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On either side of her, the twins lounged easily in their chairs, squinting at the
sunlight through tall mint-garnished glasses as they laughed and talked, their long
legs, booted to the knee and thick with saddle muscles, crossed negligently.
Nineteen years old, six feet two inches tall, long of bone and hard of muscle, with
sunburned faces and deep auburn hair, their eyes merry and arrogant, their bodies
clothed in identical blue coats and mustard-colored breeches, they were as much
alike as two bolls of cotton.
Outside, the late afternoon sun slanted down in the yard, throwing into gleaming
brightness the dogwood trees that were solid masses of white blossoms against the
background of new green. The twins' horses were hitched in the driveway, big
animals, red as their masters' hair; and around the horses' legs quarreled the pack
of lean, nervous possum hounds that accompanied Stuart and Brent wherever they
went. A little aloof, as became an aristocrat, lay a black-spotted carriage dog,
muzzle on paws, patiently waiting for the boys to go home to supper.
Between the hounds and the horses and the twins there was a kinship deeper
than that of their constant companionship. They were all healthy, thoughtless
young animals, sleek, graceful, high-spirited, the boys as mettlesome as the horses
they rode, mettlesome and dangerous but, withal, sweet-tempered to those who
knew how to handle them.
Although born to the ease of plantation life, waited on hand and foot since
infancy, the faces of the three on the porch were neither slack nor soft. They had
the vigor and alertness of country people who have spent all their lives in the open
and troubled their heads very little with dull things in books. Life in the north
Georgia county of Clayton was still new and, according to the standards of Augusta,
Savannah and Charleston, a little crude. The more sedate and older sections
of the South looked down their noses at the up-country Georgians, but here in
north Georgia, a lack of the niceties of classical education carried no shame,
provided a man was smart in the things that mattered. And raising good cotton,
riding well, shooting straight, dancing lightly, squiring the ladies with elegance and
carrying one's liquor like a gentleman were the things that mattered.
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I sat on a park bench, eating my lunch. I watched as a little girl rolled by on a shiny metal scooter, watching me out of the corner of her eyes. She zipped around and passed me again.
"Hello," I said.
She stopped, her eyes wide.
"I like your scooter."
She looked down at the scooter, her ponytail flopping in her face, then beamed at me. "It's my trusty steed, Sparklehorn!" She pointed to a pink sticker of a unicorn. "He's a unicorn."
"Oh, I see." I smiled. "I've never met a unicorn before."
The girl frowned and pointed at me. "You're the time trampler."
"Time traveller."
She shrugged. "My mommy says I can't talk to you. She says you are dangerous."
"Ok." I ate a bite of my sandwich. "What does your daddy say?"
The girl twirled her hair with a finger and scrunched up her face. "He says you're a commie bastard."
"Oh."
The girl furrowed her eyebrows. "What's a 'bastard'?"
I chuckled. "Go ask your daddy."
The girl laid her scooter down on the sidewalk. "Wanna see me do a cartwheel?"
"Sure."
I finished my lunch as the girl cavorted around me on the sidewalk. I opened a small bag of cookies while she practiced handstands. Upside down, she heard the crinkle of the cookie bag and turned her head towards me.
"Are those cookies?" She dropped her feet and stood up. "I only like chocolate chip cookies." She paused and tried to look nonchalant. "Do your cookies have any chocolate chips, maybe?"
"They do indeed." I showed her the bag. "Would you like one?"
"Yes!" she squealed.
I held out a cookie and she snatched it gleefully.
"Do they have chocolate where you are from?" she asked, spraying crumbs onto the sidewalk.
"I'm from here, sweetie."
"Noooo," she whined, "do they have chocolate in the future?"
I shrugged. "I'm not from the future, I was born in this time. And I only go backwards in time, not forwards." I paused. "I think."
The girl thought about this for a moment. "My daddy says you killed people. Is that true?"
I nodded. "That's what all the history books say, so... I guess so?"
"Why?"
"I don't know. I haven't done it yet."
A woman turned the corner on the sidewalk, pushing a stroller. "Lydia," she called.
"Uh oh," I said.
The little girl's eyes widened and she shoved the rest of her cookie in her mouth and wiped chocolate off her face. "Thank you," she said through a mouthful of cookie. She scooped up her scooter and hurried back to her mother.
Her mother scowled in recognition at me and pulled Lydia away down the sidewalk. I sighed and began cleaning up my lunch.
"It must be hard for you," said a voice, behind me.
I turned to see an old man with a cane approaching my bench. He gestured with his cane to the space beside me.
"May I sit?"
I nodded and tossed my lunch trash into a garbage can next to the bench.
"I'm sorry that everyone treats you poorly," the man said. "You walk a hard enough road already."
"I guess." I shrugged. "It's weird knowing all these things that I will do. Like seeing my whole life ahead of me."
"Not your whole life," said the man. "Just the parts that history remembers." The man fiddled with his cane. "History rarely tells the whole story, in my experience."
"I wish I knew why I did, or will do, those things." I hold up my empty hands and examine my palms. "I'm going to stab some poor painter to death in Vienna in 1906? Why would I do that? I've never hurt anyone in my life."
The old man nodded. "Sometimes, we have to make a choice between saving a few or saving many. Maybe it was for the greater good."
"But what about Dallas in 1963? Everyone knows that I was there." I shook my head. "Why don't I save the President? Why didn't I stop Oswald? I did nothing! Why was I even there?"
"Don't be too hard on yourself." The old man clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Especially for something you haven't done yet."
"Some people think that I was the one who pulled the trigger," I mumbled. "I get so many emails about grassy knolls."
"Maybe you were," said the old man. "Maybe you weren't. Maybe you were supposed to save the President but you simply failed." The old man smiled at me. "You're only human, you know, even if you do travel through time."
"I wish that I could just get on with it," I said. "Ever since the discovery of those old photos, I've just drifted along, waiting for time travel." I wrung my hands. "It's been ten years already. Ten years of people avoiding me—or worse, actively trying to hurt me. Women won't date me. Nobody will hire me. I am pretty sure that the government has people following me." I pointed to a man in a suit, standing near a tree. The man waved. "See?"
"I know it's hard," said the old man. "And, unfortunately, it won't get any easier."
"What do you mean?"
"Your life. It won't get any easier." The old man sighed. "It's hard to have a wife if you're hopping through time. Hard to have a family, to raise children."
"Oh great, thanks for that." I rolled my eyes. "Very inspirational."
"It's the truth." The old man shrugged. "You are going to do some very important work. It will have to be enough for you."
I looked at the old man.
He gave me a small smile. "What if I told you that your sacrifice will save millions of lives?" He gestured towards the people in the park—the moms with their strollers, the children, the young men playing frisbee. "All of these people, their parents, grandparents. Their children, too. You will save them, although you will always travel alone, it is true. But with your help, humanity will avoid several major catastrophes."
"Is that why I kill that painter?"
"Yes."
"What happens if I don't?"
The man stared into the distance. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it and stood.
"It is better if I show you," he said. "Come with me. It's time to begin your training."
My mouth dropped. "Wait a second... this is it? Right now?"
The old man nodded.
I stood up. We begin walking.
"Wait," I said. "How do you know all this stuff?"
My eyes widened. "Oh my god..." I lowered my voice. "Are you... me? From the future?"
"No," said the old man, shaking his head with a chuckle. "I'm your son."
On either side of her, the twins lounged easily in their chairs, squinting at the
sunlight through tall mint-garnished glasses as they laughed and talked, their long
legs, booted to the knee and thick with saddle muscles, crossed negligently.
Nineteen years old, six feet two inches tall, long of bone and hard of muscle, with
sunburned faces and deep auburn hair, their eyes merry and arrogant, their bodies
clothed in identical blue coats and mustard-colored breeches, they were as much
alike as two bolls of cotton.
Outside, the late afternoon sun slanted down in the yard, throwing into gleaming
brightness the dogwood trees that were solid masses of white blossoms against the
background of new green. The twins' horses were hitched in the driveway, big
animals, red as their masters' hair; and around the horses' legs quarreled the pack
of lean, nervous possum hounds that accompanied Stuart and Brent wherever they
went. A little aloof, as became an aristocrat, lay a black-spotted carriage dog,
muzzle on paws, patiently waiting for the boys to go home to supper.
Between the hounds and the horses and the twins there was a kinship deeper
than that of their constant companionship. They were all healthy, thoughtless
young animals, sleek, graceful, high-spirited, the boys as mettlesome as the horses
they rode, mettlesome and dangerous but, withal, sweet-tempered to those who
knew how to handle them.
Although born to the ease of plantation life, waited on hand and foot since
infancy, the faces of the three on the porch were neither slack nor soft. They had
the vigor and alertness of country people who have spent all their lives in the open
and troubled their heads very little with dull things in books. Life in the north
Georgia county of Clayton was still new and, according to the standards of Augusta,
Savannah and Charleston, a little crude. The more sedate and older sections
of the South looked down their noses at the up-country Georgians, but here in
north Georgia, a lack of the niceties of classical education carried no shame,
provided a man was smart in the things that mattered. And raising good cotton,
riding well, shooting straight, dancing lightly, squiring the ladies with elegance and
carrying one's liquor like a gentleman were the things that mattered.