Somewhere in Time (14 page)

She stirred then, glancing around as though emerging from a trance. "I must return to the hotel," she murmured, more to herself than to me, it seemed.

Her words were unexpected and my flare of minor confidence immediately began to wane. I fought away an instinct to retreat. "I'll walk you back," I said. Perhaps, along the way, I'd think of something.

She made no reply and we started toward the hotel. I felt sick with frustration. I had succeeded in my incredible quest; moved through time itself to be with her. Now we were together-together!-walking side by side and I was mute. It was beyond my understanding.

I twitched as she spoke; again I'd had no expectation of it. "May I know your name?" she asked. Her voice was more controlled now, though it still sounded thin.

"Richard," I said. I don't know why I didn't add my last name. Perhaps it seemed superfluous to me. I could only think of her as Elise. "Richard," I repeated, why I don't know.

Silence again. The moment seemed insane to me. I had been unable to envision what we'd say to each other when we met but I'd never have believed that we'd say nothing. I yearned to know her feelings but felt totally incapable of probing for them; or of conveying mine. "Are you staying at the hotel?" she asked. I hesitated, fumbling for an answer. Finally, I said, "Not yet. I just arrived."

Suddenly, the thought occurred to me that she'd been frightened of me all along and was trying to pretend otherwise; that she was only waiting for a chance to run from me when we were nearer the hotel.

I had to know. "Elise, are you afraid of me?" I asked. She glanced over sharply as though I'd read her mind, then looked ahead again. "No," she said. She didn't sound convincing though.

"Don't be," I told her. "I'm the last person in the world you need be afraid of."

More silent walking, my mind a pendulum between emotion and common sense. Emotionally, the matter was established. I had come through time to be with her and, now that I was, I mustn't lose her. Realistically, I knew I was an unknown factor to her. Still, why had she asked, "Is it you?" That baffled me.

"Where are you from?" she asked. "Los Angeles," I said. It was not a lie, of course, though, under the circumstances, hardly the entire truth either. I wanted to say more, wanted to convey to her the miracle of our coming together; but I didn't dare. How I reached her is a subject I must never broach to her.

We were almost to the slope now. In seconds, we'd be climbing to the sea walk, in minutes, reach the hotel. I could not continue walking dumbly by her side. I had to initiate something, start bringing us together. Yet how could I ask to see her that evening? Surely she faced rehearsal, then early retirement to bed.

Suddenly, without apparent cause-unless the dread of losing her interest had instantaneously magnified to one of losing her entirely-I became convinced that I was being taken back to 1971. I stopped in my tracks, fingers digging at her arm. The beach began to reel around me, darkness flooding at my eyes. "No," I muttered involuntarily. "Don't let me lose it."

I have no recollection of how long it lasted; it may have been seconds or minutes. The first memory I have is of her standing before me, staring at me. I knew she was afraid now. Something in her very posture made it clear. "Please don't be afraid," I pleaded.

The sound she made told me that I might as well have asked her not to breathe. "I'm sorry," I said. "I don't mean to frighten you."

"Are you all right?" she asked. I felt a rush of gratitude at the concern in her voice. I tried to smile, made a feeble sound intended to convey amusement at myself. "Yes," I answered. "Thank you. Maybe I can tell you later why-" I caught myself. I had to monitor my words more carefully.

"Are you able to continue now?" she asked, as though she hadn't noticed how my words had broken off.

I nodded. "Yes." I sounded calm enough, I think, even though it was incredible to me that we were talking. I had not yet adjusted to the basic awe of having her in front of me, hearing the sound of her voice, feeling her arm beneath my fingers.

I winced as I realized how my grip had clamped down on that arm. "Did I hurt you?" I asked.

"It's all right," she said.

A silent pause before we started toward the hotel once again.

"Have you been ill?" she asked.

I felt a stirring of bizarre amusement in myself. "No, just... tired by my journey," I said. I braced myself. "Elise?"

She made a faint, inquiring sound.

"May we have dinner together?"

She didn't answer and, immediately, my confidence was gone again.

"I don't know," she said finally.

An overwhelming sense of impropriety took hold of me as I realized, abruptly, that this was 1896. Total strangers did not accost unmarried women on the beach, hold their arm, and walk with them, uninvited, request their company for dinner. Such actions suited the time I'd left; they did not belong here.

As if reminding me that this was so, she asked, "May I know your last name, sir?" I winced at the formality of her words but answered similarly. "I'm sorry," I replied. "I should have told you. It's Collier."

"Collier," she said. She seemed to be attempting to derive some logic from the name. "And you know who I am?"

"Elise McKenna."

I felt her arm twitch slightly and wondered if she thought I had accosted her because she was a famous actress; that there was no mystery at all: I was some maddened swain, some cunning fortune hunter.

"It isn't that," I said as though she knew what I was thinking. "I didn't come to you because you're ... what you are."

She made no response and I felt anxiety begin to mount as I helped her up the slope to the sea walk. How could I ever have thought that reaching her would give me peace? She may not have run or cried for help but her acceptance of me was precarious at best.

"I know this all seems-inexplicable," I said, hoping that it didn't seem, in fact, obvious and suspect. "But there is a reason and it's not ulterior." Why did I continue to pursue that line of thought? That approach could only increase her suspicions of me.

We were on the curving promenade now. I felt my heartbeat becoming more strained. In moments we would be inside. She might leave me, rush into her room and lock the door, ending everything. And there was nothing I could do about it. To ask her again about dinner felt wrong to me. I didn't know what more to say on any subject.

Now we were ascending the steep porch steps. My legs felt leaden, and when I opened the door for her, it seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. Then we were inside, stopping simultaneously. Either that or I stopped, causing her to do so; I simply don't remember. All I can recall is that for the first time, I was gazing, in full light, at the face of Elise McKenna.

Her photographs lied. She's lovelier, by far, than any of them indicated. Itemizing details cannot possibly convey the magic of their combination. Let it be noted, however, that her eyes are grayish green, her cheekbones high and delicately structured, her nose formed perfectly, her full lips red without the need of makeup, her skin the shade of sunlit, pale pink roses, her hair fawn-colored, glossy, and luxuriant; pinned up at that moment as she looked at me with an expression of such open curiosity that I almost told her, then and there, I loved her.

I believe that, during those seconds, in that soundless corridor, we gazed at each other across a gap of seventy-five years. People from different times display a different look, I think; a look that is indigenous to their period. I believe she saw that in my face as I saw it in hers. It is intangible, of course, and cannot be reduced to particulars. I wish I could describe it more precisely but I can't. All I know is that I feel she sensed 1971 in my presence as I sensed 1896 in hers.

I was uncertain, however, as to whether this explained why she kept staring at me with a candor the like of which I felt a woman of her time and station would not, normally, display. I do not exaggerate. She looked at me as though unable to withdraw her gaze-and, of course, I looked at her the same way. Literally, we stared into each other's eyes for what must have been more than a minute, caught up in a mutual absorption. I wanted to take her in my arms and kiss her, hold her tightly tell her that I loved her. I remained immobile, stilled. Perhaps it was that gap of time between us, perhaps a more simply explained emotional barrier. Whatever it was, nothing existed in the world but Elise McKenna and I, motionless, gazing at each other.

Again, she spoke first. "Richard," she said, and I had the feeling that she was not so much speaking my name as testing my identity to see if it was palatable to her mind.

In light of what had gone before, it struck me as odd that, suddenly, her eyes averted and color flared in her cheeks. Only later did I realize that her curiosity had been naturally dissipated by demands of remembered etiquette. "I must go," she said.

She actually started away from me. I felt my heartbeat stagger. "No," I said. She turned back quickly, looking almost frightened. "No. Please." My voice was trembling. "Please don't leave me. I have to be with you."

Once more that look of open, vulnerable candor. She was trying hard, so hard, to understand.

"Please. Have dinner with me," I said.

Her lips stirred but she made no sound. "I have to change," she murmured then.

"Can't I-mayn't I-?" I broke off. Proper grammar rattling me at such a moment? It was insane; I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. "Elise please ... let me wait for you. Don't you have a-parlor or something?" I was begging now. "Elise?"

She made a sound which, if I interpreted it correctly, said to me, "Why do I keep talking to you? Why don't I scream and run?" All within that brief sound: incredulity and self-despair that she was giving credence to the babbling of a lunatic.

"I know I'm being difficult," I said. "I know how strangely I'm behaving, know how I disturbed you on the beach. Why you've been so kind to me, I don't know. Why you didn't just throw sand in my eyes and make a run for it, I-"

My voice died. The beauty of her face, when she was solemn, was enough to make me cry. When she smiled, the radiance it gave her face seemed to make my heart stop. I looked at her with, I am certain, abject adoration. Her smile was so exquisite, so gentle in its understanding and bemusement.

"Please," I managed to continue then. "I promise I'll behave. I'll sit quietly in a chair and-" I fell silent as I tried to think of something to complete the sentence. Only two words came. They were absurd and I said them anyway: "-be good."

Her expression altered. I sensed an empathy in her. What form that empathy was taking I could not perceive; it may have been no more than pity for a suffering fellow creature. I only know that in that instant she responded to my pleas. The look was gone as quickly as it came but I knew I'd reached her, for the moment anyway. She sighed as I had on the beach, a sigh of sad defeat. "All right," she said.

Gratefully, afraid to speak for fear she'd change her mind, I walked beside her down the corridor, then over to the entrance of the public sitting room that opened on the bedrooms. I tightened as it struck me that perhaps she'd thought I meant this room. The tightness eased as we crossed the room without her saying anything and stopped before her door. I waited as she searched her purse for the skeleton key, removed it finally, and pushed it into the keyhole.

My eyes were on the key. When she didn't turn it, I looked up to find her gazing at me. How can I appraise that look? Perhaps she was attempting to detach herself from everything that had taken place. After all, what was I but a strange male seeking access to her room? At any rate, I believe that she was thinking this and I said, unprompted, "I'll just sit and wait, I promise you."

She sighed again, despairingly. "This is-" She did not complete the thought but turned the key and opened the door. I could guess what she had been on the verge of saying: This is madness. That it was; far more than she knew.

The room was dimly illuminated as we entered; I stood aside as she closed the door. The fireplace was unlit, I noticed, and I heard the hiss of steam from a radiator I couldn't see. I glanced at a white marble statue on the mantel, that of a nymph holding a cornucopia overflowing with flowers. Beyond that, my impression of the room was general; thick carpeting, white furniture, a gold-framed mirror on the wall, a writing table near the window.

All of it inconsequential background for her graceful figure as she crossed the room, unbuttoning her coat. "You can wait in here," she said, her tone that of a woman who had accepted the folly of her actions but was not exactly overjoyed about them.

"Elise," I said.

As she turned, I saw with a start that, beneath the coat, she wore the blouse I'd seen in her photograph in Well-known Actors and Actresses, white with a dark tie fastened by a band around the bottom edge of its high collar. The coat as well, I realized then, was the same-black, double-breasted with wide lapels, reaching to the floor.

"What is it, Mr. Collier?" she asked.

I'm sure I winced. "Please don't call me that," I asked. I sensed that she had done it as a form of defense against my being in the room with her, a method of erecting a barrier of politesse between us. It intimidated me nonetheless.

"What shall I call you then?" she asked.

"Richard," I answered. "And I-" I drew in sudden breath. "I may call you Elise, mayn't I? I just can't call you Miss McKenna. I can't."

She studied me in silence. Was suspicion returning? I wondered. It would not have surprised me. Any application of her reason to this moment had to result in suspicion.

Still, her expression was kinder than that. "I don't know what to say," she told me.

"I understand."

A pained smile drifted fleetingly across her lips. "Do you?" she said, and turned away almost gratefully, I felt. I was sure she'd be relieved to be alone a while, to review this enigma in peace and quiet.

She glanced across her shoulder as she neared the door to the adjoining room; did she think I was stalking her? I saw a wisp of auburn hair trailing down the back of her neck and, suddenly, I felt a burst of love for her. One of my fears had been groundless at any rate. Being in her presence had not reduced, in any way, my feeling for her. I possessed it more strongly than ever.