Faces in Time (23 page)

At Rhonda’s condo nearly three hours later.

Rhonda says, “I don’t know if I can be around a man whose life is all up to chance—someone who might lose the rent money if Chicago wins on Sunday.”

“But I never lose; it’s a lock.”

“Someday you will, Chester. Everybody loses sometime, or they’re not human.”

“Not me.”

“My daddy always swore the same thing, and he’d be angry and yelling and breaking things every time he lost—swearing he’d been cheated: stupid ref, lousy quarterback, idiot coach. There was always a reason why he lost that had nothing to do with him.”

Pause. She holds onto the handle straps of her large purse that sits before her atop her kitchen table. Her fingers say take out her keys, ask him to leave, and lock the door behind him, but her eyes plead wait.

Chester
doesn’t know what to say. The truth not only could drive her away forever, but it could be dangerous to the entire world. Light breaks the fog.

“Look, Rhonda, what if I tell you the names of every winner in baseball, football, horse races, and any other event you can find in the paper?”

She puckers and unpuckers her lips nervously.

“What if I don’t miss one? Would you believe me? You know I’ve been with you all day, and we left before the other games were over. You know I haven’t seen any scores since we left. What do you think?”

Releasing her tightly puckered lips, “I don’t like it, Chester, but it would be something. Should be nearly impossible to get them all right.”

Seven minutes later sitting at her kitchen table.

“Chester, it’s just not natural.”

“No, for most people it’s not, but for me it is.”

“For everybody it is. I went to dozens of fortune tellers when I was trying to find my way, and none of them could’ve done this. None of them told me anything that was going to happen and then had it come true. If any of them could do this, they wouldn’t be living in rundown houses by the airport and with no one ever knowing who they were and what amazing things they could do.”

“They’re not me.”

“I know, Chester. I just don’t…are you really a writer, or do you study sports all day long—memoritats? Is that it? Is that what you do all day? If that’s the case, wouldn’t it be easier just to work for someone else or start your own business?”

“No, it only takes me about fifteen minutes.”

Pause.

She asks, “What else do you know?”

“What?” responds Chester.

“What else do you know about me?”

“That I love you.”

Her face holds still as if she were trying to feel the magnitude of a slap—if it will sting through her flesh or fade away quickly. Her eyes remain wide in its wake; a little flicker gives birth to warmth in her chest.

He tries to think of something to say, fails, and exhales loudly in the gasp of one who has incriminated oneself in a dire matter.

“Che-Chester, I-I don’t know what to say.”

His lips move to speak but produce nothing.

“How can you love me? You’ve only known me for a few days.”

He stares with full eyes, but no motion and no plan.

“It’s sweet, and I liked hearing it. But, you can’t say that without meaning it, and you can’t mean that yet…Can you?”

“Yes,” comes from his mouth without his permission.

“Chester, that just can’t be, baby. Love takes time, and we haven’t spent enough of it yet.”

Long pause.

Rhonda’s eyes start to water over with the sadness of a new hope being crushed. He’s afraid she’s going to leave him.

Chester says, “You’re never going to believe me until I tell you the truth.”

“Of course I won’t believe you until you tell me the truth. You want me to believe a lie?”

“No, it’s not like that. You’d understand if I tell you everything,” a voice in his head berates him for having said this much and pleads with him to stop before making it worse.

“If you don’t tell me the truth, none of this has been real. This wonderful weekend will all be fake. If it’s not based on truth, it’s not real.”

“More real than anything for me.”
Shut up, you idiot. She’s going to run if you tell the truth. Think you’re insane. Knows where you live. She’ll call the police, an asylum, maybe even Harvey and then the show.

“Then tell me, and we’ll test it,” she says.

Don’t. Don’t do it. A lie—tell her you’re divorced or something. Lie. Make a joke. Anything but the truth.

“If I tell you, you’ll think I’m insane.”

“We’re all a little insane, Chester, but some of us can be honest. Some of us can trust a person.”

“I trust you. It’s just…it’s just a lot to believe.”

Grabbing his hand, “There’s nothing left to do but to do it. Tell me.”

“I can say I love you because I’ve known you for a lot longer than two days.”

A tingle of panic spreads in her eyes.

“I mean I’ve only seen you in person or talked to you for this weekend and at the party. I’ve never spied on you or followed you or any of that crazy stuff.”

The panic subsides but doesn’t disappear.

“I’ve watched you on TV and in films for more than twenty years.”

Her eyes and mouth scream the question that she doesn’t speak.

“I’m from the future, Rhnda.”

“Oh, my God, Chester,” she says with a voice that has begun to sob, “Honey, you are insane.”

Her hand still holds his, and so holds his confidence.

“No, Rhonda, it’s true. That’s how I know who’s going to win in sports. That’s how I never lose. That’s why I said it wasn’t gambling with me. There’s no chance I can miss; I already know how it’s going to happen.”

“You’re talking crazy; I’m sorry, but this is nuts.”

She pulls her hand away, but he grabs hers before it gets too far. She doesn’t squeeze back, but she doesn’t fight his touch.

She continues before he can, “You need help. I can’t help you with this. Anything else, maybe. But, I-I just don’t know what to do here. Are you playing with me? Are—are you joking? ‘Cause I don’t like this at all.”

“No,” sighs, “no, it’s true.”

She shakes her head making red swirls put a whirling wall of color between them.

“Wait, wait. Please, wait.”

Head still shakes. The red blur becomes blurrier in her eyes, and her sob is as sad as a child’s.

“Rhonda, I can prove it. I can prove it!”

He lets go of her hand, and the power in his last sentence scares her.

She stops shaking, and her glossy eyes see his back heading toward the bedroom. A voice in her head screams for her to leave, a voice that came to her often in childhood, and every time she’s ignored it in the past, it has lead to unpleasant memories.

She surges out of the chair and onto her bare feet. The grooves of the tile floor entice her to run like the edges of grass blades beneath the paws of a cheetah. Bounding toward the door, each step patters the ground. Her hand reaches out to flip the deadbolt latch open, and she hears the sound that she knew would come.

“Rhonda, wait! I can—” calls from the opened doorway to the bedroom.

She keeps her eyes focused, yanks the handle open, and darts onto the balcony toward the stairs, all of it soaked and darkened in the night’s drizzle. The light from the parking lot post is a dim beam exposing the thin sheet of rain, making the evening air appear to be crying.

She looks to her car below and realizes she didn’t grab her keys before running out, her large purse still sitting on the kitchen table. Scanning the parking lot she scours for anyone who can keep her safe.

Movement catches her attention as she hits the top of the stairs. It is a man pulling himself from under the back of Chester’s Chevelle. She can hear the recoiling of a tape measure whose metal casing shines in the night. The man looks up at her on the stairs, and she freezes. It’s a face she’s thought of constantly over the past few days, her heart’s sunshine, but it has no warmth as it stares back at her.

Chester plows through the opened front door and onto the balcony. He sees the red hair, mildly damp from the weak rain, stopped at the edge of the stairs, no longer running from him. Following the angle of her head down into the parking lot, he sees his past self staring at her. His past self moves his stare from Rhonda, growing angrier in its expression until it lands on Chester.

From behind her Chester shouts, “Rhonda, he’s dangerous—get back inside! Please!”

He darts toward her but not in a sprint, afraid to approach her too quickly and have her fall down the stairs. His past self runs toward the street. After three steps he drops a notebook and a pencil.

Chester’s hands reach Rhonda’s shoulders, and they pull her back a step before placing himself between her and the ill-willed version of himself below.

Scrambling around, his past self grabs the notebook that is now speckled with wet parking lot debris and run over with watermarks that resemble rivers on an old world map. The pencil has rolled beneath the nearest vehicle, and he runs with full force toward the street and his car parked on it two buildings down. His shoes stomp into puddles splashing his legs with water and grime that used to be part of useful objects but are now crushed and ground into useless and tainting particles, more of them clinging to him with every step of his path.

On the balcony, with one hand on the rail and the other holding her trembling palm behind his back, the breeze pricks over his skin, still pulsing with the summoned energy to confront his past self. Chester turns to her.

The words blow from her lips on the winds of astonishment, “It was yo—”

Putting his hand over her mouth, “Shhh! Can’t talk out here. Inside.”

Keeping his hand over her lips that seem to be controlled from two inches higher by her mystified irises, he walks her back into her apartment.

Releasing her mouth as he shuts the door, he pleads, “Rhonda, I’m sorr—”

“It’s you!”

“Sorry I had to put my hand ove—”