Jill said, “But the point is that, for both of you and presumably the rest of the people with you in that life, the international political situation was bland and quiet, right? Economy good, no Vietnam War, no split Germany, no Soviet appropriation of satellite countries, very little Cold War and even that ended after the Bay of Pigs when Kennedy and Khrushchev negotiated the Munich Disarmament Treaty. Those are things I can read about. Remember, after JFK’s assassination I have a gap of seven years, because I was in the first timestream. And once I returned here to yours, the whole past was different, starting near the end of WWII. That’s the timeframe I studied to get my doctorate. My lost years. I still slipped, and landed in St. Lizzy’s Home for Wayward Timestreamers.”
“It wasn’t bland and quiet,” said Brian. “It was really exciting. China, Russia, Europe, and the U.S. were holding the Moon Congress in Paris, and all the countries of the world had representatives, and they were hammering out the legal framework for the colony. I started engineering school so that I could be an astronaut. I was in a frac band.”
“Frac band?” asked Jill.
“As in ‘fractious.’ Or ‘fractured.’ It was a style of music that incorporated elements of classical, jazz, and rock. I played the guitar. And the sax, of course. We had some success. As in, once we got a job in Roanoke. I guess that’s when I started drinking too much and dropped out of school. We thought we’d gotten big. Instead, frac music just kind of went away. Too weird, I guess.”
“Yes,” said Jill. “Things got dull.”
“But things got done,” said Brian. “We developed Q … or, I guess, it developed itself. It gave itself a chance to blossom.”
Megan picked up the board. “You know, there must be a way to make this thing tell us what it’s all about.”
Jill sidled over to Megan and looked at it, then began tracing some of its patterns. “Mesmerizing, isn’t it? Like, when I was little, I’d play on this Oriental rug, and every design seemed to go somewhere, like those steps, there, over in the corner.”
“Yeah,” said Brian. “I know what you mean.”
Jill nodded. “I left the original Game Board in Dallas. Considering everything that’s happened, the thought of trying to use it, however we would do that, makes me feel rather sick. Besides, as far as I can remember, I never really
used
it. I was used by it. The board would manifest pictures, or would just be blank and I would get pictures in my mind. But these narratives, and these pictures, came from the Game Board. I realized, at some point, that this narrative that I was cartooning had a strong connection to reality. Each panel, each point of a story, branches. At any point, you can take many directions. The story divides, and you, the artist, pick one of the possible paths. Sometimes it seems a lot easier, but that’s because maybe you see a point far off, like a mountaintop, that you head for. But that just means it’s easier to ignore all of the possible side paths. It’s just like the decisions we make in everyday life, all the time.”
“It sounds a lot like quantum mechanics,” said Megan. “The Many-Worlds theory, where existence is always splitting. Some astrophysicists are now saying that there are infinite worlds, where people exactly like us are living our lives exactly like we do.”
“So what would be the philosophical difference?” asked Jill. “That sounds rather uninteresting. Just slightly different, now, that’s interesting, and seems more like what’s happening now. I used to read about all this in comic books too, believe it or not. In the fifties and sixties they were absolute purveyors of pure weirdness. Also, one of the big philosophical problems for quantum mechanics is the observer. Does the observer really make a difference? Is Schrödinger’s cat alive or dead inside the box before we look at it? One interpretation suggests that our own will and intent influence reality on a very fine, quantum, level.”
“Like magic,” said Brian, with a certain glumness.
“Not exactly,” said Megan. “We can definitely work on our very own lives using the tools of will and intent, and other tools like neurolinguistic programming, which bypasses the conscious mind; we’re still trying to figure out how that works. Because it does.”
“I think the only way that we could possibly figure out how this thing works or even what, exactly, it does is to study those plans,” said Brian. “Although first we’d have to get advanced degrees in a lot of different disciplines.”
“We already have some,” said Megan. “We need to find Handtz.”
“Will she want to be found? Will she talk?” asked Jill.
“Good question,” said Megan.
“I’m beginning to think that Koslov might have been in this other history. Mom and Dad and Hadntz’s timestream. Obviously, some people
have
been in both. Hadntz has been; Wink, Dad’s pal, was able to move between two of the trajectories. I know because I saw him, at that last reunion, the night before everything—happened. He was in this house. We all used the Game Board. Even you, Megan. Brian was going to Vietnam. And then—the next day was the Kent State Massacre, and I was on the road to Dallas. But before, whenever Dad talked about him, Wink had died in the war. Koslov has some strong connection to Hadntz; he translated a book of poems by Hadntz’s mother. They’re beautiful, by the way. All these people at the party, the ones out on the porch, have suspected Mom for a long time. A very long time, according to what you told me about what you overheard. And they’ve kept an eye on us. I’ll bet each of you have people watching you too. People in your lives, that you work with.”
“Cindy!” Brian said. “I knew it! The ultimate spy. She even married me.”
“No need to actually
work
with them.” Megan laughed. “There was that little twerp on the train today. I was going to call you, Brian, and hand this board over to you on the way to the station. But I overslept, then fell asleep on the Metro. I had to run for the train.” Her laugh grew more hearty and she wiped tears from her eyes. “Poor fat little guy. He must have about had a heart attack. Now, he might be right outside the window.”
Jill got up and looked out both windows. “No, but our children and spouses have just pulled up and I’ll bet all of them are expecting dinner. I’ll hide the board, and you guys tell them what’s for dinner.”
“Pizza,” said Brian.
“We’re having pizza for dinner tomorrow on the woodstove. Daniel and his dad and grandma and little boy are coming.”
“Seems like a bit of bad timing,” said Megan. “We have a lot to do, a lot to talk about. Can’t you uninvite them?”
“I could, but I don’t want to. Don’t you think we’ll all be completely tired of talking about it by then? And all the kids will be there too.”
“I’m already exhausted.” Megan flopped backward onto the floor. “And I, for one, have no objection to pizza two nights in a row.”
* * *
After dinner, Zoe sat cross-legged on the old floral rug in the Halcyon House living room, a comfortable, sprawling, square room of deep chairs and couches flanked by an eclectic mix of tables and reading lamps, the upright piano, and a fireplace centered on the back wall. The wall was filled with deep, spacious shelves, and opened, on one side, through French doors, onto the house-long, screened-in porch.
Her father stood next to her, sorting through a vast collection of old 78s. He shook his head now and then, finding one with a chipped edge, which he set in one pile because he could play part of it, and setting those completely cracked, or even in shards, in another pile. He sighed and muttered and sometimes exclaimed happily.
On another shelf were 45 records with large holes in the middle, mostly records that Brian and the Crazy Aunts had amassed when teenagers. Bitsy and Whens really liked them; they’d put them on a little record player kept on a lower shelf and dance around like maniacs.
Those on another shelf were 33-1/3 records, sorted into two categories: rock and jazz. Zoe searched in vain for classical, and found a quick run of musicals.
My Fair Lady, Oliver!,
and
The Music Man.
She began to go through the jazz LPs, which her dad assured her had lots of good music on them. Some individual titles triggered music in her head, like “A Tisket, A Tasket”; she heard Ella for a moment, her voice bell-clear. Some artist names were familiar, but she couldn’t particularly link the names to any piece of music. She did enjoy some of the piano artists, especially Keith Jarrett.
“Look!”
Brian paused in his sorting.
“Let’s play this.”
Brian bent down. “Stéphane Grapelli. Jazz violin.”
“Jazz
violin
?”
Brian smiled. “Listen.”
Zoe listened. And listened, until bedtime, when the adults closed the doors and went back to talking. Talk, talk, talk, that’s all that grown-ups ever did. Well, her father, at least, did like to play music.
Zoe
ZOE’S ADVENTURE IN MUSIC
July 14
T
HE NEXT MORNING
, she got up very early and listened some more, refusing breakfast. The grown-ups all went into the library and shut the French doors. Of course. She put a Grapelli LP on and set it to play over and over again. Finally, she felt someone approach, stand next to her, and nudge her with a foot.
“Zoe! Are you dead?” It was Whens.
She didn’t open her eyes. “Not hardly.”
“We’re tired of that silly music.”
“I’m not. Go away.”
“I’m going to change it.”
“You’d better not.” She felt Whens standing there for a minute. Then he went away.
Zoe got up and hurried upstairs to the ballroom. Fetching her violin, she went back downstairs. Good. No one had touched the record.
She turned the record over, and set her violin on her shoulder. After a short hiss, the first track, “Sweet Lorraine,” began to play.
She played along almost perfectly, and frowned when she varied from Grapelli. She played along with both sides, turned off the record player, ran up to the ballroom with her violin, and shut the doors. At the front of the ballroom, she commenced to play.
She duplicated the entire LP perfectly, but the music drew her to try other things as well. It was an intriguing music, beckoning her to become a part of it in a new way, to expand it, to hear many different options echo in her mind at once, each a pathway, and instantaneously choose which one she wanted to try. It opened her up in a way that most classical music did not—maybe because that was all so old and settled? She could add depth, timbre, emotion, to it, yes, she could work hard to master it, but it was not inviting in the same way.
She was completely exhilarated, and did not know how long she had played, or what, really. Yes, she liked gypsy jazz violin! She wondered if Grandpa Sam had any other gypsy jazz downstairs.
Her eyes closed. She imagined a real gypsy sat on the ballroom floor. Her multicolored skirt tented her knees, on which she rested her head. Zoe could not see her face, for a cascade of curly black hair, liberally streaked with pure white, as if she’d been painting, hid her face. A thin, old bald man stood next to her, and he played and the gypsy stood and played along with him, furious swirling music, filled equally with inky blue darkness and brilliant joy, gold, with spikes of spring green and rose-pink.
She opened her eyes, and they were still there.
They stood, together, the man with a grave, distant smile, and the woman with closed eyes. Zoe was transfixed.
The music spoke of a hard and necessary parting. It spoke of grief, and endings, yet hinted at a beginning, for Zoe. And, perhaps, for them.
But it sounded like the woman’s good-bye song. She was leaving forever. Her sadness was so overwhelming that she could not speak it, but the man understood it, could play it. There was great joy in it too, somewhere, like the most poignant hymn Zoe had ever heard.
Zoe took up her own violin and played, absorbing the music with something she knew must be her soul, until she had to burst out in her own contribution, filled with sweetness, regret, and good-bye; and then it was past all speech, and Zoe played, and played, and played, crying with great, mingled joy and sadness—joy at the beauty of the world, sadness at its inevitable loss. She closed her eyes, watching the colors of it, distant and also close, a place she could see in her mind and walk into, and she did. There was fire there. Death. Unspeakable horrors. She cried as she played, and finally all became light once again, and colors, resolved into a shimmering rainbow.
Zoe felt her mother’s gentle kiss on her forehead.
She opened her eyes. The man and woman were gone.
“That was beautiful, honey.” The door stood open. “Come on. It’s late. You didn’t have any lunch. Or dinner.” Cindy ran her hands down both of her daughter’s arms. As if in a dream, Zoe allowed her to take the violin, settle it into the case and snap it shut. That did not stop the music. She allowed her mother to lead her out of the ballroom and downstairs, where some pizza, and some cookies were left.
It was loud here, with different music. But she had to remember!
Zoe stood next to the empty chair at the table, assailed by the gypsy sounds of the old tablecloth, on which apples danced with pears between strong red and yellow stripes, and the distant, dancing gypsy sounds coming from her Crazy Aunts, her father, and the old things from long-ago Russia from Grandma Bette’s family in the very top cupboard shelves. And everyone was talking. She half-turned to get her composition book and pens. Cindy gently grabbed her shoulders. “Sit,” she said. “Eat.”
Amid the strident harmonies, the distracting chatter, hoping the other music would continue until she could write it down, she did as her mother asked.
The rainbow music had to be finished now, anyway, because Whens whispered in her ear, “Zoe! We can’t find Grandma!”
She had to write it. Grandma was part of the same music.
Jill, Brian, and Megan
TRANSFORMATIVE PICNIC
July 14
O
N SUNDAY MORNING
, bleary-eyed, Jill, Brian, and Megan dragged themselves into the library bearing mugs of steaming coffee, bagels with contents ranging from cream cheese and lox to peanut butter and jelly, piles of Sam’s notebooks, the two Game Boards, their Q’s, Megan’s shared information about HD-50, and a huge determination to bull their way through to understanding of their situation, and a plan of action.