The Time Travel Chronicles (51 page)

We pulled back onto the highway and set off north toward Gravenhurst and Bracebridge. I could not shake the feeling of familiarity. There was something so déjà vu about all of this. As we headed north, I eyed that threatening line of clouds off to the west and thought back to another September years and years ago.

Half a century ago.

* * *

My mother gave me up once she realized her tenth grade boyfriend wasn’t going to have anything more to do with a pregnant girlfriend. Not a lot of babies were adopted in Sudbury in the fifties, so I ended up in a long succession of foster homes funded by Children’s Aid. Some were okay, but most weren’t. By the time I was fifteen, I’d already been caught shoplifting. The court decided I was better off placed with somebody who could ‘turn my life around’. According to them I needed a ‘strong guiding hand’. That ended up being Helmut Reiner, a prison guard and his piggy-eyed wife, Marthe. Helmut was away at Burwash Industrial Farm through the week, so he could only smack me around on the weekends. That job was left to Marthe on weekdays.

Stealing a candy bar brought about a call that Labour Day in 1965, which aroused the beast in both of them, and they set into smacking me around. I was almost sixteen, strong from haying for Helmut’s brother-in-law and innocent enough of the shoplifting charge—a friend had actually stolen the Oh Henry and shared it with me—that I resented it more than usual. So having had enough of it, I threatened some knocking around of my own with a broken hockey stick. Picked it up, at first just to defend myself, but when the pair of them started towards me, I swung it at them and managed to ding Marthe. They backed off, but I heard them calling the cops. I stole a duffel bag from a closet and managed to throw some underwear and a couple of t-shirts into it before jumping over the back fence and escaping down Highway 11, hitching a ride in a Coke truck heading south.

I had some vague plan of heading to Toronto. Someone at school had said that Yonge Street and Yorkville were the places to go, so I imagined I might be able to hustle something up and remain anonymous in the city. The Coke truck was only going as far as Sundridge, so they let me off there with a free bottle of Coke. The next ride was to Burke’s Falls, and after that to a gravel road that headed east into the bush, south of Bracebridge. The last guy, a plumber going in to do some work on a cottage, let me off on the highway late in the afternoon. After trying to hitch a ride for half an hour, fearful that the cops might find me at any moment out on the highway and with what looked like a storm coming in the west, I noticed a sign on the east side of the highway that said “Boat Launch”. I figured there was bound to be somewhere down there to hide away, even if I had to break into a cottage for the night. I hoisted my backpack and set off away from the highway.

Ten minutes later, I walked into a broad dirt parking lot that ran down to a lake. The wind had picked up and the surface of the lake was choppy with rising waves. At the foot of the lot, where it sloped down towards the water, a dozen small boats with outboard motors bobbed in the slips that ran out from two wooden docks. The boats rubbed up against old tires put there to cushion them, making a chorus of low knocking thumps.

A grey barn board shack sat against the forest. The roof hung out over what looked to be a window where, maybe during the height of summer somebody served ice cream and pop and candy from inside. It was closed and there was nobody around. Through the window I saw that there was nothing on the shelves. A freezer was unplugged with the top propped open. I could easily break in and spend the night inside, and it didn’t look like there would be anyone turning up anytime soon. As I was thinking about the least noticeable way to break in, I saw the car, almost hidden under the trees on the far side of the lot, facing the water.

The sky was quickly turning black. There was a sudden flash off in the distance and I counted to see how far away it was. Before I had counted to nine, thunder rumbled and the first light drops of rain fell. I ran over to the car, wondering if it had been left unlocked.

Once under the tree, I could see that the car was a convertible, almost brand new, but it wasn’t one I recognized. I had learned the difference between a Ford, a Plymouth, and a Chevy early on. Though the car was locked, whoever the passenger was had left the window on the far side cracked open a couple inches. I went around and slid between the car and the branches of the tree. Fitting my arm between the upper edge of the glass and the frame of the convertible top, I reached farther in and was able to wiggle my finger under the button and pop the lock. Inside, I could smell how new it was as I opened the driver’s side door. The rain started coming down harder then, the clouds boiling blackly over the lake. As I slid into the driver’s seat, the wind gusts buffeted the car and the storm began throwing down small hailstones that soon changed over to torrents of rain.

I was grateful to be out of the wet, rubbing my sleeve across my forehead and looking around inside.
Beautiful
, I thought, running my hands over the dash.
Jesus, what I would’ve given to have one of these. Hell, just to have enough money to buy one of these. They must have cost four grand at least!

In those days I had modest dreams. Didn’t want much, though being rich wouldn’t have hurt. I knew enough about myself to know I wanted to work with my hands. I knew I loved cars and liked taking things apart and fixing things. Books and studying didn’t appeal to me, but touching something as fine as this … well, that gave me a thrill that went deeper inside me than anything else.

But then I reached into the glove box and found a key way at the back. When I drew it out I wondered if it was a spare for the car.

Put it back
, I told myself.
Not yours!

My hand moved to the ignition and inserted the key, thinking even as I did it that I shouldn’t.

I turned it and the car jerked forward and stalled.

Damn it, shoulda pushed in the clutch.

I had scared myself. Breathing heavily, I sat listening to the rain while my heartbeat stilled. There was nobody around.

What would it hurt to try it just one more time …

The second time, it revved into life. That car just about purred in the rain.

I thought I could drive it all the way to Toronto. But no, I’d never make it … Just a little drive … not far and bring I’d bring it right back. Nobody’d notice … nobody was around.

The car moved almost on its own. The gears were easier than I had thought. Feeling more confident, I wheeled the car out of the parking lot and found the switch to turn on the lights.

Just a little ride …

I turned out of the yard onto the side road.
You’re doin’ all right
, I told myself, jerking hesitantly through the gears and bringing the Mustang up to speed.

Just a little ways …

Soon I was riding along comfortably through the rain and was even thinking about turning around.

Yeah, best take it back before I screw up.

Lightning flashed suddenly, close this time. Everything went white and the terrifying crack of thunder was so close it shook the ground. Everything flared and I was stunned. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, the rain was upon me, so much of it that the wipers weren’t clearing it off. I scrabbled for the knob to turn them on full. That was a mistake.

I cursed, feeling the car tilt onto the shoulder and lean as it slid toward the shallow roadside ditch. I hit something soft and grunted as I was thrown against the steering wheel. With the breath knocked out of me, I could only gasp for air, thinking I was dying. I almost passed out listening to the sound of rain smacking hard against the Mustang’s canvas roof.

When I could finally breathe, I saw that the rain had thinned enough so I could make out the ditch in the car’s headlights. There was a bank of earth ahead I had ploughed into and now the car was stuck in an upward diagonal tilt.

I tried the ignition. Thankfully, it started. Shifting into reverse, I tried backing out, but either the car was too heavy or the angle was too steep. Or maybe there was too much mud.

I’d really gone and done it now.

I turned off the engine and sat thinking for a moment, nursing the pain in my chest and listening to the rain and far-off thunder.

I took off at a run.

Somewhere in my flight down the backroad toward the highway, I realized I still had the key in my hand and hurled it away into a field.

Goddamned people, leaving their goddamned keys out where anybody can goddamned find them!

Nobody stopped to pick me up on the highway, even when they could see me, so I spent the night in the corner of an abandoned farmhouse, shivering and listening for sirens, half sheltered under a collapsed roof. But nobody came for me, and the next morning I caught a ride with a salesman. Later, south of Barrie, I found a guy driving a truckload of engine parts to Toronto.

My time on the Yonge Street strip lasted almost two months before they found me and dragged me back to North Bay.

* * *

Grace hardly spoke after we left Weber’s. She just stared ahead through the windshield, occasionally leaning forward to look up into the sky. “Make the next right,” she said finally.

“Thought we were going to Pritchard’s Landing?” I asked as I turned onto a side road.     

“Eventually,” she replied, “but for now we have one other place to go. I’ll tell you when to turn.”

She had me make a left at the next concession and then another one. We were headed west, back toward the storm, when she spoke next. “Looks like we had better put the top up.” Her voice was kind of strained and her eyes were squinting, almost shut, staring through the windshield.

“We gotta be almost there. The rain’ll hold off ’til then, don’t you think?”

“No, this won’t wait,” she said. “Pull over.”

I pulled off to the shoulder and got out.

The sky had grown progressively darker and grey clouds with black fringes marched towards us over the trees. As if to remind us of the need to get under shelter, the clouds lit up with chain lightning. The thunder rolled over us as I unbuttoned the cover and flipped the latch to free the top. It popped up on its metal frame.

Grace sat silently, staring off into the distance as I drew the canvas top up over the Mustang.

“Just reach up and snap it in,” I called to her through the rising sound. A wall of wind and rain was racing towards us across the fields. A rushing wave, it tossed the grain and shook the maples lining the road.

Grace did nothing.

“Dammit!” I cursed, still holding the top with one arm as I struggled into the driver’s seat. “You’re not even gonna help one little bit?”

She just stared fixedly at the rain, so I reached up and started snapping the top in place.

“You better roll up your window or you’re gonna get w—” I began, but she opened the car door and was out before I knew it.

“Stop! It’s too wet!” I called out, but she was gone. The rain was falling in earnest, pattering against the top like thrown gravel. Water streamed down the windshield. Suddenly the lightning struck again, closer this time, and in the flare of light I saw her struggling against the wind, her dress flying around her as she ran away down the road.

“Jesus, you crazy, goddamned …” I cursed as I put the car into gear and started off to follow her. Had she suddenly gone off her head? This was dangerously crazy, out in this kind of weather. “Dammit!” I cursed again as I leaned forward, squinting through the driving rain. I sure as hell didn’t want to run her over, so I kept the car in second gear. Five minutes later, I realized she must have left the road.

What was I supposed to do? People would blame me if anything happened to the crazy old bird. But suddenly, it was there. The sign. A small one, weather-beaten with paint flaking off. ‘Boat Launch,’ it said, with an arrow pointing to the right. A dirt parking lot sloped down to a lake. I couldn’t believe it. This was the place where I stole that car.

Jesus, it was all coming back. Even the shed was there. I thought it would have fallen down in all those years since or at least been replaced by something bigger, better. With a kind of resignation, I parked the car under the trees facing the lake and stared grim-faced through the rain.

I turned off the ignition, not sure what to do next. Why would Grace bring me here and run off like that? Where the hell was she?

As I sat there, I went over all of it: the running away, the hitchhiking, the landing here, and the car, but I could not think of what was happening to me. I rubbed my hand over my face and felt strange. Reaching over, I turned the rear-view mirror towards me. As I did, there was a brief flash of lightning and I thought I saw …

My hand scrabbled for the interior light switch and I flicked it on. The face of my fifteen-year-old self, thin with cheekbones speckled with acne, stared back at me. I looked down at my hands. The tats were gone, no LOVE or HATE in ragged blue, just young, soft fingers unworn by time and hard living.

“Jesus!” I said aloud. “What’s going on here?”

Even my voice was younger. I stared at myself in the mirror, running my hands over the unwrinkled skin and the downy growth of hair on my upper lip. And then I laughed. I was young again, and my life—my whole life—was before me. And I was sitting in the car once more with the storm beating around me. I was reliving everything that had happened that night. And I sat there in the driver’s seat, smelling that new car smell. I laughed out loud.