John Wray - The Lost Time Accidents

“Walter?” you called again.

“Don’t worry about me, Ursula. I’m trying to—”

“I’m going to tell you something, Waldy, and I want you to listen to me closely. I love you with all my heart, and I want you to live a long and happy life.”

“I love you too, Ursula. And I want you to know, no matter how I might sometimes act, that I—”

The Kraut shook her head and pressed a finger to my lips. “Watch that woman closely,” she whispered. “Don’t trust her an inch.”

I pushed her hand away. “Please, Ursula—”

“Don’t trust her, Waldy. Do you hear me? She wishes you ill.”

Monday, 09:05 EST

I found Waldemar on the kitchen counter this morning, legs crossed underneath him, humming to himself with a mouth full of sprouts. The sound had invaded a dream I’d been having — my mother singing to me while she iced an enormous jet-black, bell-shaped birthday cake — and I’d awoken with a jerk, slowly gotten my bearings, then noticed that the humming hadn’t stopped. I followed it cautiously out to the kitchen. Any lingering sweetness I might still have felt was expunged by the sight of my great-uncle perched on that counter like an opossum, munching and smacking his lips, with a look of craven pleasure on his face. Here is a man, Mrs. Haven, who can make even vegetarianism seem unwholesome.

“There you are, Nefflein . I was hoping I’d wake you.”

“I was dreaming.” I rubbed my eyes, still abstracted with sleep. “I thought you were my mother.”

“I’m flattered by the comparison. Charming woman, Ursula.”

That gave me a turn. “How would you know?”

“From your history, of course. Such a diverting read! I liked the honeymoon chapter especially.” He wagged a finger at me. “But you haven’t made the changes that I asked for.”

“There’s a reason for that.”

“Yes?”

“Sonja Silbermann didn’t go home with you that night. That was a lie, Uncle, and an obvious one.”

He stopped chewing long enough to heave a measured sigh. “History belongs to the victors, Waldy, as the saying goes. You’re the historian in this family — not me. I won’t argue the point.” A hard laugh escaped him. “Just think if I were to write the story of my life! Do you imagine that the critics would be kind?”

“I don’t imagine they’d be kind at all.”

He shrugged his hunched shoulders. “You ought to know best.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Aren’t you my personal biographer?” He snuffled. “My Boswell? My number one fan?”

“I’m not your goddamn Boswell , you lunatic. I’d like nothing better than to erase you — every last trace of you, everything you’ve ever said, or done, or thought — out of existence.”

“I see!” he said, barely containing his mirth. “But if that’s the case, Nefflein , why am I still here?”

The violence I’d felt when I first discovered him — how many sleep cycles ago was it? — returned with a roar. I took a step toward him.

“Get down off that counter.”

“Time passes more swiftly at this elevation,” my great-uncle answered, stuffing a fistful of sprouts into his mouth. “The nearer to the surface of the earth one is, the lower the frequency of the light waves; and the lower the frequency of the light waves—”

“The longer it takes time to pass.”

“Well put, Waldy Junior! You sound like a Toula at last.”

“I’m a Tolliver,” I said. “Not the same thing at all.”

Waldemar shrugged again. Something he’d said had gotten under my skin, Mrs. Haven, though it took me a moment to see what it was.

“Time isn’t passing,” I told him. “Not here.”

“That’s your game, is it?” He let out a snuffle. “Not to worry! I won’t spoil your fun.”

I took another step forward. He was just out of reach.

“Get down from there, Uncle. Tell me where you’ve been since I last saw you.”

“That would take some telling. After all, ten years have passed since then.”

I saw now that he looked a decade older, perhaps even more: his straw-colored hair had gone gray at the temples, his hands were liver-spotted, and his face was blotched and scored with tiny rifts. The cause seemed to be more than mere aging — his body looked distorted in ways that the passage of time alone could not account for. My head began to spin.

“Are you saying I’ve been trapped here for a decade?”

“Time doesn’t pass for you!” he crowed, laughing openly now. “That was my understanding.”

I covered my ears and shut my eyes and wished him gone with all my strength of will. When I looked again he was right there on the counter.

“Enough of this childishness! We have work to do together, you and I. The future is knocking, Nefflein , whether you choose to notice it or not.”

“ We don’t have any future,” I gasped. “You’re diseased, Waldemar, and I’m well. Do you hear me? We’re not the same person.”

The smile left his face. “You’re repeating yourself.”

“Does that bother you, Uncle? I’ll say it again. We’re not the same.” To my own surprise I broke into a grin. “God, that feels good to say. Four simple little words. We’re not the same.”

He studied me a moment. “May I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“Who on earth suggested that we were?”

I brought my face close to his, unafraid and triumphant. Then I felt my mind go hot and blank.

“But it’s obvious,” I stammered. “Anyone could see — I mean, our family — your name—”

“I’m curious , that’s all,” he said, lowering his feet to the floor. “ I’ve certainly never implied that we were fellow travelers — far from it! — and you’ve gone to great pains to assure me our kinship means nothing. Your father and mother, to judge by your memoirs, kept my existence a secret; and those matzo-chewing aunts of yours — may Jehovah preserve them! — seem to have viewed you as a guinea pig for their sad little experiments, which most assuredly is not how they saw me. All of which raises the question”—here he smiled and draped an arm around me—“who was it, Waldy Junior, who planted the half-baked notion of our spiritual and moral equivalence in your antsy little brain?” He brought his body weightlessly against my own. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think it came from no one but yourself. You sense our connection with the sureness of instinct. You feel it in your muscles and your bones.”

“You’re here to drive me insane,” I said, hiding my face in my hands. “I understand that now.”

“There’s something else you’d like to ask. Why don’t you ask it?”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“I disagree, Nefflein . I think that you do.”

I steeled myself, expecting some new jeer — but his expression was solemn.

“Can you get me out of here?” I heard myself whisper.

“I thought you’d never ask!” he said. “I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Because I’m not the person who did this to you, Waldy.” He regarded me sadly. “I’m not the reason you’re here.”

“You’re lying. Who else could possibly have done this?”

He shook his head. “It’s no use. You’re not listening.”

“Go away,” I said, starting to weep.

I sank to the floor and pressed my forehead to my knees. I should have felt shame for breaking down in front of him — for allowing him to see me at my weakest — but I felt none at all. Why was that?

I heard him curse under his breath as he arranged himself beside me.

“I want to get out of this place,” I said.