disappointed by these bland and unsurprising visions. I think of Dad outside. I think of my sister mingling with the earth. I think of dust and angels and of the salty slime that can become a flying thing. I feel her leg against my leg. I turn my eyes from her. I seek the image of a hummingbird, and read the names carved into the machine’s heavy timber. They form an intricate deep pattern of letters and numbers. The most recently carved are readable. Those beneath are blurred. Those from the distant past have been written over many times. They are clues, fragments, meaningless cuts in the grain.
Corinna touches my cheek.
“Yes,” she tells me. “You can add your name.”
With the tip of the knife she gives me I write myself alongside these unknown others. I name myself, I name the place in which I name myself, I name the year in which I name myself. I finger the lettering, trace the outlines of my oblivion.
Corinna draws me to her once more.
“This is yours,” she says.
There is money in her palm. She draws me closer. She kisses me on the lips. She presses the coins into my palm.
“Yes, this is yours. I know you’ll answer well, so this is yours.”
She touches my cheek, my lips.
“Keep our secret and you could come to visit me at night.”
She smiles. My face rests on her shoulder. I look into the shadow between her breasts.
“It’s true,” she whispers. “You could come to see me.” She laughs. “Would you like that?”
I nod. I bite my lips. I inhale her perfume, her sweat. I hear her heart beating as the Time Machine rumbles on.
“Everything will be fine,” she whispers. “Keep our secret, answer the questions. Let me test you. Where did we go to? What did we see?”
I answer well. She grins and applauds.
“What will be defeated?” she whispers.
“Death,” I say.
I lie there for an age with my cheek upon her breast. She whispers that I am a brave one, a perfect time traveler. I almost sleep. I start to dream of my father breaking into fragments, traveling to the future alongside me. Then Corinna shows me a little glass jar, filled with earth. I lift the lid, rub the earth between my fingers, feel the dry grit, the fine dust, nothing growing there.
“Our little souvenir,” she says. “Earth from the far future.”
Soon the Time Machine begins to slow, returning us to Felling Shore, early May, the year before my father dies. . . .
Dad laughs as we stand there, Corinna and Morlock and I, before the little crowd beneath the blue canopy. We show the jar of earth, we allow the spectators to dip their fingers into it. My head reels at the questions that are called to us. With Morlock’s and Corinna’s help, I answer. We came to a great city. There was work for everyone, though many days were spent in leisure. The planets seemed as close as countries do now. We understood the nature of God and we saw how His spirit shines in everything. Yes, each of us will be able to travel through time. Yes, we will indeed be happier then. At last, Morlock puts his arm around me. He says the boy is exhausted. He announces that it is over. He tells the crowd that they have seen a wondrous thing and that they may go now. They leave, whispering, wondering, laughing. Dad waits and we step down from the stage.
“I traveled in the Time Machine as a boy,” he says.
Morlock smiles.
“Ah! In my father’s day. In Corinna’s mother’s day.”
Corinna kisses me. She whispers, “Don’t forget. Make sure you come to me.”
Morlock carries the earth to the museum. Corinna waits for us to leave.
We go out and the day is already darkening.
Outside another tent, a woman has many veils draped upon her. She holds open a curtain to inner darkness, a sign above her promises Salome’s legendary dance.
Little Kitten squeals at us: “Forty-two! Forty-two!”
Dad asks, “Did you see my name in there?”
I search my memory, try to see again the great mass of names and places and dates.
He laughs, nudges
Corinna touches my cheek.
“Yes,” she tells me. “You can add your name.”
With the tip of the knife she gives me I write myself alongside these unknown others. I name myself, I name the place in which I name myself, I name the year in which I name myself. I finger the lettering, trace the outlines of my oblivion.
Corinna draws me to her once more.
“This is yours,” she says.
There is money in her palm. She draws me closer. She kisses me on the lips. She presses the coins into my palm.
“Yes, this is yours. I know you’ll answer well, so this is yours.”
She touches my cheek, my lips.
“Keep our secret and you could come to visit me at night.”
She smiles. My face rests on her shoulder. I look into the shadow between her breasts.
“It’s true,” she whispers. “You could come to see me.” She laughs. “Would you like that?”
I nod. I bite my lips. I inhale her perfume, her sweat. I hear her heart beating as the Time Machine rumbles on.
“Everything will be fine,” she whispers. “Keep our secret, answer the questions. Let me test you. Where did we go to? What did we see?”
I answer well. She grins and applauds.
“What will be defeated?” she whispers.
“Death,” I say.
I lie there for an age with my cheek upon her breast. She whispers that I am a brave one, a perfect time traveler. I almost sleep. I start to dream of my father breaking into fragments, traveling to the future alongside me. Then Corinna shows me a little glass jar, filled with earth. I lift the lid, rub the earth between my fingers, feel the dry grit, the fine dust, nothing growing there.
“Our little souvenir,” she says. “Earth from the far future.”
Soon the Time Machine begins to slow, returning us to Felling Shore, early May, the year before my father dies. . . .
Dad laughs as we stand there, Corinna and Morlock and I, before the little crowd beneath the blue canopy. We show the jar of earth, we allow the spectators to dip their fingers into it. My head reels at the questions that are called to us. With Morlock’s and Corinna’s help, I answer. We came to a great city. There was work for everyone, though many days were spent in leisure. The planets seemed as close as countries do now. We understood the nature of God and we saw how His spirit shines in everything. Yes, each of us will be able to travel through time. Yes, we will indeed be happier then. At last, Morlock puts his arm around me. He says the boy is exhausted. He announces that it is over. He tells the crowd that they have seen a wondrous thing and that they may go now. They leave, whispering, wondering, laughing. Dad waits and we step down from the stage.
“I traveled in the Time Machine as a boy,” he says.
Morlock smiles.
“Ah! In my father’s day. In Corinna’s mother’s day.”
Corinna kisses me. She whispers, “Don’t forget. Make sure you come to me.”
Morlock carries the earth to the museum. Corinna waits for us to leave.
We go out and the day is already darkening.
Outside another tent, a woman has many veils draped upon her. She holds open a curtain to inner darkness, a sign above her promises Salome’s legendary dance.
Little Kitten squeals at us: “Forty-two! Forty-two!”
Dad asks, “Did you see my name in there?”
I search my memory, try to see again the great mass of names and places and dates.
He laughs, nudges
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