If Only in My Dreams (23 page)

She allows herself to gaze into a few boutiques as she passes, admiring the glitzy holiday merchandise; the tinsel, garlands, and lights.

Then she allows herself to think about the pink-and-white poinsettia from her mystery Santa. But only for a moment—then she dismisses the thought and any speculation about the Santa’s identity. It’s just too much right now.

Still… it would be so nice if I could just get into the spirit
.

Wistful again, she can’t help but pine for a simple, joyous Christmas-shopping mission. How carefree her life used to be when there was nothing heavier weighing on her mind than whether to get her stepmother a gift card or attempt to buy her something to wear.

This year, everybody’s getting gift cards
, Clara tells herself briskly,
and that’s that
. She doesn’t have the time, the energy, or the inclination to shop.
And if that’s not sad, I don’t know what is
.

Too soon, it seems, she finds herself walking down a tree-lined, quiet side street that reminds her of her own block in the Village. Nestled among the brownstones is Mr. Kershaw’s boxy yellow-brick prewar apartment building.

Here goes
, Clara thinks as she heads toward the entrance. Several elderly men, bundled in bulky coats and caps, are sitting and talking in plastic chairs in a small patch of winter sun.

As Clara passes, she notices that one of them is wearing a black baseball cap with WWII printed in gold above the visor. It’s all she can do not to stop and stare, suddenly struck by the realization that this withered old man was a young and heroic soldier, like Jed. And that Jed, had he lived, would now be a withered old man.

Well, of course he would. Why is that so surprising—and disappointing?

Because he’s lost to you either way, whether he lived or died
, comes the startling reply from a wayward inner voice.
That’s why
.

He’s not lost to
me.
He’s nothing to
me, protests her voice of reason.
Just a vision in a dream
…

Right. So that’s why you’re here to see Mr. Kershaw? Because you’re still convinced it was a dream? A dream about a man named Jed who had a father named Abner, also known as Lucky Landry, who died of lung cancer on December 1, 1939, all of which you couldn’t possibly have known unless
…

Okay
.

Okay
.

Clara swallows hard, attempting to steel herself for whatever lies ahead.

On the long panel of buzzers beside the entry, she finds the name Kershaw beside 14E.
Here goes
, she thinks again as she removes her red mitten, careful not to drop her keys, and presses the cold metal button.

The door clicks promptly. He’s waiting for her.

She steps into the Pine-Sol-scented lobby. In a bygone era, it might have been elegant, with glass chandeliers, marble floors, and ornate moldings. Today, it seems a little forlorn: The chandeliers are strung with cobwebs, the floors are worn, and the moldings could use a fresh coat of paint.

With this prime location, though, it won’t be long before the place goes co-op. Then it will be completely overhauled and populated by moneyed Wall Street types like Jason.

Clara takes the elevator to the fourteenth floor, noticing that there’s no thirteen, in keeping with many of the city’s older high-rises including the Chrysler Building and Rockefeller Center.

Which means that this
is
the thirteenth floor
, she thinks as she steps out into the corridor. She’s never been particularly superstitious—unlike a surprising number of Manhattan builders—but she hopes that this isn’t a bad omen.

Mr. Kershaw opens the door before she even reaches it. At least, she assumes he’s Mr. Kershaw. The balding, rotund man in bifocals looks nothing like the dashing teacher she remembers. All that’s familiar about him is his attire: Even in retirement, he’s wearing tan corduroy trousers and an olive-green cardigan sweater over a wrinkled white dress shirt and bow tie.

Then he smiles, and she realizes with relief that he’s entirely familiar, after all—and she’s missed him.

This is the man who gave her a hall pass, no questions asked, the day she cut study hall to kiss Adam Dumont behind the bleachers. The man who regaled the class with heart-wrenching stories about Bianca, his beloved only child, overcoming impossible odds to survive a brain tumor. The man who was clapping in the front row at Clara’s first off-off-Broadway performance at sixteen, and admitted afterward that he didn’t “get” the play.

I guess I’m just too scientific to be very creative
, he said with a rueful laugh.

To which Clara responded,
I guess I’m just too creative to be very scientific
.

Which is exactly the reason I’m here today
, she thinks, as she walks toward him.

“Clara McCallum! Look at you! You even walk like a movie star!”

Somehow she doubts that, especially in blistered feet and sneakers—but it’s a nice thing to say.

When she reaches him there is an awkward moment of not knowing whether to greet him with a hug or a handshake. She opts to let him take the lead, but he seems to be doing the same, so they share an uncoordinated hug-shake.

“Come on in, Clara,” he says with a laugh.

The place is huge. Rent-stabilized, without a doubt. A retired educator could never afford it otherwise.

Gazing around, Clara sees just the architectural touches one would expect to find in a vintage building like this: crown molding, built-in bookshelves, parquet floors, tall, deep-silled windows.

But the sparsely furnished apartment, like its resident himself and the lobby thirteen floors below, has seen better days. There are bubbles and creases in the wall opposite the door, painted a manila-paper beige that might very well once have been white. In the living room, a jagged crack runs through one windowpane, and ominous water stains spread across the ceiling above the nubby sand-colored couch.

“Have a seat,” Mr. Kershaw offers, gesturing at the couch after taking her coat. She removes her hat reluctantly, wishing she had thought to cover her bruise with makeup. And it would be nice if she were wearing something a little more presentable than this old navy blue, hooded sweatshirt, a relic from the 2004 American League playoff game she attended with Jason.

“My goodness, what happened to your forehead?”

“I walked into a door,” Clara says seamlessly. “You know me… always a klutz.”

“It was always the opposite, as I recall,” he replies with a furrowed brow and another dubious glance at her head.

“Oh, well, I guess the clumsiness came later. I swear, there are some days that I can’t believe I was ever a dancer.”

You’re chattering because you’re nervous. Cut it out
.

She falls silent, twisting her hat in jittery fingers, wishing she could put it back on… pull it low over her face, and slink right out the door.

This was definitely a bad idea.

“In that case, please have a seat before you hurt yourself,” Mr. Kershaw says with a grin, and she can’t help but laugh.

“Can I get you something?” he asks graciously. “Seltzer? A cup of hot tea?”

A double cheeseburger would be great,
Clara thinks, and her stomach promptly growls at the savory image that pops into her head.

“No, thank you,” she tells him, sitting on the couch. On the metal TV tray that serves as an end table beside it is a framed snapshot of a young family: mother, father, blue-swaddled baby.

Seeing Clara glance at it, Mr. Kershaw proudly announces, “I’m a grandpa. My daughter had a baby last spring. That’s Bianca’s little Tyler, and her husband, Jack.”

Bianca. The little girl who wasn’t supposed to live past her sixth birthday. Moved, Clara offers a heartfelt, “Congratulations… that’s wonderful.”

“It sure is. They live on the West Coast, but they’re coming for Christmas. I’ve been busy redoing Bianca’s old room as a nursery, and turning the spare bedroom into a guest room.”

“Wow, how many rooms do you have?” she exclaims.

“Eight, including the maid’s bedroom. Not that I have a maid. My ex-wife got everything else in the divorce—the furniture, the money, half my pension. I got to stay here.”

“It’s rent-stabilized,” she guesses.

“Rent-controlled,” he clarifies, almost gloating.

Ah, New York
, Clara thinks, in complete understanding. A city where rent control is the equivalent of a middle-class teacher’s lottery win, and multimillionaires line up to claim apartments vacated when their half-century tenants die off.

A fat cat with dense ebony fur appears out of nowhere to jump onto the cushion beside her, purring… or is he growling?

Terrific. First the thirteenth floor, now a black cat
.

“Hawking, get down right now!” Mr. Kershaw scolds. Ignoring him, the feline begins to lick its paw. “You’re not allergic, are you, Clara?”

“No, it’s okay. I like cats,” she lies. Jason had two. She prefers dogs.

Good thing I’m not superstitious
.

“I’m afraid Hawking thinks he owns the place.” Mr. Kershaw lowers himself into a well-worn armchair opposite the couch. “Well. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this fine afternoon?”

She decides to cut right to the chase. “I need to ask you a question.”

He nods, focused on her face with the same intensity with which he used to focus on the formulas and theories he tried so hard to convey to her.

She finds herself feeling guilty now that she didn’t work harder, do better. At the time, she told herself that
physics—like algebra, and chemistry—was not something that would come in handy in the real world. Not her world, anyway.

Ha
.

“Do you think time travel is possible?”

He doesn’t even bat an eye. Good old Mr. Kershaw.

“I do, yes.”

He does. Yes
.

Her breath catches in her throat.

The only response she can muster is one word: a strangled-sounding “Why?”

“My ideas are based on the work of several renowned physicists, Einstein among them. Do you remember his special theory of relativity?”

She squirms uncomfortably.

Even if her thoughts weren’t racing in the wake of his unexpected answer, she highly doubts she could recite Einstein’s theory if her life depended on it.

He grins. “No, hmm?”

“It’s not really fresh in my mind.”

Hawking, seemingly disgusted with her, leaps off the couch and pads away in search of more scintillating company.

“Well, I could offer a refresher,” Mr. Kershaw says, “but I’m sure that can wait for another time, so I’ll simply say that the theory would seem to permit time travel to the future based on the fact that our perception of time is relative to our motion—it can speed up or slow down depending on how fast one thing is moving in relation to something else. Have I lost you?”

“Yes,” she admits.

“Let me give you an example. Over thirty years ago, a physicist named Carroll Alley synchronized two atomic clocks, put one on a plane and flew it for several hours, then compared it to the one that stayed earthbound. He found that the one on the plane was behind the one on the ground. Meaning time had slowed down for the clock on the plane. It had thus traveled into the future.”

Clara can’t seem to find her breath, her voice.

It’s real, then. It’s possible
.

Rubbing his chin the way he often did as a teacher, only this time
sans
chalk dust on his fingers, Mr. Kershaw goes on. “You’ve probably heard, if you’re well versed in current events, that there has been considerable discussion about astronauts being able to travel great distances over many years without aging as they do on Earth?”

She shakes her head, ashamed to discover that she must be woefully ill versed in current events.

Undeterred, Mr. Kershaw explains, “This would mean that when the astronauts finally arrive at a distant planet they would be much younger than if they had stayed on Earth.”

“But…” She clears her throat, trying to collect her thoughts. While encouraging, all this talk about outer space seems somewhat off the mark. “What about time travel into the past? Is that possible, too?”

“Ah, the next big question. Based on Einstein’s theory of gravitation…” He pauses. “Any chance you remember that one?”

She shakes her head, feeling more unintelligent with every passing moment.

“I can’t help but feel that I’ve failed you, my dear.”

It takes her a second to see the twinkle in his eye and realize that he’s joking. Thank goodness.

“In any case,” he goes on, “based on that theory, we could assume that anything containing energy could warp space-time.”

Clara nods as though that makes perfect sense.

“Take light, for example. A physicist named Ronald Mallett believes that two intense beams of light circling in opposite directions could distort time into a linear dimension similar to space.… Am I making any sense to you whatsoever?”

“Yes,” she lies breathlessly. “Keep going.”

“In a nutshell, Clara, Mallett’s plan could theoretically work if we had all the technology necessary to implement it. The same goes for wormholes, the old sci-fi standby.”

“I don’t read much… um, science fiction.”

“No? Well, briefly, wormholes are a hypothetical space-time gateway, also based on the theory of gravitation, which could allow time travel using relativistic time dilation if sufficient energy were provided.”

After deciphering his words, she clarifies, “So what you’re saying is that time travel to the past could happen?”

“With sufficient energy, theoretically, yes. But our current technology is simply incapable of harnessing or producing that level of energy—many times the magnitude of the sun’s cumulative energy.”

“So it
can’t
happen?”

“I repeat…
current
technology is incapable, Clara.”

“So… what are you saying, exactly?” she asks slowly. “That it might
become
possible?”

He nods emphatically. “Think of this: Around the turn of the last century, a world-renowned mathematical physicist named Lord Kelvin declared that ‘heavier-than-air flying machines are impossible.’ Just a hundred years ago, a respected astronomer named Simon Newcomb announced, and I quote, ‘No possible combination of known substances, known forms of machinery, and known forms of force, can be united in a practical machine by which man shall fly long distances through the air.’”