In Times Like These (5 page)

Francesca wipes her face but smiles back at his kindly gaze.

The man looks expectantly at Robbie now and says nothing else. Robbie has stage fright, faced with the awkwardness of explaining our situation. “Um, Grand . . . ah . . . Mr. Cameron,” he stammers. “We’re here because we . . . we are from . . . um, we need some help,” he finally manages. “I’m Robbie, and these are some of my friends.” He gestures to the rest of us. Francesca, Blake and I are now standing, trying to brush the dirt from our hands inconspicuously.

“
I know this might sound unusual . . .” Robbie pauses for a moment while taking a breath, “but I’m your grandson.”

Mr. Cameron raises his eyebrows almost imperceptibly, but continues to listen as Robbie speaks.

“And we’re here from . . . the future.”

Robbie looks to
us and we try our best to appear supportive. Blake goes so far as to give a quick thumbs-up before shoving his hand into his pocket and averting his eyes. Carson has been watching Mr. Cameron’s face, but when Mr. Cameron looks at him, he shifts his gaze quickly to the dog, that is panting and still looking at us with barely contained exuberance. Francesca continues to smile in their direction, holding the smile slightly longer than is natural.

“I know it might be hard to believe,” Robbie continues. “
but I remember you from when I was a kid.” Mr. Cameron looks at him more seriously now, but remains quiet. “I know that right now I should only be about four years old, but we got sent back from the year 2009, and now we’re stuck here. We could really use your help.”

Robbie stops talking, hol
ding his breath to see how his grandfather will respond. I’ve almost stopped hoping for an answer in the moments of silence that follow, but when Mr. Cameron speaks, it’s with an undisturbed calm, like someone pulling the drain plug to empty the pool of our anxiety.

“I don’t know about all t
his future business, but it’s obvious that you’re Rick’s boy. You look just like him. As for you all,” he continues, "I don't believe I’ve had the pleasure."

"I'm Carson," Carson begins, since he’s closest to Robbie. He extends a hand.

Mr. Cameron switches his cane to his left side and accepts Carson's handshake. He turns next to Francesca. "And you, young lady?"

"I'
m Francesca.” She smiles, stepping forward and extending her hand as well. He shakes it gently, then looks over her head at Blake and me. We state our names. Blake includes a wave. Mr. Cameron smiles back politely.

"Why don’t you all come inside?” Without another word, he turns and disappears into the house. Spartacus pads inside as well, but stops just inside the door and sits down, looking at us invitingly.

Francesca, Blake and I aren't sure what to do with the mess we’ve made, so we just leave the little pile on the floor, and follow Carson and Robbie, filing into the house one by one. As I shut the door behind me, Spartacus gives a happy bark. I lean over and scratch him under his chin.

"It's nice to meet you
, too
.”

Chapter 3

“They say timing is everything. I would argue that spacing is a
close second. It’s no use showing up right on time, if you fuse your leg through the coffee table.”

-Excerpt from th
e journal of Dr. Harold Quickly, 1989

The inside of Robert Cameron’s house is an anomaly. The house is tastefully decorated but looks like it has been rifled through by hungry burglars, who raided the refrigerator and left dishes all over the house. As we file inside, we enter a general-purpose room off the kitchen, that leads to a large dining room to the right. The house isn’t dirty, but it’s disheveled, with cupboard doors left open in the kitchen and newspapers and jackets lain haphazardly on furniture. A pair of dog food cans on the kitchen counter haven’t made it to the trash. Raucous cheering from a television game show emanates from a room nearby. The dining room is the only area that looks like it hasn’t been tampered with.

M
r. Cameron picks up items from a roll top desk with his free left hand, but upon seeing that the waste paper basket next to the desk is already full, simply sets them back down. He looks at us, and then gestures to follow him. “Why don't we go in here.” He leads the way into an adjacent room. "Less of a disaster."

We follow him into a spacious living area lined with floor to ceiling wooden bookshelves. Around the room, various comfortable looking armchairs and two love seats sit at right angles to one another. The seating surrounds a wooden table with a map of the world painted on it. I like the room immediately. It feels warm and comfortable. In the corner of the r
oom is a birdcage, housing a pair of green parrots. The birds are chirping to one another and pay us little attention.

Robbie walks around the room in a state of
nostalgia, looking at things he hasn’t laid eyes on in years. I find myself just as interested. Odd knickknacks are interspersed on the shelves among the books and all of the objects look as though they have a story to tell. An ornate saber hangs on a hook with a copper hunting horn. There is a Mason jar of wooden dice and bucket of used wine corks. A wooden longbow leans on a collection of the works of Rudyard Kipling.

Looks like he’s had some adventures.

Mr. Cameron works his way to a high-backed leather armchair that has been turned to face the windows. He drags it toward the circle of other chairs and sits. He gestures to us to take seats, and we do, keeping our eyes on him as best we can, despite all there is to look at in the room.

"I’m sorry
the place is not more ready to entertain," Mr. Cameron begins. "I’m afraid I haven’t been keeping it up to the usual standards. My wife passed away recently and I’ve not had the interest in maintaining the place as I once did. Call it a deficit of motivation if you will.” He smiles wanly and then continues. "So tell me more about how I may be of service. You’re a long way from home it seems."

"Well, yes and no," I answer. "We all live in St. Pete, but we can't reall
y go home . . . we’re about twenty-three years early, so some of us wouldn’t be here yet, and some of us are from here, but are already here I imagine, so are sort of in a weird situation."

"We’re all in a weird situation," Francesca laughs nervously.

"Do you mind if I ask how you all found yourself in this predicament?" Mr. Cameron asks. “Your explanation of your circumstances was a bit beyond me.”

"We’re still trying to figure that out ourselves,” Robbie says.

"There was a lightning storm and we got electrocuted,” Francesca says. "It burned a hole in my pants."

"Oh dear!" Mr. Cameron replies. "Are you in need of medical attention?"

"We’d thought of going to the hospital to get checked out but we hadn't made it that far yet. That was before we figured out where we were. The time travel thing sort of trumped all of our other problems,” Robbie says. "But I think we’re okay. I know we got burned a little here and there but I don't think we’re in real trouble. At least I'm not. I don't know about you guys."

The rest of us express the same feelings, so Mr. Cameron continues. "So your main c
oncern is that you find yourselves displaced, and are, I'm sure, looking for some kind of solution to the problem."

I nod slowly
.

"While I’ve seen my fair share of Star Trek episodes, I’m afraid I’m not very knowled
geable about time travel. I do know a thing or two about being in need of a place to stay however, and I feel I would be a poor excuse for a human being if I did not at least offer you my hospitality in that area. You can see that I have more house here than I really need, and with my wife gone, all the space in here is downright dreadful."

"We’
d really appreciate that,” Francesca says.

"It’s my pleasure," Mr. Cameron replies. "Besides, it appears I suddenly have an adult grandchild in my house, which is a rare and unexpected treat.” He looks at Robbie as he says this.

They have the same eyes.

“With all the people who have come knocking on my door of late to check up on me, I’ve been used to visitors, but you all are certainly the last thing I would have expected. I probably ought to have my head examined for even letting you in the door with a story like yours, but it’s pretty hard to argue with the truth staring you in the face.” He considers Robbie some more. “I remember your dad at your age. I don’t know if you’ve seen any photographs of your dad then Robbie, but he was quite athletic too.
Middle age got the better of him around the time you were born, but that happens to the best of us I suppose. How is our lovely family doing in the future?"

"Good,” Robbie replies slowly. "Really good. Everybody is pretty happy.” He suddenly looks uncomfortable talking about the subject with his grandfather.

"You said when you came in that you ‘remembered me from when you were a child.’ I take it I’m not featuring in our family's doings much in 2009.”

Robbie shifts in his seat and starts to speak, but stops himself.

"That’s all right," Mr. Cameron continues, "Unless the police finally catch up to me for all those banks I robbed and put me away,”—He winks at Francesca as he says this—"I shall assume I’m simply among the departed in 2009. It's okay,” he continues, looking at Robbie now. "We old people don't mind talking about death as much as you young people think we do. It’s a rather unavoidable topic at our age."

He doesn’t seem all that old to me. Mid-sixties maybe? I wonder what his wife died from?

Robbie relaxes a little but still seems unsure of where to take the conversation next. Mr. Cameron diverts into another topic however and it turns out he doesn't have to worry about it further. "Why don't you all tell me a little about yourselves? I’ve never met any time travelers before and I feel you must be tremendously interesting people.” He smiles and folds his hands in his lap, awaiting our responses. We look around at each other briefly. I give Francesca a nod.

"Um, I'm Francesca,” she starts. "I’m twenty-six and I work at a bank and
 . . . my family is from Cuba. Um, I don't really know what else. I have a cat named Toby. I’m feeling very awkward about having a hole burned in my pants."

"Wonderful!" Mr. Cameron exclaims, smiling at her candor. "And how about you gentlemen?"

"I'm Benjamin," I begin. “My family is all from Oregon. I work on boats at a marina and sometimes do boat sales. I’m pretty terrible at selling things, so it's not that great of a job, but it gets me on the water. These guys are pretty much my best friends." I look around at the others as I say this, realizing that there could be far worse people to be stuck in this situation with. "This is also my first time time traveling. It's been pretty cool so far though." I smile and stop talking.

“And all of you are friends with my Robbie here?” Mr. Cameron asks.

“Yeah, I actually grew up playing soccer with Robbie,” Carson says.

“We three went to high school together,” Francesca adds.

“Now we all play softball together,” Robbie says. “At least that was what we were trying to do when we ended up here.”

“You got here from playing softball?” Mr. Cameron raises his eyebrows.

“There was a storm and a power line hit our dugout. That must have had something to do with it. We don’t really know what happened. We just know that we were playing softball last night and we woke up here this afternoon.”

“It’
s very fortunate you are okay,” Mr. Cameron says. “I was shocked once pretty badly in my younger days and I know it can be very scary. Nothing to the scale of a power line however.” He looks around at all of our faces. “I’m sorry that you are dealing with all of this, but I’ve learned over the years that while life is not always predictable or necessarily enjoyable, it certainly holds no lack of surprises.”

Mr. Cameron stands up slowly from his chair and smiles. “I feel I’m in for a treat having you fine young people as guests. I don’t feel at all that
you are here to rob me. Why don't I give you the nickel tour?"

We
follow him out a side door different than the one we came in. We walk through a hallway that leads off of the front door and contains a collection of framed art. Most of them are impressionistic landscapes but I spot one Norman Rockwell
Saturday Evening Post
cover mixed in. The hall doesn’t receive any comment from Mr. Cameron and we proceed through it into another room, slightly smaller than the one we’ve just left.

"This was my wife Abby's sewing room," Mr. Cameron explains. There is a wooden spinning wheel with a stool and pictures of family members hanging on the walls. A quilt is draped over the back of a couch and there are a couple of armchairs facing a TV.

"Hey, is this you, Robbie?" Carson is looking at a group photo of Robbie's family.

"Oh, look at your mom!" Francesca exclaims. "Aw, check out how young everybody looks. Your mom's hair is great."

"Wow, you were goofy looking back then too, eh Robbie?" I smile at the photo of the brown haired four-year-old.

"That was your family Christmas photo this year,” Mr. Cameron says. He looks at Robbie and back to the picture. "Fascinating. I can’t say as I understand a bit of this situation but it’s certainly remarkable. I don’t know how anyone will ever believe me. Probably say I’ve gone off my rocker.” He pokes Robbie in the shoulder with his index finger as if checking to see if he’s a hallucination. “But there you are.”