Rewinder

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The creaking of floorboards wakes me.

I open my eyes to a sunlit room and the sound of birds. What’s missing is the press of Iffy’s body against mine.

From across the room I hear a faucet turn, followed by the spray of water. A few moments later, I can see steam building in the bathroom through the partially open doorway. I lay my head back against the pillow and stare at the ceiling.

How is she going to feel about me this morning? How is she going to feel about the man who, in now three days’ time, will help erase her world?

If I were her, how would I feel? What would I do?

In all honesty, it’s a wonder she hasn’t called the police and had me locked up, in hopes that would stop what’s coming. But of course she’s smarter than that. If I don’t make the change, the other Rewinders will, so she knows there’s nothing she can do.

The water cuts off, and soon Iffy exits the bathroom wrapped in a towel and running a toothbrush through her mouth. For the first time, I can see her tattoo is more than just birds flying over her clavicle. It extends down her side, the birds turning into a tiger’s tail that continues under the towel.

“Good,” she slurs through a mouth full of foam. “You’re up. Take a shower and get ready. We’ve got things to do.”

“What things?” I ask.

“No time for questions. Get moving.”

Thankful that she’s even talking to me, I make my way into the bathroom and do as she asks. When I finish, I find her already dressed, wearing blue jeans and a black top held up only by thin straps over her shoulders.

After I pull my clothes on, she picks up a small backpack and says, “All right. Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

She smiles then heads down the stairs without answering. I grab my satchel and follow.

In the kitchen, we find Marilyn sitting at a round table with a man I haven’t met yet. She wears a silky red robe and holds a steaming cup of coffee near her lips. In contrast, the man is dressed in a business suit, his hair perfectly combed.

“Look who’s up early,” Marilyn says. “Or is it you’ve not slept yet?” She looks at me, a coy smile on her face. “Hi, Denny. Nice to see you’re still here.”

“Good morning,” I say awkwardly.

“Is this one of the new guys?” Iffy asks, nodding at the man.

He extends a hand. “I’m Reece.”

“Iffy,” she says, shaking with him. “Attic dweller.”

“Nice to meet you. My partner, Stephen, probably won’t be up for a while. He’s a late sleeper.” He turns to me and holds out his hand. “Reece.”

“Denny.”

“You an attic dweller, too?”

“Just, um, visiting.”

Raising an eyebrow, he looks me up and down, then turns back to Iffy. “Not bad. You should have him visit more often.”

“Still to be determined,” she replies. “Marilyn, I’m wondering if we could borrow your car.”

“Sure. I’m not going anywhere today.”

“Actually, I was hoping to keep it for a few days. Need to go on a small trip.”

“Something wrong?”

Iffy shakes her head. “Just something I need to take care of.”

“Well, as long as I have it back by the weekend, I guess that would be okay.”

“Friday afternoon works,” Iffy says, not adding that Friday afternoon will never come.

With a nod, Marilyn says, “You know where the keys are.”

“Thanks.” Iffy grabs my hand. “Let’s go.”

“Have fun,” Marilyn calls after us.

“Nice meeting you,” Reece says.

This is my first time inside one of this world’s personal motor carriages. Iffy tells me it’s called a Prius and that it’s a hybrid, running on both electricity and oil-based fuel she calls gas. The word is an odd choice, as I soon learn the gas is liquid and not, well, gas. In my world, we call it petrol, which I’m pretty sure is the same thing.

“What are we doing?” I ask as we drive west on Hollywood Boulevard.

“Hold on. I need to concentrate.”

She studies the numerous vehicles around us. Given that it’s about seven in the morning, I assume the abundance of traffic is due to people heading to work. Iffy gives the wheel a sudden jerk and we enter the lane next to us, which seems to be traveling marginally faster than the one we were in.

“I hate rush hour,” she says.

Yet another term to add to my vocabulary list. “You were going to tell me what we’re doing.”

She checks the traffic once more before saying, “You’ve spent most of your time here sitting in a library. So I was thinking, if there are only three days of this left, then you should spend it actually experiencing my world. That way, somebody will remember it.”

The full weight of what she’s proposing falls onto my already overburdened shoulders. To be both the eraser of her world and the one who remembers it — dear God, how will I ever be able to handle that?

A part of me wants to tell her to let me out now, to scream, “Please, no! I don’t want to see any of it!” And grab my Chaser and jump back to the meeting point in 1702. But I already know too much about her world and there’s no going back from that. Anything more I learn won’t keep away the pain I’ll feel when it disappears. That torture is already guaranteed.

“Okay,” I say. “Show me.”

We stop at a place called Runyon Canyon and hike up a trail that was once a road. A lot of others are also doing this — some in groups, some alone, some with dogs, and some with baby carriages.

Iffy sets a fast pace but says little. After a particularly steep part, the road begins to level, but instead of continuing along it, she leads me onto a dirt path that takes us out on a bluff above the canyon. From here we can see the road as it winds back down the hillside. But that’s nothing compared to the view we have of the city.

Los Angeles spreads out as wide and far as I can see, stopping only in the far west where it meets the grayish-blue Pacific Ocean. I can see the buildings that make up downtown, and smaller clusters of similar structures spread across the city.

“Does New Cardiff look like this?” Iffy asks.

“I’ve never been in these hills before, but no, it’s not this large.”

“I’ve only been here since last summer but this is my home, Denny. This is where I live.”

We stand in silence and watch the city for nearly half an hour before Iffy touches my arm and says, “Remember it.”

“I will.” How can I not?

We drive from Runyon to the beach area she says is called Santa Monica, where we park on a large pier and walk out over the ocean. There’s an amusement park in the middle with rides and games, but all are closed until later in the day. We go out as far as we can and look back at the coast. From this vantage point, everything seems peaceful.

Around the edges of the pier, fishermen tend their lines. Most, though not all, have the darker skin and hair of those coming from the former Spanish possession in the Americas.

Iffy sees I’m looking at them. “Some come out every day. It’s how they feed their families.”

The same thing is true in my world. There might not be a state-sanctioned societal structure here, but there are certainly economic divides that serve some of the same functions.

We eat breakfast at a restaurant on the pier near the beach end, and then Iffy drives us down the coast a few miles before stopping again.

“We should really come here on a weekend afternoon when it’s packed with people,” she tells me as we get out, “but since there won’t be any more weekends, now will have to do.”

The day has grown warmer as noon approaches, and I have to squint to keep from being blinded by the sun.

“Welcome to the Venice Boardwalk,” she says when we reach the beach.

The wide, concrete walkway runs along the edge of the sand, paralleling the ocean several hundred feet away. On the opposite side are all sorts of stores. Several are already open, while many others have yet to unlock their doors.

“On weekends, you can’t walk without knocking into someone.”

I’m amused by a man and woman rolling by on shoes with wheels. Iffy tells me the footwear is called rollerblades. Scattered along the beachside, people set up stalls where they sell oils and candles and paintings and other things.

“What’s wrong?” Iffy asks when I stop in the middle of the walkway.

“Don’t you have decency laws here?”

“What are you talking about?”

Trying not to be obvious, I nod toward a man and woman walking in our direction. The only difference in what they’re wearing is the skimpy brassiere-like top the woman has on. The bright gold covering between their legs is barely big enough to hide anything.

Iffy snickers and says, “Don’t stare.”

I force myself to pull my gaze away.

“Thongs,” she says.

“What’s a thong?”

“Just wait.”

As soon as the couple passes our position, Iffy turns to watch them walk away, so I do, too. The cloth in the front is only connected to a string in the back traveling up the crack of their butts. Their cheeks are out for all to see.

“That’s legal?” I ask.

She shrugs. “In most states.”

Once we continue walking again, Iffy nods toward a woman sitting at a portable table, a deck of tarot cards spread in front of her. “Want your future told?”

“No, thanks,” I reply. I’m trying to forget the future for the moment.

“When it gets busier, street performers come out. Comedians, singers, contor—”

She stops mid-sentence and runs inside one of the stores. When I get there, she’s purchasing a T-shirt from the clerk. When they’re done with the transaction, Iffy shoves the shirt into my hands and says with barely controlled glee, “Put it on.”

I start to unfold it so I can get a better look, but she stops me.

“No, no. Just put it on.”

So I do. The shirt is dark gray, and when I look down at the front, I see a white cartoon dog wearing black glasses and a red bowtie.

“It’s perfect,” she says.

“Is it supposed to mean something?”

Her smile is a mile wide. “It’s Mr. Peabody!”

“Okay, and?”

“And it’s perfect.” She grabs my hand. “Let’s go.”

At one point, Iffy wants to rent rollerblades and show me how to use them, but this is one idea I veto. As we’re walking back to the car, we pass two men holding hands, heading in the other direction. I turn and watch them for a moment.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a gay guy before?” Iffy says.

“Gay?”

“Homosexual.”

The word represents a taboo subject in my world. “You mean they’re together?”

She shrugs. “Together for the moment, anyway.”

“And they’re allowed to walk around like that?”

“Not everywhere, but out here in L.A. it’s fine and it’s getting better elsewhere. The world’s becoming more accepting. Why? Does it bother you?”

“It’s not that it bothers me, it’s just, well, I’ve never even met a homosexual before. No one I know has, either.”

“I doubt that’s true, and besides, you met one earlier today. Reece? Back at the house?”

“He’s…a gay?”

“Just gay, not a gay. And yes.”

“So his partner”—I try to recall his name—“Stephen. He’s not a business partner.”

Iffy laughs. “No. His boyfriend.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“Who am I to tell someone who they can love?”

It’s a good question. I’ve just never been in a position to consider it before.

Iffy loops her arm through mine. “Don’t worry. You’d be fine with it if you were around it long enough.”

Our afternoon is spent driving through neighborhoods and business districts. She doesn’t tell me why, but I know she’s doing this to show me how people live. After the sun goes down, she parks along a deserted beach and we lie against the windshield of Marilyn’s vehicle, looking at the night sky.

“Satellite,” she says, pointing at a dot of light traveling steadily across the sky. “You have those, right?”

“Of course we do.”

She nods to herself. “Then you’ve put a man on the moon, right? We did it in ’69. What year did you do it?”

“Nineteen sixty-nine? You’re joking with me.”

“Not at all,” she says. “Neil Armstrong and Buzz…crap, I can’t remember his last name.” She thinks for a moment. “‘One small step for man, one…giant…leap for mankind.’ That’s what he said when he put his foot on the surface. When did you all do it?”

I suddenly feel like I’m in a competition, and I haven’t only lost but been humiliated. “We tried in ’98. There was an accident so we didn’t go again. I think the Russians gave it a shot a few years ago, but as far as I know they didn’t make it, either.”

“Huh. Okay. Weird.”

Not so weird, I’m coming to realize. More a product of the society I’m from. In a corrupt world, all hands need their payoff. Even the Upjohn Institute, which I at first thought was above this, is driven by greed (was driven/might or might not be driven again).

We take a room at a place named Motel 6. According to Iffy, we are in the city of Santa Ana in the county of Orange, which is a surprise to me. As far as I can tell, we have yet to leave Los Angeles.

“What do you think?” Iffy asks.

The room has two beds but we’re lying next to each other, neither of us wanting to be apart. “About what?”

“Everything we’ve seen today. Life.”

“Your world’s complex.”

“And yours isn’t?”

“It is. It’s just…different.”

“Is that good or bad?”

That’s the big question, isn’t it?

“It just is,” I tell her.

The quiet that follows lasts for some time, and I begin to suspect she has fallen asleep until she whispers, “I don’t want you to leave me.”

It takes all of my will not to say, “I don’t want to leave you.”

I hope she thinks my silence means I’ve drifted off.