The Fan-Shaped Destiny of William Seabrook (50 page)

I spoke brokenly to the stricken young face, “Oh my God, Justine, what have we done?”

I thought of the moment when I had felt myself to
be
that boy, even to abrupt recall of the long-forgotten intrusion of bizarre thoughts, thoughts whose nature was beyond his
comprehension. In that strange moment, I had consolidated my awareness, my self, toward the assumptions of his time and place.
I remembered the account of Willie’s moment of “exaltation” on that fateful night in London, before he awakened back in Augusta
from a lucid dream some thirty-odd years in duration. Unintentionally, I seemed to have discovered the key to transit, for
this was unlike even the clearest regression vision. But,
damn it!
At the barn, Justine had
wanted
to return, and I’d been able to hold her back from even that fierce obsession.

The moment that my world had divided in a major way now lay behind me. There had surely been a jillion variant subatomic events
since then, every tiny junction farther removing me from the path I had lived. Had I made a pathetic sprint for the rest room,
when I’d first laid eyes on JJ, I’d not likely stood transfixed by this damned mirror. Certainly not stood there talking to
a love lost not only in time, but also on an entirely different branching path of reality. I remembered her coaxing tone as
she had finessed me to the house, then the lake, and back into the past. A softly murmured phrase consolidated itself into
clarity:

“P
APA
L
EGBA, OUVRÍ BARRIÈRE
…”

————————

God, no! She couldn’t have ditched me, could she? Might she have gently scraped off her old lover, rewarding me with the fulfillment
of my most precious fantasy? But I remembered her reassurances and could not bring myself to believe that this was other than
a horrible irony. I was sick at heart. More horrific yet, might I have
died
at the point of transit? My heart ached at the thought of Justine
²
crying over her lover’s death yet again. And what were the odds that Justine
²
would emerge in this reality at all?

Feeling ill, I drew a deep breath and something else kicked in. On one level, it didn’t
feel
like I’d
gone
anywhere. It was more like I’d been there all along, my attention having taken an excursion on which I’d seen many wondrous
things—then returned to this place along the same path by which it had left. The air was sweeter, the smells more intense,
their associations arousing feelings long forgotten. Most likely, it was merely a matter of a body and brain that properly
processed oxygen, producing a wave of euphoria that softened the impact of black thoughts.

A long-admired, if not emulated, philosophy of “play it like it lays” came to mind. I nodded to the boy in the mirror, “At
least, I don’t have to let
you
down again.” But there was more. The germ of an idea was sprouting into consciousness, a slender reed that I might grasp
against the dark tide of desperation and panic. A large proportion of my fantasy life had prepared for precisely this impossible
moment. I apparently had another lifetime to deal with my own issues, and the time for action was
now.
Bolting for the rest-room had likely been advisable. Meeting the young JJ with soaking trousers would have not done at all.

I went back out to see JJ chatting conspiratorially with a girl in a tight sweater and flared skirt. Dressed for easy access,
I thought with cheap amusement, for I could also recognize Shirley, my official date. Shirley had a magnificent run as the
high-school ‘slut’ ahead of her. If you happened not to know Shirley’s reputation, she would be more than happy to tell you
all about it. Which, of course, was precisely why I had asked her to the dance, where I was destined to meet, instead, with
the fatal attraction of the century. A hormonal rush surged in response to my thoughts. Lord, I’d forgotten how easily triggered
it was. No mystery that adolescents are so desperate.

I stopped by an ice-filled tub and pulled up a NeHi Orange. I fumbled stupidly with the cap until I comprehended that twist-off
technology had not yet arrived, going back in search of a bottle opener. There was no doubt that this was a very material
world, and all that I knew indicated that there was nothing for it except to make the best, to use what I had. Soon, I would
have to put my mind to outlining my “future memories” as completely as possible, study what spin I could put on matters affecting
me without disrupting the larger configuration of the “map.”

Shirley soon moved off with Gene, the slightly older boy with whom I knew she wanted to rendezvous, him having a car and all.
The love of my lifetime came off like a little girl against the angel I was missing, for whom I yearned with every aching
breath. But my growing concept calmed my labored breathing as I proffered her preferred soft drink to the girl who, in an
other life at least, was destined to become
the mother of my Justine.

We then went for our long-remembered walk down to the pier, and I went directly to work on the agenda. With no illusions of
exactly replicating how this had gone down, I carefully, so as not to frighten, used my unnatural advantage to neatly push
all of her buttons as I remembered them. It helped that she, thirty years down the line, had confessed all that I hadn’t known
about her initially. The boy who had taken her away in that world, and would here if things remained equal, had been a smooth
talker. But he would play hell competing with
this,
if he even ever got to meet her.

With accelerating confidence, I shamelessly demonstrated seemingly paranormal guesses about her family background, then about
her own young pain that bordered on the suicidal, to take things deeper and heavier. Could she become as enticing to me as
memory had served? Perhaps more so, for reasons I was only beginning to understand. I gently took her hand and looked at it,
knowing it was destined for painful arthritis, and felt an unexpected tenderness.

That I was going to make love to her had never been in question. With one kiss I was hard as a rock, and I knew that she was
similarly aroused, as well as being completely snowed. The only glitch was rediscovering the zipper hidden along the left
hip of her slacks. The ease of the conquest detracted not at all. I knew only too well that my real challenges were far ahead.

When I slipped off her panties and went down on her, an act
almost
beyond her fourteen-year-old imagination, the issue was decided. When she still had the presence of mind to insist on a condom,
I was able to oblige. I had come armed for a date with the notorious Shirley, after all. Donning the rubber in the dark, it
was awfully easy for one’s thumbnail to puncture the tip… Along with foreknowledge of her typical responses, I found enough
control of this body to get her a couple of presentable orgasms before I climaxed. More, I experienced the almost-forgotten
novelty of staying erect for a while afterward!

The rest was love talk and a long stroll on the graveled shoreline, discussing “what does this
mean
and what will we do now?” Cosmic concerns of teenagers, just as if they possessed some command of a larger picture. During
all the years that I’d run this fantasy tape in my head, I’d mused about the presumed issue of intellectual disparity in the
imaginary situation. It proved to be no large problem. Placed in the reality, my own mode of relating turned out to have an
unexpected resemblance to that of my earlier self.

I had fancied that any unavoidable whiff of maturity would make me all the more attractive, but it was something other that
emerged to serve me. Adolescent mannerisms were reclaimed with an unflattering ease, seeming not at all unnatural. Excessively
emboldened, I attempted a tentative brush with the actuality underlying our situation. Her comprehension quickly faded.

“Do I sound flipped out?” She was looking at me with growing skepticism. “You know, crazy, ‘lost all my marbles’?” I had taken
care to guard my speech against unknown usages, such as overly casual profanity, but less obvious anachronisms kept slipping
out.

“That’s a new one on me. No, but, isn’t learning from the mistakes of the past about all you can do with it? You could be
right on the mark about all the ‘why-fors,’ but it’s another one of those things … interesting, but in the grand scheme of
things, means nothing to the average person. It ‘won’t put food on the table,’ you know? Worrying about time going all haywire
wouldn’t be a big deal to most people. They have to live their everyday lives; don’t have time or interest.”

Here it came. I could hear the socially correct, self-censorial mechanism kicking in. I was not about to engage in debate
that would only provide ignorant adolescent detractors, and flatly stupid adults, with something to chew on. I could only
faintly recall, from the time before, the issue of an argument related to the permissible limits of speculation.

Having no life as yet, I’d read Voltaire’s
Candide
and inappropriately wanted to share my no-doubt poorly understood discovery. That my excursion into a larger world of ideas
had not been well received by another teenager was understandable. Less excusable had been a similar reaction from a teacher;
a sad commentary on our crippling background. I remembered thinking that it was a matter of JJ being childish. Of course,
I had managed to overlook the small detail that we
were
children.

She chattered on about our capacity to choose the general perspective from which we would live our lives. Looking ahead with
joy and optimism or looking back with sadness and regret. Her song of praise for the eternal present did not strike me with
the tedium that it might have in that other life. The difference was within myself. I had seen the days when this little summer
flower would wilt—when she would have to struggle every day to look forward. My foreknowledge of that inevitable daily struggle
was excruciating.

That her opinionated harangues were incompatible with my selective recollections was perhaps due to the softening of their
edges. They were studiedly tractable, seeking to not offend. She was such a sweet girl. Not yet burned and brutalized by life,
intimidated into stultifying her mind, she was still more interested in the content of ideas than in questioning whether she
could allow herself to have them. I had arrived in her life sufficiently early—there was yet time!

“… no matter how much you want to, you can’t go back and change a thing. Yesterday is past. Tomorrow may never come. There
is only today, which is a gift. That’s why we call it ‘the present.’ I know it sounds real square, but that’s the main thing
to me.” Remaining quiet, I just smiled at her little lecture. I made a promise to myself that I would never condescend or
abuse the gift of compliance.

I knew that she yearned for a college education that her stepparents would not be able to afford, so I assured her that mine
could send us both. Not quite the truth; they could help
start
both of us, especially if she were the mother of the grandchild I’d never given them in the other world. I’d have to work,
but you can’t have everything. In this life, I
might
become a science fiction writer, predicting the shape of the future with uncanny accuracy. I almost got the hysterical giggles,
imagining the publication of
Labor Rep from Dimension J!

For various reasons, I’d determined that we should not ride home with Gene and Shirley. As it happened, we missed all rides.
Returning to the shelter house, we found ourselves alone. I was satisfied, calculating that setting us up for being out all
night just about cinched what would have to follow. My original plan in motion, another had been growing inside it like a
psychic embryo.

True enough, in this time and place, I could mechanic an early pregnancy to guarantee a marriage. Overall, I had every intention
of forcing us from the conventional assumptions as soon as possible, for this society did not trouble to police strata it
had declared marginal. To this end, I would not eschew any device, even very cheap tricks. But there was so much more.

We stood again on the pier, amidst the wavelets and ducks, as in a San Antonio park during our melancholy adult reunion—in
a world we were never now to know. The die was cast. By whatever point the worlds had divided, a replay leading me to Justine
²
in the fashion I remembered would have been patently hopeless, even were I sufficiently masochistic to walk that path.

Even at that moment, a spermatozoon of destiny might be wiggling toward a branch in the paths. I could relax and reflect on
my alternate course. Many things might change now, the friends and lovers to come might not have to hurt so much, or die so
young. Why, maybe that boy Tony could live as well! I remembered him as a young man of deep commitment. Might he not fight
for peace, rather than die for a government that would just be playing a god-damned game?

Soon I must confront the beloved dead: my parents, my mother most of all. While this prospect gave me serious pause, it was
inevitable. And only she, even if with some careful handling, might believe and accept what I was. I’d been her late-life
“miracle child,” after all. To her I’d always been so special. I needed some friend to whom I could talk, and no one else
in this whole wide world … but then, my thoughts smashed head-on into something I’d overlooked. The plan was derivative of
a long-term fantasy, ignoring the realities that had given it flesh.

————————

T
HE BELOVED DEAD OF AN OTHER LIFE WERE YET LIVING HERE!

I had no direct memory of them and did not feel inclined to inflict myself on them in their waning years. Incongruously, I
remembered the root of my fantasy of going to Fort Lauderdale. Tony and I had talked about such a prospect for months after
drooling over Connie Francis and Yvette Mimieaux in
Where the Boys Are.
This boy I had become was a different person, a different life. Could I really befriend Marjorie, or make up anything to
her and Katie?