the door behind me and locked it – something I never did – and slowly made my way across the room until I was standing by the phone, which sat on the dresser in front of the mirror. My reflection looked more like a scared little girl – jumbled hair, baggy blue pajamas, crutches.

  The cord was only about four feet long and frayed at the end. It had obviously been that way a long time. It had not been cut recently, that’s for sure. Which made me wonder – if it wasn’t connected to any wires when I’d used it at the farm house, then maybe – just maybe – I could still use it here.

  I don’t know how long I stood frozen in place, staring at it. Five minutes? Twenty? But finally, I lifted the base of the phone with my left hand, glancing at the door. My palms were sweaty and I had to grip it firmly so I wouldn’t drop it. I tried to think of what else I could possibly say to my mother. That Grandma was dying of cancer and I needed her to come home? That I had some kind of terminal illness? What on earth could I tell her?

  And when would I try to call her? The same time I called her before – the morning of the explosion? Should I tell her about Mitch’s visit? What he told me? That she had saved him, but not herself?

  My hands trembled as I put the receiver to my ear. And then I waited. I waited a long time for the patient, motherly voice. I closed my eyes and hoped against hope that the gentle telephone operator would speak to me. But there was nothing. I jiggled the cradle. Still, I waited, staring at the phone in my hand. Nothing. No sweet voice. Just silence.

  I focused my brain on the old telephone, willing it to work again. Nothing. As I stood there holding it tight in my hand I remembered that last conversation. Mom said she wouldn’t go to the market that day. Obviously, she was just humoring me.

  Bu
t I also remembered her saying she loved me, always would. I remembered telling her I loved her. I was glad I told her. And it occurred to me that I finally got to say good-bye.

  Then I realized she was right – Grandma did do a better job of raising me than Mom ever could. And as much as I hated to admit it, Reverend Gray Suit was right too – she died doing what she loved.

  The telephone was just a decoration. Another decoration I didn’t want in my room. So I headed for the door. Carrying it while using my crutches wasn’t easy and I banged the wall on my way out. Grandma’s bedroom door opened almost immediately.

  “Megan?”

  She saw what I was doing and took the phone from me and added it to the pile of stuff in the garage.

  “So sorry, dear,” she said.

  *

  I couldn’t sleep and decided to look at my pictures again. I spread them out in my room to admire them. It struck me that pictures really are visual poems. They tell a story. Some of the stories are more obvious than others. Sometimes you just have to know how to interpret them.

  I decided to ask Kieran to take some photos of me and Grandma in black and white. I might want to frame one to add to my new collection.

  Then there was a tap at my door. Grandma strolled in, stood close beside me and put her left arm around my shoulder. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that. I didn’t pull away.

  “You know, in all my years living in that old house and visiting my family there, I never once thought to take a picture of it. I guess I took it for granted.”

  She was studying the shot I’d taken of the sagging side porch. You could see the pecan tree reflected in the broken window panes.

  “I realized I’ve taken other things for granted, too,” she said. “Including life, itself. But no more. So… I told Carl I’d marry him.”