That has to be the secret practicality of traveling through time. If Ambrose Bierce, Judge Crater, and all such disappearing people actually moved back in time, they would, by now, have no remembrance whatsoever of where they came from. Nature protects her workings. If a rule is broken or an accident occurs in the order of existence, compensation must be made, the scales brought back to level by some counterweight. In this way, the flow of historical incidence is never altered more than temporarily by anyone who circumvents time. The reason, then, no traveler has ever returned from this bourn is that it is, of natural necessity, a one-way trip.
All these things I thought of as I lay there, gazing at Elise. By the time I’d finished thinking them, I was wide-awake and didn’t want to sleep again but wanted, instead, to savor those precious moments, my love sleeping nearby, the memory of our giving and taking imbued in my mind and flesh. Very carefully and slowly, I eased myself from the bed. The caution was unnecessary. Elise was heavily asleep. No wonder, I thought. The emotional and physical drain of the past twenty-four hours must have been exhausting to her.
As I stood, I saw that my clothes were no longer on the floor and looked around. Catching sight of them hanging in the open closet, I walked over and checked the inside pocket of my coat. The papers were as I had left them. She must have seen them, I thought; they were too bulky to miss. Yet, if she had read them, would she be sleeping so peacefully? Even if she had been unable to interpret them because of my shorthand, wouldn’t the very sight of the truncated words have disturbed her? I looked across the room at her. Whatever else she might be, she did not appear disturbed. I decided that she hadn’t noticed the papers or, if she had, had ascribed no importance to them.
It was a propitious time to bring those papers up to the present, I decided then. I turned to move to the writing table, then turned back, drawn by the sight of her clothes. Reaching out, I touched her dresses one by one. I stepped close to the dress she had been wearing earlier, raised its skirt with both hands, and pressed the softness of it to my face. Elise, I thought. Let time do me one more service by stopping entirely in this most glorious of moments, so I can experience it forever.
Time, of course, did not and could not stop and, after some of its unending quantity had ebbed away, I let the skirt fall with a rustling back into place and turned toward the writing table.
There was a letter lying on it, two sheets folded over, my name written on the back of one. A sense of anxiety beset me. Had she, after all, read and translated my words? Quickly, I unfolded the sheets and began to read.
From the first sentence on, it seemed apparent that she hadn’t discovered my secret.
Dear Sir,
Yr. esteemed favors of 21st inst. duly noted and regret that I am not in your arms at this inst. What foolery made me leave your embrace?
It is well beyond the witching hour—when churchyards (and sleepy actresses) yawn. I should be there in bed with you—I have just looked at your dear face and blown a kiss to it—but will, as dutiful female, brush my hair a hundred times before retiring to your side again.
I was brushing said hair moments ago when, suddenly, I thought: I love you, Richard! And my heart leaped with a shock of joy so violent that I had to write down what I feel. If I do not, I will likely jostle you awake and tell you and I would not, for any kingdom on this earth, disturb your peaceful sleep.
I love you, Richard mine. Love you so that, were I outside, I would dance and collect a crowd and cheek a policeman and get took up and thoroughly disgrace myself with happiness. I would beat a drum and blow a horn and cover the walls of the world with twenty-four sheet posters all declaring that I love you, love you, love you!
And yet, for all that, I am not as happy as I want to be, as happy as I should be. Some darkness seems to stalk me always. Why cannot our love dispel it?
One thought ever comes to frighten me and I grow haggard brooding on it. That I will lose you as you came to me—strangely, as you call it, in shadows and beyond my control. I am so fearful, love. I imagine awful things and have no rest from worrying. Tell me not to worry. I know you have but keep on telling me—again, again, and yet again—until this fear is washed off by the tide of your reassurances. Tell me all is well. I am haunted endlessly by the dread that our marriage will be prevented in some horrible way.
No, I must stop on this darkling course and think only of our love. We are meant for one another and none else. I know that to be true. I seem, tonight, to know exactly what love is. (I could play Juliet to perfection at this moment!) It is the key to all hearts and your love has opened mine forever. For me, this world begins and ends with you.
I will write no more. Sweetheart, goodnight. Perhaps you are dreaming of me at this very second. I hope so, for I love you with my heart and soul. Oh, to be within that dream entire!
I am too dazed and brain-weary to write another word now. Yet I shall write three more before I sleep. I love you.
Elise
I saw through tears of joy as my eyes moved down beneath her signature. “P.S. I love you, Richard.” I looked at the second sheet and smiled even more. “P.P.S. I wasn’t sure I’d mentioned it.”
My smile faded. She had written something else.
I did not intend to mention this but feel, in honesty, I must. When I rehung your coat, a sheaf of folded papers fell out from an inner pocket. I did not mean to read them (I would not without your permission) but could not help seeing some of the writing on it. I have a feeling that the answer to your being with me lies therein and hope that you will tell me what you’ve written when the time is right. It cannot change my love for you. Nothing could.
E.
Now I have written everything which has occurred to this moment. And writing it has brought me this resolve: I will never show her what I’ve written. I am going to dress now, go outside, find some matches and a corner of beach, and burn these pages, letting the wind blow their ashes far into the night. She will understand when I tell her that I did it to remove the only remaining barrier between us so that nothing in this world or any other can ever separate Elise and Richard.
Standing quietly, I carried her letter and my sheets of writing to the closet where I folded the sheets and placed them in the inner pocket of my coat along with the letter.
For several minutes, I was torn between an urge to proceed immediately with my plan and my hunger to return to bed and lie beside her warmth again. I walked to the bed and stood beside it, looking down at her. She slept so sweetly, like a child, one hand back against the pillow, her cheeks the shade of rose petals, her lips slightly parted. My intense desire to bend across the bed and kiss those lips gave me the resolve I needed. I adored her so, I could not rest until the final contact with my past was ended. Turning, I went back to the closet and began to dress.
I watched the mirror as a man of 1896—albeit bruised, with left eye bloodshot—took shape before me. I pulled on the undersuit and socks, the shirt and trousers, then the boots. I set the tie in place, pulled on the coat, and combed my hair; R. C. Collier, Esquire, stood reflected in the mirror. I nodded to him, smiling with approval. No further doubts, I told myself. You belong to now.
Walking to the writing table, I picked up my watch and put it in place; now I was complete. Smiling, I crossed the room as quietly as possible, looking at Elise as I walked. “Be back in a moment, my love,” I whispered.
I unlocked the door carefully so as not to wake her, opened it, and stepped outside. Closing the door without a sound, I started away from it, leaving it unlocked; I’d be returning in a short while. I hummed as I crossed the public sitting room and out onto the Open Court.
I had barely started to my left when a movement to the right caught the corner of my eye and I glanced in that direction. Heart pounding suddenly, I whirled to face Robinson as he jarred to a halt.
His expression was terrible; the instant I saw it, I knew that he’d returned to kill me. Lunging forward, I grappled with him, holding his right
wrist with all the strength I had. His face was like a mask of stone, unmoving but for the tick of a bulging vein by his right eye. He didn’t speak, his lips drawn back from clenching teeth, his breath ragged, hissing sound as he struggled to reach into the right pocket of his coat for the pistol I knew was there.
“You cannot kill me, Mr. Robinson,” I said slowly and distinctly. “I come from the future and know all about you. You cannot be hanged for murder for you are meant to drown in the North Atlantic twenty years from now.”
It startled him enough from his intent to give me the chance I needed. Shoving him as hard as I could, I sent him flailing backward, making him fall. Lurching around, I dashed back into the sitting room and ran to the door of Elise’s room. Stepping inside, I shut it, locking it softly. Dizziness swept over me. I had to lean against the wall, my heart still beating so violently that I could hardly breathe. I thought I heard his running bootfalls in the sitting room and drew back frightenedly. What would he do now? Pound on the door until he’d woken her? Shoot the lock apart, burst in on me? I turned away and stumbled toward the bed. Don’t wake her, I told myself. I changed direction, moved unevenly to the closet. I couldn’t seem to get enough air in my lungs; the feeling of disorientation returned in full force now. I had to get back in bed with her, hold her close.
I stared at the door as I started to pull off my coat. He was neither breaking in nor pounding for admittance. Why? Because he knew what her reaction would be? I looked down suddenly as I felt something hard and circular below the right side pocket of the coat. A hole, I thought. One of the coins I’d gotten in change from the drugstore had fallen through to the lining.
I knew it wasn’t important; that fact will haunt me to the end. Yet something made me reach into the pocket, feel around with shaking fingers until I’d found the tear, then, with the other trembling hand, work the coin up until it touched my fingertips. Taking hold of it, I drew it out and looked at it.
It was a 1971 penny.
In that instant, something dark and horrible started gathering inside me. Sensing what it was, I tried to fling the penny from me but, as though it had some ghastly magnetism, I could not release it. I stared at it with mounting dread as it stuck to my fingers with a nightmarish adhesion I could neither understand nor break. I felt myself begin to gasp and tremble as a cloud of aching coldness flooded over me. My heart kept pounding slowly and tremendously as I tried, in vain, to cry out, all sound clutched and frozen in my throat. I screamed, but only in my mind.
There was nothing I could do. That was the most hideous part. I was helpless, knowing even as I stood there, mute and palsied, that connective tissues were being slashed away, cutting me loose from 1896 and her. I tried, with all my will, to remove my unblinking stare from those numbers on the penny but I couldn’t. They seemed to pulse into my eyes and brain like waves of negative energy. 1971. 1971. I felt my grasp begin to fail. 1971. No, I pleaded, paralyzed with sick dismay. No, please, no! But who was there to hear me? I had brought myself back by this very method of concentrated mental inculcation and now, in one hellish sequence of moments, I was forcing myself back again by staring at that coin, that number. 1971. 1971. Desperately, I tried to force myself to know that it was 1896, November 21, 1896. But I couldn’t hold it, there was no way I could hold it. Not with that penny sticking to my fingers, driving that other year into my consciousness. 1971. 1971. 1971. Why couldn’t I get rid of it? I didn’t want to go back! I didn’t!
Now a kind of shimmering darkness hung around me like a living vapor. Frozen, made of stone, I was barely able to turn my head toward the bed. No; oh, God, dear God! I could barely see her! She was like a figure seen through mist. A groan of anguish sounded in my chest. I tried to move, to reach her, but I couldn’t stir; a monstrous, black weight settled on me. No! I tried to fight it off. I wouldn’t be driven away from her! With every bit of strength I had remaining, I tried to rid myself of that malevolent coin. It wasn’t 1971! It was 1896! 1896!
In vain. The penny remained on my hand like some hideous growth. Defeated, I raised my stricken gaze to look at her again. A cry of terror wrenched my soul. She had almost vanished in the darkness that was swirling all around me, drawing me into itself like some appalling vacuum. For some reason I will never know, I thought in that moment of a woman who once told me about the feeling of a mental breakdown coming on. She had described it as “something” building up inside; something immune to reason and will; something dark and restless and expanding constantly like a spider growing deep inside, weaving a terrible, icy web which, soon, would smother brain and body. It was precisely how I felt, impotent, waiting, helpless, feeling its inexorable growth inside me, knowing that I couldn’t stop it.
I opened my eyes. I was lying on the floor. Outside, I heard the distant rumble of the surf.
I sat up slowly and looked around the dark room that had, once, been hers. The bed was empty. Moving infirmly, I stood and looked at my right hand. The penny was still in it. With a cry of revulsion, I flung it away from me and heard it bounce off the floor. Now you leave me! I thought in dazed hatred. Now that you have forced me back.
I don’t know how long I stood there, lifeless, will-less. It might have been hours, though I suspect that it was little more than ten or fifteen minutes. At last, I trudged across the room, unlocked the door, and went into the corridor. There was no one in sight. I looked at myself and saw the suit. I shuddered. The costume, you mean, my mind corrected bitterly.
As I started to walk, all I could think was that because a penny had fallen, unseen, into the lining of the coat and gone back with me, I had lost Elise. The other shocks I could have coped with; it had been the penny, finally, which had forced me back. Like a slow, faulty machine, my brain kept going over that again and again, trying to analyze the horror of it. It hadn’t even been my penny but had, obviously, belonged to the man who’d worn this costume last. And because of that—of that!—I’d lost Elise. I’d been with her only minutes ago; the feel and smell of her body were still with me. If I’d remained in bed with her, this wouldn’t have happened. In attempting to assure my hold on 1896, I had broken it completely. And all because of a penny fallen into the lining of a coat. Again and again, my mind went over that, stumblingly, always without result. I couldn’t understand it.
I will never understand it.
I’d walked all the way to my room—my 1971 room—before it came to me that I had no key to open the door with. I stared at the door for a long time. The experience of being driven back to 1971 seemed to have drained me of all comprehension. It took a long while before I could assemble enough pieces in my mind to make myself turn away and start downstairs again. I knew I couldn’t go to the front desk, couldn’t speak, explain; couldn’t function as a thinking person. Dazed and empty, I went down the stairs and headed for the back door. Minutes ago, I’d been with her. Yet now it was seventy-five years later. Elise was dead.
And I was dead. That much I comprehended. I went down the porch steps, thinking that I’d walk into the ocean, drown myself, destroy the body as the mind had been destroyed. But I didn’t have the strength or will. I walked around the parking lot in aimless patterns. It was raining so faintly I could barely feel the sprinkling on my face; it looked more like descending mist than rain.
I stopped beside a car and looked at it a long time before I realized it was mine. I felt in my pockets with clumsy fingers. At last, I realized that the keys could not possibly be in my pockets and, falling to my knees, reached beneath the body of the car until my fingers came in contact with the small, metal box stuck magnetically to the frame. Pulling it loose, I used the door handle to pull myself up. The knees of my trousers were soaked through but I didn’t care. With slow movements, I slid back the top of the box and removed the key.
The car was cold, its windows steamed up. I felt around with the key until I found the ignition-switch opening, then slid it in. I started to turn the key, then slumped back in exhaustion. I didn’t hav
e the strength to drive to the bridge and off of it. Didn’t have the strength to drive across the parking lot or even start the motor. My head slumped forward and I closed my eyes. Done, I thought. The word repeated itself in my mind, an endless, afflicting awareness. Done. Elise was gone. I had found her but now she was lost. Done. What I had read in those books was true. Done. None of them would be rewritten now. Done. What I had dreaded doing from the start. What I had sworn that I would never do. Done. Her heart unlocked only to be broken.
Done!
I opened my eyes and saw the watch chain looped across my vest. Reaching down, I slipped the watch from its pocket and looked at it. After a while, I thumbed in the stem and gazed at the watch’s face. Illumination from a nearby lightpole filtered through the windows, enabling me to see. It was just past four o’clock. In the silence of the car, I could hear the bright, methodical ticking of the watch. As I stared at its face, a grotesque thought scarred my mind. A flipped penny had brought me to San Diego in the first place. A penny had taken me to her. A penny had taken me away: from my love, my only love, my lost love.
My Elise.
Note by Robert Collier
I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing in having my brother’s manuscript published. He never thought it would be. He didn’t even think he’d finish it.
He did finish it, however, and, notwithstanding certain first-draft weaknesses, I feel that it merits public attention. Richard was a writer, after all, albeit this is the only book he ever wrote. For this reason, despite uncertainties which still prevail, I submitted it for publication.