A Likely Story: A Wayward Ink Publishing Anthology (2 page)

He seized my hand. “No, what you’ll really want is in here.”

His hand was so hot I’d have sworn he had a fever if I hadn’t just felt his lips. He led me past another fully stocked bar into the master suite’s palatial bathroom. Steaming water bubbled inside a Jacuzzi tub. On its marble surrounds, three white pillar candles burned beside two fizzing champagne flutes and an ice bucket chilling an opened bottle. He retrieved the flutes and handed one to me.

“A 1974 Cristal Brut aged to perfection.”

I lifted the bottle from the bucket until I could see the label. He wasn’t lying.

“Jeez, this stuff’s as old as me.”

“Here’s to a happy birthday in the making.”

He raised his flute, we clinked rims, and I greedily gulped down half the pricey liquid in my glass. Potent bubbles went straight to my gin-soaked brain. The room swayed, and I staggered backwards.

“Easy, tiger.” He steadied me and took my flute away. “I don’t want you passing out before the magic begins.”

I motioned at the over-the-top luxury surrounding us. “So, how do you afford all this?”

“I have my ways of getting things. Sometimes it takes a little magic.” He set our glasses on a marble top vanity and moved behind me. I expected to feel him nuzzle against my neck, but he took two steps left and eyed my reflection in the gold-trimmed wall mirror. “Do you believe in magic, Nick?”

I gazed at his reflection. He was dead serious.

“Nothing magical has ever happened to me.”

“Are you certain?”

“Magic is for kids,” I said, trying not to sound as though I were speaking to a kook. “It’s all smoke and mirrors.”

“It can be.” He balled his hands into fists and hid them behind his back. “Keep your eyes on my reflection. Which hand do you want to see first, right or left?”

I wanted him to know I was in no mood to play his silly game, so I lowered my gaze to his crotch. “I’d prefer seeing your—”

“Humor me, okay?”

“Fine, show me your left.”

“I thought for sure you’d pick my right. Hold on while I do a swap.” He made a show of fidgeting and then revealed his left hand. Between his fingers he held a cigarette. Smoke curled from its burning tip, and ruby lipstick identical to a shade my mom had loved to wear stained its butt. When he pulled his right from behind his back, he clutched an old, red, plastic-framed, double-sided hand mirror exactly like one she’d owned for years. I’d broken it while putting gel in my hair when I was a silly teen and had worried for days I’d suffer from seven years of bad luck.

“Smoke and mirrors. I’m impressed,” I conceded. “So you’re an entertainer?”

“Sometimes.” He returned to the vanity, set down the mirror, and stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray. “But mostly I dabble in physics. You do believe in science, don’t you, Nick?”

“Of course.”

“Familiar with superstring theory?”

“Nope.”

“Wormholes?”

I shook my head.

“Doesn’t matter. They haven’t cracked the real secrets of time travel anyway.”

“And you have?”

He nodded.

I wasn’t drunk enough to have this crackpot conversation. I retrieved my flute from the vanity and took a sip. “Okay, Einstein, how about some proof?”

“When you made your drink in the living room, did you notice any bottles of vintage champagne in the bar?”

“No, what’s your point?”

“The hotel doesn’t stock them.” He pointed at the Cristal in the ice bucket. “While you were out there mixing your cocktail, I was in here racking my brain to figure out what to get a tipsy guy turning forty. Then it came to me—fine champagne from the year he was born. So I traveled back to the seventies to get that bottle.”

I studied his reflection in the wall mirror. He was good. He appeared one hundred percent sincere, but I was certain it was all a grand ruse. Yet I somehow felt he wanted badly to impress me, and that was touching. “Okay, so explain how you do it.”

“You can go back physically, like I did to get the champagne. Or your consciousness can travel.”

“How does that work? You view things like a fly on the wall?”

“No, your present consciousness occupies your body on whatever date you travel back to.”

“So you’re saying I could travel back to the early eighties, knowing Apple is a kick ass investment, dial up a broker, buy a bundle of stock at a cheap price, and be a millionaire today.”

“Yes, but you’d have to act quickly once you landed in the eighties. For a short while, you’d remember the future vividly. But as time passed, many future memories would fade, just like your memories of the past fade. Others would get erased completely. Outcomes change whenever you do things differently than what you did the first time around.”

“I can’t argue with that theory. If I
could
travel back in time and buy Apple stock, I’d be celebrating my fortieth birthday on a yacht in the Mediterranean, not standing here with you discussing time travel.”

“You absolutely
could
do that, but we’d still be here talking.”

“That’s not logical.”

“It is in superstring theory. The instant you bought Apple stock, you’d create a parallel universe and your consciousness would remain there. However, this universe would continue to exist too.”

“You mean by making a single phone call I’d create a brand new universe like some kind of God?”

“I suppose you could look at it that way.”

“That’s ridiculous. There’s only one universe, and we’re all stuck right here in it.”

He sighed and shook his head. I knew I’d frustrated him, and now I felt a sudden urge to comfort him. I swallowed the rest of my champagne and set my glass on the vanity. I stepped behind him and massaged his tense shoulders.

He relaxed a bit.

“Wanna get in the tub together?” I asked.

He nodded.

We slipped off our shoes and socks, and he removed his watch and set it by the red hand mirror. He eyed my reflection in the wall mirror as I pulled off my polo and then unzipped my jeans and slid them off. I savored watching him unbutton his shirt and toss it on top of mine. I somehow knew he’d have a well-defined, hairy chest. Like certain men I’d found so attractive on the beach when Shane and I had vacationed in California. Sunning on our sandy Mexican blanket with my leg touching his, I’d secretly daydreamed one would swoop down and steal me away. I’d reasoned my fantasy was harmless because I’d never leave Shane. I’d loved him and every inch of his smooth, beautiful body. Now I wished I’d never had those unfaithful thoughts.

“You okay?”

“Sorry… too much champagne.”

“Do you still want to get in the bathtub?”

I nodded and tugged off my boxers. He unzipped and shed his pants and briefs onto the cool marble floor. We gazed at each other fully naked, and our cocks instantly grew stiff. He stared at mine, seeming almost in awe, and touched it lightly with both hands, sending a jolt of pleasure through me. Both his palms were pleasantly cool now.

“Yours is uncut in this universe.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He let me go. “After you, sexy.”

I shook my head. “You first.”

He gazed at me curiously, as though he were wondering what I was thinking. Then he stepped into the tub and lowered himself into the steaming water. I followed, remembering the first time Shane and I had bathed together.

We’d been dating for six months, and I was still living with my mom. He’d climbed into her tub after me and nestled his back against my chest. I’d wrapped my arms around him and held his hands in the still warm water. When I rested my chin on his shoulder, he’d said, “You know I love you, don’t you?”

“
Yeah, I do.” It was the first time any man had ever told me that. I’d kissed his neck and said, “I’m the luckiest guy alive.”

Now, I nestled my back against Dante’s chest. He wrapped his arms around me and rested his chin on my shoulder. The Jacuzzi’s jets rumbled as he kissed my neck and lifted my hand out of the hot, turbulent water. He touched the X on the heel of my pruned palm and said, “It’s going to be harder than I thought to remove that cross.”

WHEN I woke, the room was dark, I needed to take a whiz, and my head hurt. He lay beside me on his stomach with his heavy arm draped across my chest. What had we done? Images of our fused bodies flickered in my mind. God, what
hadn’t
we done? The sex was electric. He’d dropped his crazy scientist persona in the bathtub and began exploring my body as no one had since Shane. I’d dug exploring his too. As soon as we’d finished the Cristal straight from the bottle, we’d splashed out of the tub, dried each other off with soft luxurious towels, and bounced onto the California king like gymnasts turned wrestlers turned porn stars.

Now he clung to me the way I used to cling to Shane after sex. I liked the feel of him holding me, but I
had
to hit the john. I ever so gently moved his arm. He didn’t stir as I slinked out of bed and tiptoed across the master suite. I passed through the archway into the bathroom and stepped inside the water closet. I quietly closed the door and flipped on the light. As I took a leak, I wondered how late it was. Not that I needed to be anywhere, but I figured I should slip away before he awoke so we’d avoid an awkward morning after. I flushed, cracked open the door, and let the water closet’s light shine onto the vanity. His watch was still by the red hand mirror. When I picked it up, I felt an odd heat emanate into my skin. If the glowing red digits were correct, it was still my birthday, and the time was only 7:04 p.m. The year continued to malfunction, flashing seemingly random numbers. I fingered the red push button, wondering what would happen if I pressed it. My luck the watch would squawk and wake Dante, and he’d resume his weird science lecture. I did have to admit, though, that I liked his magic trick. How in the world had he concealed that mirror? Maybe it was somehow collapsible. I picked it up and felt a rough patch.

“What the fuck?”

Carved into the handle were my mom’s initials. The letters he’d carved looked exactly like the ones I’d carved into her mirror using a pearl-handled penknife when I was a kid. The replication was uncanny.

“Nick?”

He was coming toward me, but I stopped him cold when I brandished the mirror like a weapon.

“How the hell did you know about this?”

He eyed my other hand. “Give me the watch and I’ll explain.”

I shook the mirror at him. “It’s
exactly
like hers.”

“No, it
is
hers.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. I
broke
her mirror.”

“I retrieved it from the past before you broke it. Now give me the watch.”

Our eyes locked, and color drained from the room. The déjà vu I felt was like a scene ripped from
The Twilight Zone
. I
had
known him. Not here, but in some distant past. The place was a dreamscape. He wasn’t a fake, a kook, or a con. He’d figured out the impossible.

I fingered the red button. “Is this how you do it?”

“Yes, now give it to me.”

“If her mirror was back there, then so is she. I have nothing here to lose. I’m going to see her.”

“Nick, wait—”

“No.”

I pressed the button, and the universe turned black.

MY EYES fluttered open. The night air was cold and damp. The sidewalk was wet, but the rain had stopped. I stood under a streetlight. I was waiting for her. A car approached, hit a puddle too fast, and nearly splashed me. Not her. I shivered in the cold, but my hand felt hot.

The watch. I was still holding it.

When I looked at its face, I jumped. My fingers were small, and my arm was skinny. Glowing red numbers glared at me. It was 7:06 p.m. and still my birthday. The year blinked 1983 several times, and then flashed random digits again.

Oh shit. Was I nine?

I scanned the horizon. The neon lights of The Strip flickered and blinked, but there was no glowing white Stratosphere Tower, or gleaming black Luxor pyramid beaming light into space from its apex. I squinted. Sure enough, I could make out the shimmering L that topped the old Landmark Hotel and Casino.

“Nick!”

I shoved the watch inside my pants pocket and whipped my head around.

Omigod, it was Winnie! She stood in her front doorway, hand planted on her ample hip, not a hair out of place in her beehive do.

“Get your fanny inside before you catch pneumonia!”

Hurry, she’s a big grump tonight! She has been all week!

My legs already had me running toward her. I let them go as fast as they could. I didn’t care what kind of mood she was in. She was getting a big hug. I threw my arms around her as high up as I could reach, and pressed my cheek against her flowered housedress. God only knew what decade those faded threads were from.

“I’m so glad to see you again!” My voice rang in my ears one octave too high.

“Nicky, what the heck is wrong with you? You just saw me icing your cake ten minutes ago.” She peeled me off her dress. “Get in here.
Freaky Friday
’s on the tube.”

I followed her inside, and my jaw dropped so low it nearly hit her worn-out, green shag carpet. It had been years since I’d thought about the dozens of knickknacks she displayed on end tables, TV trays, and cheap bookshelves. She enlisted me to help her dust them every Friday.

“Want a homemade Kool-Aid Popsicle?”

My legs had me following her to the fridge, but I put on the brakes. I was not eating a Kool-Aid Popsicle.

But I want one!

Sorry, kid, no dice until she makes them with gin.

“No thanks, Winnie.”

She looked at me as though she couldn’t believe her ears. “You sure?”

“Positive, you go ahead though.”

“Suit yourself.” She went to the kitchen, and I plopped on her threadbare olive green couch. On her console TV—whose wood shined thanks to lemon Pledge—the girl who would become one of Hollywood’s great dramatic actresses suffered through a humiliating slapstick thumping by other girls on a grass hockey field.

Winnie returned and hooted loud when two girls knocked Jody Foster into somersaults. “She’s such a good little actress!”