No Other Story (23 page)

Ethan opened the tailgate, helped Simon out of the way
back, and then pulled out the large replacement battery. “Okay, let's go.”

They started toward the LVR, but the sudden sound of a car's engine stopped them in their tracks. They turned to see the blue sports car thundering down the road.

“Uh-oh. What do we do, Dad?” asked Catherine.

“We run,” said Jason.

“No,” said Ethan. “Not this time.”

The car approached quickly and came to a stop some twenty feet from the white station wagon. For a moment, nothing happened. Ethan and the others stared at the car, and the car stared back. Big placed her hand on the handle of her knife. Then, the driver's-side door opened and out stepped a pretty woman in a dark blue business suit. She had short blond hair and sharp features.

“Ethan Cheeseman?” she shouted across the distance that separated them.

“Stay away from my family,” Ethan commanded.

It was obvious the woman thought little of Ethan's directive as she began walking right toward him.

“I'm warning you,” said Ethan. “You'll never get the LVR without a fight. So if you don't want to get hurt, you'll get back into your car, drive back to Plexiwave, and tell your bosses to leave us alone.”

The woman continued walking. “Plexiwave?” she said. “There must be some confusion here. I don't work for Plexiwave.” Suddenly, she reached beneath her jacket. Ethan took a step back. Big tightened her grip on the knife handle,
then relaxed it again when the woman pulled out … a card. A business card, by the looks of it. She walked up casually and handed the card to Ethan.

“You're a hard man to find, Mr. Cheeseman.” She reached out her hand and Ethan took it, tentatively. “My name is Leona Stubblefield. I work for Horace Mortensen.”

“Horace Mortensen?” said Jason. “
The
Horace Mortensen?”

“Who's Horace Mortensen?” asked Ethan.

“He's the head of Central Studios,” said Professor Boxley, a huge movie buff who knew all there was to know about the film business.

“That's right,” said Leona. “He sent me to find you. Central Studios is prepared to pay you a handsome sum for the movie rights to your rather inspiring story.”

Ethan chuckled, and his chuckle soon turned into an all-out laugh. “That's it?” he said. “That's all you want with us?”

“That's all,” said Leona. “To help you with your decision, I've written an amount on the back.”

Ethan flipped the card over and his eyes widened at the figure scrawled upon it in ballpoint pen. “Wow. And how exactly did you find out about our story?”

“It's what I'm paid to do,” Leona said. “So what do you say? Can I call my boss and tell him the good news?”

“Hey, Dad,” said Simon. “Are we gonna be in a movie?”

“No,” said Ethan. He handed the card back to Leona. “Thanks, Ms. Stubblefield. I appreciate your interest, but we're pretty private people.”

“Keep it,” said Leona of the card. “You might change your mind.”

“Maybe,” said Ethan. “I guess you never know what the future holds.” He slid the card into his shirt pocket with the knowledge that he
did
know a little bit about what the future held. “In the meantime, if you don't mind, we've got a bit of family business to tend to.”

“I understand,” said Leona. “I look forward to one day hearing from you. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” said Ethan. “We'll need it.”

As suddenly as she had arrived, the woman walked back to her blue sports car, climbed in, and drove off in a cloud of dust.

It's been said that Hollywood is the stuff dreams are made of: nine-foot-tall armadillos with two heads, four sideburns, and Irish accents who chase you around waving rusty can openers until you wake up sobbing and clutching your stuffed bunny.

Hmm. Perhaps I'm sharing too much. One day I must invest in a computer with a delete button. Anyway, back to Hollywood.

Each year, thousands of people from all over the world set out for Hollywood in search of fame and fortune. Most of them never find it, even though it is clearly marked on the map. Still, of those who do manage to get there, only a very small percentage will find parking. And of those few, only a handful will attain the stardom they so desire.

Personally, I have never had the urge to seek fame and, in fact, have done a very good job keeping myself out of the spotlight, except for a single, unauthorized appearance on a website called WhenGerbilsAttack.com.

But, for those who do crave the glow of the limelight, what is the best way to differentiate oneself from the masses and become a household name? One
way is by changing your name to Drano or Butter-Flavored Pam.

Another less conventional way is through hard work, which will include hours and hours of acting lessons, during which time you will learn the fine art of how to make believe. Then again, you could always cut out the middleman and simply make believe you are taking acting lessons. This will save time and precious money that could be better spent on important things like plastic surgery, hair dye, fake teeth, and wrinkle creams designed to give you very creamy wrinkles.

But the most reliable and time-tested way to succeed in Hollywood is to make sure you are in the right place at the right time, or, in the case of the Cheesemans, the right places at the right times.

Everyone knows that time flies, though, oddly enough, it does not float. This illustrates just how unpredictable time can be, which is precisely why Ethan was so concerned about the journey on which he and his family were about to embark. Each trip around the Time Arc held the potential for disaster or, at the very least, disappointment.

The good news was that they found the LVR exactly where they'd left it, just across the way from Soup Manor, sitting in the middle of a wide expanse of cactus and sagebrush. Or is it cacti and sagebrushes? Or cacti and sagebri?

Either way, the point is that, so far, all was going according to plan, which is something to which the Cheesemans had not become accustomed. Ethan replaced the old battery with the one he'd borrowed from his younger self, then took a quick walk around the LVR, performing a visual inspection.

“Looks good,” he said. “Well, gang, I guess this is it.”

“I guess so,” said Catherine, who perhaps felt more
pressure than any of them, given that it was her theory on which they were placing their highest hopes.

“No matter what happens,” said Ethan, “we're still a family, and that's one thing that will never change. Now, before we go, does anyone have any questions?”

“Yes,” said Simon, raising his non–sock puppet hand. “Why can't we be in a movie?”

Ethan smiled and scruffed up Simon's hair. “Because we've got more important things to think about right now, that's why.” Then he clapped his hands together as if breaking a huddle and said, “Okay, let's do it.”

They all climbed into the LVR and took their places: Ethan and Professor Boxley at the controls, Catherine and Simon seated right behind them, the animals curled up beneath their seats, and Jason and Big sitting in the third row, which technically was the LVR's way back.

Ethan hit the switch, and the LVR's thrusters fired up. He and the professor barked out commands and several series of numbers to each other while simultaneously flicking switches and turning knobs.

Simon gripped Catherine's hand tightly, Jason latched on to Big's, and Gravy-Face Roy chewed nervously on the seat cushion.

Ethan looked to the professor, who nodded that all systems were go. Destination: the exact day they had first traveled back into the past, two years, six months, and eleven days from now. Ethan threw the switch, and off they went.

As they raced backward through time, the chronometer raced with them. Professor Boxley periodically shouted
out dates to keep Ethan informed as to their position in time. “Thirteen forty-two. Two hundred thousand BCE. One point two billion.” An hour passed, then two as the LVR raced along, vibrating steadily like a car driving across rumble strips. The noise was prohibitive to conversation, not that anyone had anything worthwhile to say, and even if they did, it would be difficult for words to make their way past the lumps in their throats.

“Approaching the Great Sync,” yelled Professor Boxley.

“Okay,” Ethan hollered back. “This is it!”

With a sharp jolt and slight yaw to the left, the LVR passed the Great Sync, coming out on the other side, at the very end of time.

“We made it!” the professor cheered.

“Not yet we haven't,” said Ethan, knowing full well they'd only won half the battle. They still had to land on the exact day in late June when they first disappeared. They would have to stick the landing like an Olympic gymnast. Anything less than a perfect ten would be considered failure.

Once again the professor began counting down the dates. “Three point six billion AD. One point nine billion. Four hundred eighteen thousand.”

Another nail-biting hour passed, and by then they were getting close. The numbers raced by so quickly on the chronometer now that Professor Boxley could not keep up with them. It was like trying to read a book while flipping through the pages.

Then, without warning, the LVR stopped. There was no explosion or collision or terrible racket. In fact, there was nothing but silence. Ethan looked at Professor Boxley, and Professor Boxley looked at the chronometer.

“Well?” said Ethan, afraid of what information that tiny little dial might hold.

“June twenty-third,” said the professor with a slowly growing smile.

“And we've got the right year?” asked Ethan hopefully.

“We've got the right year,” said Professor Boxley.

In his excitement, Ethan tried to jump for joy, but forgot that his seat belt was still fastened. He unbuckled the belt and tried again. The children and Professor Boxley did likewise, laughing, hugging, high-fiving, and celebrating as much as the cramped interior of the LVR would allow. “I knew we'd make it,” said Catherine.

“Yes,” said Ethan. “We made it to the correct date. Now let's see about the location.” His remark was meant to remind everyone that it is always dangerous to declare mission accomplished prematurely. After all, getting there was the easy part. They stuck the landing, but would they go home with the gold?

Ethan looked at the pod door. It almost seemed preferable to remain inside, to wallow in ignorance rather than to face disappointment again. He unlatched the door and pushed it outward. A stream of early summer sunshine greeted their faces as they stepped out into a field of golden spring wheat. Pinky and Digs immediately celebrated their
release from the constricted space of the LVR by frolicking, chasing, and rolling about.

“Where are we?” asked Simon.

“Sure smells like North Dakota to me,” said Professor Boxley. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Memories rushed in through his nostrils, directly to his brain.

“That's because it is North Dakota,” said Ethan.

“Are we supposed to be in North Dakota?” asked Jason.

“We sure are. Come on.”

“It reminds me of Shattuckton,” said Big, brushing her hand across the tall stalks as Ethan led the group through the field toward the growing sounds of traffic. Where the wheat stopped abruptly, there was a road and several dozen buildings.

“What's that?” asked Catherine.

“That,” said Ethan, “is Southwestern North Dakota State University.”

“Where you first met Mom,” said Jason.

“Exactly.”

It was summer session and the place was practically a ghost town, with only a few students walking about.

“I haven't been back here since I retired,” said Professor Boxley.

“I haven't been back here since I graduated,” said Ethan. “Seems so much smaller now.”

He and the others hurried across the road and walked through campus, past the library, the science building, and Melvin Stadium, home of the SWNDSU Fighting Paper Clips. The arena was named after Cyrus Melvin, a wealthy
alumnus who had donated the money for the stadium from the enormous fortune he had amassed by inventing the trapdoor on the bottom of the toaster that helps get rid of the crumbs.

“Is that where you played football, Dad?” asked Jason.

“That's where the team played,” said Ethan. “I wasn't very good, so my playing time was somewhat limited.”

“Nonsense,” said Professor Boxley. “You were a wonderful athlete. It's just that football is a game of lightningquick reactions, and you've always been one who needs to think things through. You should've taken my advice and tried out for the bowling team.”

They crossed another road, walking past the ivy-covered brick buildings of fraternity row, then entered a courtyard, at the end of which sat the Student Union Building, or SUB for short. Ethan was now looking upon the very place where he had first laid eyes on his beautiful bride.