Time Flying (3 page)

The brick, one story house my father grew up in was one of the nicer on a block that consisted of only two other residences and a restaurant that had closed long ago. A tree Dad told me they planted when he was a boy towered stately and mature in the front yard,  reaching over the top of the structure.

I pulled up to the curb opposite the front door, seeing three people sitting on the porch, a man, his back to me, and two women. The three, none younger than 60,  were sitting around a table, covered with a flowery outdoor cloth. They watched me as I got out of my car and crossed the street toward them. I walked up the sidewalk and as I got closer to the house, noticed one of the women, whose gaze was the most direct of the two, was much older than the other. She was at least in her 80s, and probably older than 90. I said, “Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but my father grew up in this house."

"Richard?" Asked the older woman.

"Yes."

She smiled at my puzzled expression. "I have something for you," she said, and pointed at an object I couldn’t see, that was on the table in front of her. I hesitated, but she said, "Come on up. You’re welcome here," and again waved at something on the table. I didn’t know what to say. I’d never seen these people before, and seconds out of my car, this ancient, but bright-eyed woman almost demanded I approach!

I walked up the four short steps to the porch and looked at what the woman, clearly old enough to be my Grandmother, if not Great-Grandmother, was gesturing toward, and now I could see she was referring to an envelope on the table in front of her. Smaller than a standard #10, it looked sturdy, but brittle. Yellow tinged the edges of the envelope, and there was a faint round ring about the middle as if a small cup had rested on it. I looked at the envelope, at my hostess, and then at the younger woman sitting next to her. They appeared to be at least 25 years apart in age and had exactly the same smile, so I assumed they were mother and daughter. "I’m Richard Girrard," I said, smiling through the puzzled look I’m sure I still had on my face.

"We know," the younger one said. "I’m Liz Monahan, and this is my mother, Annie Bennett. We heard you were coming." Her smile and the quick glance at her mother told me I was in the presence of an inside joke.

I looked around at the house, the street and back at my rental car, trying to make sense of the fact they knew who I was, and had apparently been expecting me. I didn’t even know I was making this trip until a few hours ago when the thought occurred to me while sipping a Vanilla Latte this morning in Cincinnati. I took a closer look at the man sitting on the porch with Annie and Liz He looked to be past 60 as well, balding and a bit distracted. He smiled, but said nothing. "I hope I’m not intruding…” I began. Liz shook her head.

"No, no, no, as I said before, we knew you were coming."

We knew you were coming.
Again,
I couldn’t figure this out. The only person I’d spoken to since leaving Cincinnati a few hours before, had been the drive-up window attendant at McDonalds in Avon. I hadn’t told anyone where I was going. Unless someone watched me drive into town a few minutes before, recognized me, knew my destination (my father’s old house) when even I didn’t know it, there was no way these women could have known I would be here. Yet I stood looking down at an envelope that two women, whom I had never laid eyes on until about two minutes ago, said that they had an old envelope that was mine.

"Go ahead," Annie said. "It’s from your grandfather."

The vertigo I’d experienced at the lake cottage returned in a rush, and I stepped back, shaking my head, not understanding. After a few seconds, I picked up the envelope, handling it gingerly, and saw that it had been covering a gold coin. I didn’t know if the coin was part of this, or whether the letter had simply been laid on top of it, so I only focused on the envelope. On the front, under the faded cup ring was a faint, but legible word, written in pencil. It read "Richard." I again eyed the aged Annie who still had a slight smile on her lips. Liz didn’t seem nearly as comfortable, now that the object, obviously central to this situation was in my hand. Her eyes suddenly seemed to contain discomfort and just a small bit of…I don’t know, perhaps fear? Apprehension was definitely on his face. The man, who I’d almost forgotten about, despite the fact he was sitting with his back to me, not three feet away, stood up, ducked his head in soundless communication with the ladies he had been sharing he porch with, prior to my arrival. His eyes briefly met mine as we exchanged nods, and it became clear to me that he had Down’s Syndrome. Without introducing us, Liz and Annie both said, “Bye, Johnny" almost in sync. Then he was gone, as if he’d never been there at all, and I again looked at the envelope in my hand. Taking care not to damage it, I lifted the flap, which gave easily. The glue had long since dried out, so it opened without tearing and the paper inside was as old and brittle as the envelope. Uninvited, I sat down in the chair Johnny had been occupying just a minute before, and extracted a single sheet from the envelope, now empty, that I laid back on the table. Glancing up once again at Liz then Annie, I met each of their gazes, and then carefully unfolded the letter. My eyes adjusted to the faint pencil the words were written in, and I began to read.

To say I couldn’t believe what was written, is the grossest of understatements. To this day, there are times I am convinced that there was no letter, that it has all been a dream. Other times, I admit I’ve been convinced I’m insane, because what I read couldn’t possibly be true. But when those doubts are at their strongest, I go to the floor safe in my home office, take out the letter and reread it. I’ve had my wife Molly read it. In doing so, I’m reassured I didn’t dream this whole thing, and I’m again convinced that I am not insane. Here’s what the letter said:

November 17, 1933

    Dear Richard,

    The purpose of this letter I am writing is twofold. First, it is to demonstrate you are in complete control of your mind and faculties and are as far as I can tell, sane. Second, to urge you to follow the signs you are seeing and know a very interesting adventure awaits you. In your shoes, I would no doubt be bewildered and unsure about what I should do, but I know you have a strength of character and constitution that will make it possible to explore this most strange situation. How do I know this? Because I have met you, and am convinced of it. I am not sure how I know this, but what you told me about how you came to be here is true.

    Let me describe you. You stand a shade taller than myself and I am six feet one inch. Your eyes are brown. Your hair is brown as well, cut very short and retiring in the way the Harpers gradually lose their hair. To me, you look like a Harper, but also resemble the Girrards through your eyes. Your build is full, and I would estimate you weigh all of 200 pound.

    I do not fully understand how you came to visit here, but though it is tempting to ascribe the experience to the supernatural or even evil, I must confess that I do not go in much for that idea. I believe the natural world is a strange enough place without needing faeries, demons and leprechauns to explain it. And since it is obvious to me who you are, I can only take your explanation of how you came to be here as the truth. You are claiming that  through a process even you do not completely understand, for the pas several months, you have been traveling to the past, but can’t control how or when it happens. You asked me to write down that the future waiting for me is a good one, but not without difficulty, and you also insist "there are no god-damned flying cars." You laugh when you say that.

    As for details of the future, you are not nearly as forthcoming, though I understand why. I am comforted when you tell me our son, Tom, will thrive and the health problems he has will not plague him as he grows. Though my wife Doris seems somewhat relieved by this, she is far more skeptical about it. Your emotion at seeing her was enough for me though, and I know you to be our grandson, as odd as it is to write those words.

    To know what I write is beyond reproach, you have given me some facts to include I could not possibly know of. Here they are:

    You live in San Diego, California.

    George W. Bush is the President in the time you come from, and his father also named George, was President before him

    Your e mail address is Richard Girrard at yahoo dot com.

    You love coffee from Starbucks, and though it is hard to believe, you pay over three dollars for a cup of it.

    Though you told me about your life, the above facts are all you have told me about the future, but I understand why. I am happy you visited us and hope you find your way back here after you leave tonight, which you say you must. Although, you also say this journey is the longest you’ve had, you laughed when you said for all you knew, you might not be able to get back to your home. I hope you can get back, but I also think if you cannot, you would be happy to stay and see what you call your past occur.

    You will read this letter on the fourth of June in 2008.

    Harry H. Girrard

Underneath his neatly printed name was his signature, though to be honest, I don’t ever recall seeing anything signed by my grandfather. Most of my memories of him are of holidays — a summer fishing trip. I remember him as a larger than life, joking bear of a man, but since I was barely six when he died of a sudden stroke, a great deal of those memories are influenced by photographs. To read his words, serious and measured, seemed strange. They didn’t match any recollection I have of Harry Girrard.
What the hell is this all about?

It was then that a certainty came over me about what
must
be going on here. I don’t know how they’d done it, but there was something going on that didn’t involved my Grandfather writing a letter in 1933, including information in it he couldn’t possibly have known. Some sort of scam was being perpetrated, at my expense . These thoughts flashed through my mind in a matter of a couple seconds, and I directed my gaze at Annie.

She must have seen my suspicions clearly, because she returned the gaze calmly. "You don’t believe this, do you?" I shook my head, not able to say anything. "Look at the envelope," she said. I glanced down at it on the table to see her pointing as she added,  "The back." I picked the old envelope up and immediately saw the same faded penciled lettering, only in a different hand. It was a date, matching the one in the letter. November 17,1933, but this one was in a hand I recognized. A chill spread from my stomach up to my head, and I felt my skin prickling and the hairs on the back of my neck stirred. Directly underneath the date was a hand-drawn smiley face and a signature.

Mine.

TWO

In 1976

That evening, I drove south towards Interstate 70 to get back to Cincinnati. I was pretty much ready to fly back to San Diego and home the following Thursday, but felt a need to get back on the road and do some thinking. On the way through Terre Haute, I stopped at the cemetery where my grandparents are buried, found their graves, not far from my great-grandparents’ graves and stood for several minutes, thinking about the strange things the day had shown me.

I took the letter,  but insisted Annie keep the one ounce gold coin my Grandfather had put in the envelope. The coin, I had to admit, was a touch of genius on the part of my Grandfather, who according to Liz, had told her and Annie about the letter not long before my family left Belton in 1952. My grandparents invited the two women over for dinner on one of their last nights in town and told them an important letter and a gold coin was hidden in a beam in the basement of the house. When the ladies asked why confide in them, my Grandfather just said, “So you’ll remember. Don’t forget the gold coin."

In fact, they hadn’t remembered, until a few months after buying the house in 2003, when the subject of my family came up during dinner in Annie’s new house. They remembered the mysterious envelope with the gold coin, so Liz’s son extracted it from the beam and together, they read the letter. Then on this day, June 4, 2007, the circle begun in November of 1933 closed. I insisted the coin was meant for them as payment for keeping the letter safe. Annie persuaded me to have a piece of the apple pie, baked that morning, but I politely refused the offer to stay the night, wanting to be by myself to think this strange, crazy thing through.

While I drove in darkness with Belton, Terre Haute and the cemetery behind me, I looked down again at the envelope on the passenger seat, and in the dim light I could imagine what lay on the seat was nothing more than a plain envelope with no faint, pencilled names or dates, but I knew better. I supposed some sort of microscopic testing done would confirm the "June 4, 2007," and "November 17, 1933," were written at the same time, but by looking at them, I had no doubt about the truth, and somehow, my signature had been put on the envelope almost 72 years ago.

This whole situation was puzzling, but also a rather exciting mystery, too. Would I, sometime in my future, travel back to 1933? Time Travel stories had always been my favorite sci-fi to read, starting in about the fifth grade when I read a book about a two kids who travel back to the seventeenth century. I don’t remember the title of the book, or its author, but I remember being completely captivated by it.  A more recent book, a love story, told from the perspectives of a time traveler and his wife had been both a joy and a heartbreak to read. Driving through the darkness, I realized  maybe my interest in the concept of time travel had played a big part of this mystery, at the same time fearing it might be some sort of psychosis brought on by that very interest. I reassured myself it was only an interest, not an obsession at all, but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t started to doubt my sanity.

The miles slid by as I again passed Indianapolis, and I finally got my thinking sufficiently organized to call Gary, probably the most analytical person I know. Not surprising to anyone, Gary has a tolerance for New Age concepts of approximately zero. After catching up, I told him the day’s entire story, start to finish, needing three different phone calls to do so because he was driving on some cross-country trek to the East Coast, never flying when driving a Jeep would get the job done. Cell coverage can be spotty outside the big cities, and since his Jeeps are Gary’s main source of amusement outside of work, many of our conversations go this way.