In Times Like These (6 page)

He seems really intrigued with Robbie. I guess I would be too if someone showed up at my door claiming to be my grandson.

Robbie smiles and then continues to follow his grandfather, who walks to the far side of the room. Mr. Cameron leads us up a wooden staircase into an upstairs hall.
"This door leads to the roof.” He raps his knuckles on the left hand door closest to him. He then shows us each of the three bedrooms along the right. "You can put yourselves up in here if you like.” He points out the various beds in the rooms. "These two rooms share a bathroom you can use. I’m sure you can find some towels and such if you need them. There are twin beds in the middle bedroom, but I guess one of you may have to camp on the couch downstairs, as I think we’re going to be one bed short."

"That won't be a problem,” I say. "We’re happy to have anything really."

"Yes, this is incredibly nice of you,” Francesca adds.

"It really is my pleasure.” Mr. Cameron leads us down the hall to the glass door at the end. He points to the wooden door to the left before opening the glass door. "That's me."

The veranda overlooks the backyard and the path we walked to the house. A number of wooden chairs surround a circular table with a pot of geraniums on it. We spread out along the railing, taking in the yard and its lush landscaping.

“You have a really beautiful home,” Francesca says.

“Thank you,” Mr. Cameron replies. “Abby and I always took a lot of pride in it.” He looks out over the yard and his eyes grow slowly moist. I try to think of a way to change the subject politely but I can’t think of anything about the house that wouldn’t relate to the late Mrs. Cameron. Mr. Cameron straightens up and exhales a deep breath, brushing his hand under his eye to wipe away the beginnings of a tear. “Are you all hungry? I was going to fix myself something in a bit.”

“We actually ate recently,” I reply. “But we’ll definitely join you if you like.”

“Wonderful,” Mr. Cameron says, still looking at the yard as if trying to avoid our eyes. “If you’ll make yourselves at home, I’m going to get started on that.” He smiles at us quickly, and then turns back into the hall. “Come down when you’re ready. Come along, Spartacus.”

Spartacus
follows his master with his tail wagging. Mr. Cameron holds the door open long enough for the dog to follow him through, and closes it behind him.

The five of us make a semi-
circle along the railing.

“Your grandfather is really sweet
, Robbie,” Francesca says.

“I wish he wasn’t so sad,” Robbie responds. “I feel like I’m interrupting him somehow, like I’m invading his grief.”

“He seems happy to see you,” Francesca says.

“Yeah, he seems very interested in you,” Carson slouches against the railing.
“It’s great that he’s up for letting us stay here. I think he took the whole time travel thing really well.”

“Yeah, I was worried he’d never let us in after I finally got that out. How long do you think we’ll have to stay?” Robbie asks.

“Yeah, what exactly is our plan here?” Blake inquires. “How is this helping our situation? We’re in 1985. We don’t have any money. No one is going to know who we are. We don’t have any I.D. or even know how we got here. We’re seriously screwed.”

I realize that the four of them are looking to me for a response. I don’t feel especially qualified to be making any decisions. The walk here has mostly just been putting one foot in front of the other and t
rying not to flip out.

I step away from the railing and straighten up.
“I think we should spend the night and see how things look in the morning. Maybe we can look for someone to help us. They have that Time Society group here supposedly, according to that newscast. Maybe they can help us somehow. Someone has to know something about this stuff. We’ll find them and maybe there’s a way we can sort this mess out.”

“W
e should have another look around the softball field too,” Carson suggests. “Maybe whatever happened, is going to happen again, and we can see how it works.”

“Could be possible I guess,” I say.

“I need to buy a toothbrush,” Robbie says.

“I need to buy some pants,” Francesca adds.

“I need to get something other than cleats to walk around in,” Carson looks down at the dirty softball cleats on his feet.

“Yeah, me too.
” Blake swats at a bug that’s attempting to land in his scruffy facial hair.

“We’re going to be out of money in
a hurry,” I say. “We’ll have to figure that out soon. For now, lets go down and hang out with Mr. Cameron and see how that goes. Then maybe after, we can walk down to a drug store and pick some things up.”

The other four agree and Carson leads the way through the door, trying to walk gingerly so as not to scratch the hardwood floor with his plastic cleats.

“Maybe you should just take them off,” Francesca suggests. Blake and Carson both stop and begin removing their cleats.

Robbie gets a whiff of a slightly singed foot smell and backs up. “Maybe you should just leave them on.”

"Oh shut up," Carson retorts. "It's not that bad."

Dinner with Mr. Cameron is rather subdued. It turns out he made extra helpings of chicken and rice for us, so we help ourselves in spite of our recent meal. We sit around the table and tell him about our lives and doings in 2009. Mr. Cameron listens politely to our conversation and asks questions, but after a few of Carson’s anecdotes about Carson and Robbie getting into trouble together in college, he lapses into silence.

We likewise concentrate on our chicken for a bit and cast periodic glances at one another. I accidentally drown my asparagus in gravy from the tureen and almost make a joke about it, but stop myself, unsure of how best to break the silence. We help clear the dishes after the meal and Mr. Cameron tells us the location of the nearest drug store. Blake and Carson opt to stay behind rather than don their softball cleats again for the walk. Robbie also decides to stay at the house. Francesca and I promise to do our best to retrieve the items they need for them, and once the dishes are all put away, make our way to the back door. Spartacus follows us.

"Is it all right if we take Spartacus with us?" Francesca inquires.

"Oh, of course. You'll be his new best friend," Mr. Cameron replies. "His leash is hanging on a hook on the back steps."

“Do you happen to have a jacket or a sweater I could borrow?” Francesca asks.

“Oh yes, I could find something of Abby’s in her closet perhaps, or if you want to use my windbreaker, it’s on the back porch too,” Mr. Cameron replies.

“That would be fine.” Francesca is elated to find that the jacket is long enough to cover the burn hole in her pants. Spartacus bounds to her with his tail wagging and positions himself at the screen door of the porch. Francesca fastens the leash and Spartacus bolts through the opening in t
he door as soon as he can fit. He’s in a state of bliss, sniffing the flowerbed and a garden hose before Francesca and I even make it out the door.

The walk to the drugstore would’ve only taken a few minutes, but the journey is punctuated by detours through hedges and around a particularly odoriferous set of trashcans. Upon reaching the store, I hold on to Spartacus while Francesca goes inside to grab the items we need. A movie poster for Beverly Hills Cop is hanging in the window, and I’m reading through the cast, when my attention is diverted by three police cruisers racing past with their sirens on.

As I lean down to calm Spartacus, who is barking at the sirens, a fourth police cruiser pulls into the parking lot. Driving slowly, the officer eyes me briefly before pulling into a position near the entrance. He remains in the squad car and transmits on the radio.

The police car makes me nervous, though I can’t think of a valid reason why. I casually play with Spartacus, who has decided to chew on his leash to pass the time. In a few minutes Francesca comes out of the store with a bag.

“I found some cheap flip-flops in a bargain bin for Carson and Blake, and I got us all toothbrushes, but they didn’t have any shorts or anything. I’m going to have to find a clothing store . . .” She catches me eying the police car again. “What’s going on?” She looks over and sees the middle-aged officer watching us from the car.

“I don’t know,” I reply. “I think we should get back
to the house. Come on, fuzzball.” I give Spartacus’ leash a tug.

“Is something up with officer mustache over there?” Francesca asks as we take to the sidewalk.

“Could be. A bunch of police cars went blazing by and he came into the lot really slow, like he was looking for someone. I think it might be some kind of search.”

“Well they can’t be looking for us,” Francesca replies. I look back briefly after we have gone a half a block or so and see that the police car has idled up to the street. I’m worried for a moment that it’s going to follow us, but when it pulls into the street, it turns the opposite direction. I pull Spartacus out of a yard where he’s made use of the pause to chew on a Cabbage Patch Doll that was left on the lawn.

“Hey, you little terror, they don’t want your teeth marks in their baby. I think those things were expensive.” Spartacus drops the doll and trots happily back to the sidewalk to continue on with us.

“Seriously,” Francesca comments. “Some kid is getting an earful when the parents see that in the morning.” I take one more look at the diminishing taillights and then follow the dog.

When we reenter the house, we find our friends in the sewing room. Carson is sitting on the stool of the spinning wheel and has an acoustic guitar on his lap. He’s strumming and singing
Champagne Supernova
quietly to himself, occasionally stopping to make notes on a piece of paper. Blake and Robbie are lounging in the pair of armchairs and watching a television in the corner of the room.

“You guys are just in time,” Robbie says as we walk in. “
MacGyver
comes on in five minutes.”

“Unless he’s going to show us how to build a time machine from a fork and a pencil sharpener, I don’t think it’s really going to help us.” Blake scowls from the other chair.

“Here.” Francesca tosses a pair of flip-flops to Blake. She drops the other pair on the floor at Carson’s feet. He stops singing and reaches down to examine them.

“I didn’t remember to ask for your sizes, so I guessed. I figured they were flip-flops
, so you could probably work it out.”

Blake slips his feet into his and wiggles his toes around.

“Is this the only color they had?” Carson asks, looking at the blue straps on the flip-flops.

“Actually, they had pink, but I decided to be nice. I got us some burn cream too.” She pulls a couple tubes of ointme
nt out of the bag. "Let me know if you need them."

"I'll take one," Robbie replies, and Francesca tosses the tube to him.

“Where’s Mr. Cameron?” I ask.

“I think he went to bed,” Blake responds. “He went upstairs a little bit ago and w
e haven’t heard from him since.”

"Blake and I are taking the twin bedroom,” Carson says. "You and Robbie get to fight over the other one."

"I can take the couch," Robbie suggests. "I don't really care."

"Take the bed." I slump onto the couch
. "The couch doesn't bother me. That bed looked a little short for me anyway."

Carson goes back to strumming the guitar while F
rancesca joins me on the couch. I pull my feet up and wedge one of them in between the couch cushions trying to get comfortable. Francesca fiddles with the cap on the burn cream but doesn’t open it. I lay my head back on the cushions and examine a burn on my palm. It’s still red and warm to the touch, but not especially painful. Carson is partway through singing the chorus to Eagle Eye Cherry’s,
Save Tonight,
when Blake suddenly snaps at him.

"Am I the only one who’s freaking out here? We’re in 1985! I don't see how no one else is concerned about this." His eyes have a look of thinly veiled panic. "Seriously. We’re so screwed right now!"

Robbie turns down the television.

"We’re all freaking out,” Francesca says.

"Yeah, it’s crazy for all of us,” I add. "But it isn't going to do us any good to lose our heads."

"I'm not losing my head, I just think we ought to be worrying about more than
MacGyver
right now. We may have just destroyed our entire lives. What happens if we never get back? My girlfriend is two years old! By the time she's old enough to talk to me, I’m going to look like some creepy old pervert."

I keep quiet at this, considering my own losses. If I don’t show up fo
r work tomorrow, I imagine my boss will notice, but I don’t think he’d exactly miss me. He’d just have to trailer his own boats. We’re missing Mallory, but otherwise, most of the people I spend my time with are right here in this room.

"You said there is the Time something or other Society here right?" Carson asks.

I nod.

"Do you know where it is?"

"I think we can find it. I’m sure we can figure out where it is tomorrow and see if someone there has any way to help us."