Chapter 8

Chapter

Eight

Dr. Sumner Delano

It's too stuffy to breathe with the windows closed in the upstairs apartment. I long for the wild wind off Cape Cod, where I used to race the family yacht against the other sail-mad young men of our set with my brother Edison. We rarely won, but those were good times.

This feels more like a dugout dressing station. The second stop for soldiers treated on the battlefield along what we called the sanitary train. As soon as I think this, the scene is so real, I can barely breathe. I'm going from man to man, administering tetanus shots and morphine, readjusting splints, checking on wounds and fractures hastily addressed in aid stations closer to the front. It smells like a charnel house. I hear boys scream and sob in pain. Some slip away from us no matter how hard we work, their sightless eyes open and staring accusingly at everything and nothing.

A lot of years have swept away, but I'm painfully reminded of the war. The wind howls outside, rattling the old bones of this building. Grit skitters across the roof like hungry rats, and dust sifts between the cracks of the ceiling, just like in an artillery barrage. My soldier's heart can't always tell the difference between war dust and storm dust. No civilian can know how real the illusion of war is to a soldier after he goes home.

Damp with sweat and nauseated on top of it, I force myself to rise from the soaked sheets. I turn on the lamp, but my hand is shaking so badly, I knock it over. It falls to the floor with a shocking crash. I'm still only half in the present as I stare at the shards of glass around my bare feet. I'm still trying to process what my senses are telling me.

Footsteps come up the stairs. The door bursts open.

"I heard a crash, is everything—?" The only illumination is moonlight, but it's enough to see Hamilton's frown deepen as he takes in the room and then me. I must look mad, caught between memories and dreams, slick with fear sweat, and white with dread. His face softens. Mine has probably caught fire, because he's only wearing his strange, tiny underwear.

He sighs. "I'll get my shoes. Don't move."

"Mine are by the door."

"Think they'll fit?"

I nod. "Since you have no love for socks, I'd say we're about the same size."

"No socks with loafers. It's the law." He leans down to pull on my brogues. "Nice shoes, Dr. Delano. I see you smuggling your stealth wealth into rural America like a boss."

"What?"

"I doubt anyone here would guess these shoes are handmade. They are, aren't they? Italian leather, if I'm any judge."

"Shut up about my shoes unless you want to discuss your hairless chest."

"You'll have to sign an NDA for that." Hamilton leaves me standing where I am while he gets the biggest shards out of the way. "Where can I find a dustpan and broom?"

"Cupboard in the kitchen."

"Hm." He eyes me for a split second before hoisting me up like a bride. It's embarrassing, and thrilling, and shockingly intimate.

There's a clothespress, a bed, a small couch—more of a love seat, really—and a desk and chair in the room. I point to the couch. To me, that seems safest somehow.

Isn't he in too much pain to hoist men up and throw them around? The man bounces back quickly.

"Something the matter?" he asks.

"Hm?" It is I, Sumner Delano, society gentleman and bon vivant.

He grunts. "Stay put. I'll get the broom and sweep up the rest."

"That's only fair, since I cleaned your sick." Oh, God, why did I bring that up?

"Thanks for reminding me." He frowns. "Next time I'm transported nearly a hundred years into the past, I'll be sure to bring a basin."

That leaves me speechless, as he probably knew it would. Dear God, he picked me up like I weighed nothing. I'm so flustered and jittery I should be able to fly.

As I wait for him to come back upstairs, I rearrange my nightclothes and try to discern how best to sit. Should I lift my elbow to the back of the couch and rest my chin in my hand? No, I shall cross my legs and fold my hands in my lap. Nick Charles would be proud.

No, Nick Charles would be drunk.

Time travel. Holy cow. It must be some kind of scheme, but I don't know what Lucas will get out of it. No matter how he makes me feel, I can't be na?ve about this. Is he even a doctor or is that part of the pretense?

He must know I'll be able to spot a phony, and if he thinks he's going to get paid, he's picked the wrong place to try the ruse on. I'm not getting paid. The nurses fare better with room and board. They get pin money now and references later.

Hamilton returns with a broom and dustpan, and he's careful to sweep up every last bit of glass. He removes my shoes and puts them back by the door.

"Nice to know I won't cut my feet open," I acknowledge.

"I can suture them, but it's best if I don't have to." He sits at my desk and picks up my fountain pen. He studies it. Puts it back.

I say, "You can go back to bed now. I'm safe."

He doesn't look up. "I couldn't sleep anyway."

"Neither could I. It's stuffy up here." Dare I hope he will stay and talk?

"At least you weren't lying on a cot from the Great War."

"Oh, yeah. Not exactly comfortable," I commiserate. "I don't specifically know that it was used in battle."

He looks at the ceiling where a thin stream of dust sifts onto the bed. He glances out the window. "The kitchen is nicer. Do you play cards?"

Oh, thank heavens. "As a matter of fact, I do. But before we play, I have a suggestion. I've got an extra pair of pajamas, Let me get them for you."

When I hand them over, he takes them warily.

"My grandfather wears these." They're a normal pair of plaid cotton pajamas, with a drawstring waist. He smirks as he pulls only the bottoms on. "All right?"

Just covering his lower half isn't much of an improvement, but his expression is so thick with disdain, I doubt I can get him to wear the top. Even with bruises going from purple to green over a third of his torso, he's as beautiful as a Greek statue.

I'm going mad.

"I'll get cards and meet you downstairs."

He nods and leaves the room. His footsteps are quieter, more deliberate, why? Oh, it makes no sense to pick apart everything he says and does, but I can't help it. He's a mystery. A deliciously male, confusing conundrum that I can't get close to until I know what's really going on.

I slip on my robe and find cards, and at the last second, I pick up a cribbage board as well. I enjoy lots of different card games, but my favorite is cribbage. I wonder if he plays, or if he'll tell me there are new games in the future I can't possibly win. Maybe he's a card sharp? A confidence man? A huckster? Maybe he travels with the carnival, pulling the same scheme wherever they go, taking money from widows and lonely men.

I bring whisky to fortify me. I need a drink for this. When I enter the kitchen, it isn't the bottle that catches his eye, but the game board.

"Cribbage," he calls out. "The perfect game for a late-night slog."

"Do you have many of those?"

"In school, I did. Sometimes I studied so hard, I had to reboot. Cribbage is good for that. Or music."

"Reboot?"

"Turn my brain off and start it up again."

"I'm not certain I understand."

He shuffles the deck. "What did you do when you couldn't commit another fact to memory?"

"Walk, I guess."

"I did too. But sometimes I craved companionship. Everyone likes cards."

"You had girlfriends as well, I take it? For companionship." It's disingenuous to ask. Nobody who looks at me like he does wants a woman. Which makes me wonder about Sophie's mother. If the girl exists.

"What about them? I've had them. Boyfriends too. The occasional three?—"

"We need cups." I jump up to stop his confession. His candor shocks me. I don't know why. Someone who says they're from the future is likely to say anything. He's patient while I retrieve two enamelware mugs. I pour two fingers in each and sit. "Here's to college days."

"And nights." He's a different person, now. It's difficult to trust anyone who does an about face like this.

"Why are you so brazen, when I barely got a word out of you before?"

"After you left for bed, I started thinking about Pascal's wager."

I know the one. "Pascal just occurred to you?"

"A similar argument. I must be a time traveler, or I must be crazy. What point is there to dwelling on the crazy?"

He deals six cards. I'm half-expecting him to play differently but he's playing according to Hoyle so far. We each give two cards to the crib, which is his, as the dealer. He takes a sip of his drink while I turn up the start.

He says, "I feel crazy. Do you think I'm crazy?"

I ache for him because I'm experienced at feeling crazy. "When I'm in a mad place, I take refuge in certain routines."

"Like what?"

"Rising early. Writing in my journal. Getting things as clean as possible. Wearing clothing I like."

"You had me until clothing. I've only got one pair of trousers and a shirt."

"Are those even yours?" This has been bothering me. "Those trousers fit like you stole them from a prepubescent boy."

He snorts and puts his glass down. "That might be the point, you know."

"You bought them like that?" I glance up in shock.

His smile is devilish. "Exactly like that, after they were hemmed by a very nice man at Nordstrom."

"Nordstrom."

"A department store. I have a personal shopper there. When I need something or there's a new style, he makes sure I get it."

I don't know whether to believe him. "In Santa Fe?"

He shakes his head. "Los Angeles. I'm new to Santa Fe. I thought it might be better for Sophie."

"Better?"

"When we lived in Los Angeles, I had a housekeeper, but I hired a driver to get Sophie to school and outside activities. In Santa Fe, my work is less demanding. I still have a personal assistant to make sure she gets what she needs."

He slaps down his first card: a king. Does he think I'm the sort of rube to pair it when he probably has another hiding in his hand? I put down a five, of which I have two. Let's see if he falls for it.

He pairs my five. "Twenty. Our housekeeper drives her to school and the rest of her activities and makes dinner if I'm not home. We have a neighbor who pinch hits if things get really hairy at work. But I need to spend more time learning to be a good father."

"Is that a mystery? Twenty-five." I move his pegs two holes accordingly, and then I move mine a total of six while I think about what I said. "Pardon me if that was blunt. I had good role models. What about your parents?"

"I don't want to be anything like my parents. Nothing I ever did was good enough for my father. My mother is—not good for Sophie."

"I'm sorry." I hide my dismay behind my glass.

"As my father likes to say, he made me the man I am today." He takes a long sip of his whisky.

"Why doesn't that sound like a good thing?"

He smiles wryly. "Because I hate what he made me."

"I'm sorry."

"Though he feels I threw my career away, I like where I work now. I've been given some leeway to modernize the department. I plan to do that, plus pull in talent from other hospitals."

"That must be gratifying."

"Thirty-one for two." He puts down a six. "It's nowhere near as satisfying as the job I left."

"Of course you had a six." I move his pegs two places. "You left your job for Sophie?"

"Yes." He focuses on his remaining cards. "You know, she was fourteen when I found out about her. Her mother never told me she was pregnant. Never asked for support."

"That's…unusual, isn't it?"

"Apparently, she married someone else and convinced him Sophie was his. She divorced him when Sophie was five. I don't know why she didn't tell me then."

"That's not a casual oversight." I don't think I'd like Sophie's mother very much.

Lucas is oddly somber. "My friends said I should be glad I didn't get saddled with the time sink and expense of a child sooner, but to be honest, I feel cheated."

"I would too." We play the rest of the cards before I lay mine out and total the points. He does likewise, getting fewer than I did. He still has the crib to count.

"Did you want children?" I ask.

He taps his cards on the table while he thinks. "I never gave it a thought. But suddenly she existed. She has my nose and my jaw, which honestly, no girl should have a jaw like mine. It's so very punchable. On her…it's an invitation to disaster."

"How so?"

"She's gorgeous. All bones and shadows. Her eyes are exactly like mine, and do you know what she does?"

I don't, but I like the way the subject of his daughter looks on his face. There's wonder, and excitement, and pure love there.

"She wears contact lenses. Black ones, with vertical, reptilian pupils."

"Lord, why would she do that? It must be terrifying." Why would a pretty girl wear something scary like that? Maybe she's like a cactus—fierce and spiny for self-defense. "Did you know DaVinci invented the contact lens."

"Did he? I'll be damned." He counts up his points. "I wish you could see a before and after picture of her. Since she moved in with me, she's worn nothing but black. Half her wardrobe is held together by safety pins."

"Safety pins?"

"Oh yeah. And she's pale anyway, but she exaggerates it with light foundation. She lines her eyes with thick black eyeliner and wears black lipstick. But you know what? She's still cute as a button."

"Spoken like a father." It warms me to hear him talk, until I remember if he's telling the truth, he might never see her again.

"But am I speaking like a good father? I don't mind her rebellious nature. It's cosmetic and silly, and she'll probably change it up a hundred times before she goes off to college. If she does go."

"What's the question?" Does he want to know if a good father likes his child, warts and all?

"My father had apoplexy over the way she dresses. My mother refuses to be seen with her in public. They told her she won't be their granddaughter unless she straightens up and flies right ."

That would crush anyone's spirit. "What did you say to that?"

"What could I say?" He's puzzling over the crib, but I can tell his heart's not in it anymore. "I told them good-bye and good luck in every language I know. They can fuck off if appearances matter so much. For god's sake, she's a child."

"Bully for you, Dr. Hamilton." I consider what his declaration means. "You cut your parents off to protect your daughter. So why didn't you cut them off to protect yourself?"

He's somewhere else, I think. For just a moment, I believe he's visualizing his own relationship with his parents.

"That's different. I'm an adult." He moves the pegs a few places, and then he hands me the deck. "But yes. I hear what you're not saying."

"I'm glad." We continue to play a cutthroat game, at least until the whisky make us silly and we forget to move the pegs properly. At some point we realize we're not keeping score very well. It isn't clear if we've rounded the board more than once, and the way he counts his points, Fifteen for one, fifteen for two, three four five, six seven eight, and his nibs makes nine, like an auctioneer makes me laugh so hard I'm in danger of falling off my chair.

"His nibs?" I can't help asking.

He puts on his thinking face. "That's what they call the Jack of the suit, isn't it?"

"Yes, but when you say it, it sounds so stupid."

He nearly spits his drink. "Keep your negativity to yourself, Doctor."

I pour another drink for both of us. "No, I mean, do they still call it His Nibs in the twenty-first century? That's already an old-fashioned term."

"They still call it that." Will he say something about time travel? Will he try again to make his case?

Dr. Hamilton believes what he told me. He believes he's from a time far in the future. He's pretending he has everything under control at this moment, but it's an obvious lie. He misses his daughter. He worries about her. Those things feel true to me, whether they're the truth or not.

Crazy people believe their delusions.

I could explain the science to Dr. Delano—tell him what he believes goes against the laws of physics. I could tell him everything I know that contradicts what he believes, but if he's delusional, he'll still believe absolutely.

Hamilton is from the future, or he's mad.

I'm worried that I don't care much, one way or the other.

I like him more than I should. Because of him, I'm experiencing a brightness of hope for the first time in years. But hope is an ephemeral thing. I don't always know what I should hope for until it's too late.

Right this minute, I hope I'm not delusional too.