The Invention of Everything Else (31 page)

But then there was a scream and it was not Freddie, whose head had trailed off to one side on the pillow, a bit of drool escaping from her mouth. It was the child. "Your daughter," the doctor pronounced, again in a tone far too calm for any of this to be real. Walter held out his arms, and as he took charge of this tiny bundle her actual origins meant very little to him. She, he knew from the first moment, was his.

"My daughter?" he asked the doctor as if he, in his medical training, could determine paternity at a glance.

"Yes. Please take her, wrap her in this. Something's not right here." The doctor turned his attention back to Freddie, and Walter watched while blood thick as a boa constrictor flowed out of his wife. He stood and stared. The baby continued to scream and Walter held her, though he wasn't quite sure how.

"Walter."

Someone was speaking to him.

"Walter."

It was Freddie. Barely, but it was her.

"Let me," she said but did not finish her sentence.

He brought the baby over to her. "Freddie. Look. A baby girl." Freddie's skin was as empty as white glass in the light, green underneath it all. He leaned down, holding the baby close so that Freddie could see how its arms and legs moved on their own. How she'd made a person. He let her feel the heat coming off this baby. The doctor, or so it seemed to Walter, was arm-wrestling with this great snake of blood. He was covered. His hands barely recognizable as such.

"Walter, I need to tell her something. Help me."

"No," he said at first. He did not want to know the truth. He would make this baby girl his even if she wasn't. He didn't believe in punishment, Freddie's or his own. The child belonged to him.

"I'll build it," Freddie said. "Help."

"What? Help what?" he asked.

"Yes," Freddie said.

"Yes?" She wasn't making sense. And Walter understood what was happening. He lowered his head to her chest, the baby cradled there between them. "No, Freddie."

"I'll build it," she said, but the sentence dropped off. Freddie's blood continued to spill down around the bed casters, and Freddie, only twenty-six years old, a mother for a moment, floated away on the stream of that much blood, away from Walter and away from the newborn child he would soon name Louisa.

Azor had called last night. "She's ready," he said. "Arthur solved the problem. He's a mechanical genius. He knew about things I'd never even considered."

Walter measured this assessment before asking, "What was the problem? The altimaplasticator or whatever you called it?"

"Ah, no," Azor said. "Carburetor." He was speaking rather brusquely, officially, as if danger lurked somewhere nearby. "So if you want to go find Freddie, I'm ready. I guess. We can go tomorrow, though I don't much like it. I'm more of a future man than past. And Walter"—Azor breathed loudly once—"no matter what, you know, you won't be able to speak to her. I won't let you. There's too much risk involved. Louisa," he said.

"You don't have to remind me." Walter spat it and then changed the tone of his voice to something far lighter, as only an old, old friend is allowed to do. "I'll be there," he said, and then Walter had kept it secret from Louisa. He didn't want her to worry. He didn't want her to think that he'd tell Freddie about the future, warn her not to have a child. He'd never do that. He'd never give up Louisa to get Freddie back again. He just wanted to see her once more, follow her through one day, hear her voice asking some merchant if there was much sand in his spinach.

Plus he could already imagine what Louisa would say.

Plus he'd be back by suppertime.

The bus takes him to the village of Edgemere. It looks like rain, a storm coming across the water, so Walter walks the short way out to the airport quickly. Dried clumps of gray seaweed blow across the sandy road like tumbleweeds. Walter walks through one empty hangar, admiring the two or three planes that had not been moved to Linden Field in New Jersey when the Army closed down Rockaway Airport. He sees an old fire truck that looks like it might be more of a hindrance than a help if some unlucky aviator were to catch fire.

In the hangar Walter giggles. He feels as if it's his first date with Freddie all over again. Walter calls out, "Hello!"

Azor, looking serious, peeps his head out of the craft. "Hello."

Arthur leans back to see. "Hello, Mr. Dewell," he calls before bending his head back to the project at hand.

"Hello, Arthur!" Walter yells. He is very excited. "So what are you guys doing?" he asks.

"Just some last-minute fiddling with the rotation of the parenthesizing accelerator. Earlier today the eutron manifold was shorting out on each bypass orbit," Arthur says without looking away from the craft.

Walter gives a nod. It makes no sense to him, but he doesn't much care. He is lightheaded, ecstatic. "I don't know what the hell you two are talking about," he says.

Azor pauses. "Here's the thing. I had to call the parts something. No one has ever made these parts before. I just gave them fancy names because I happen to like fancy names. You can call them whatever you want. You can call them mustard seeds and corn on the cob if you like."

If Walter had a moment of doubt that this might be a fool's mission, it dissolves there and then. A man who has to forge his own tools, his own language, is a man who is going somewhere. Walter stands, his arms dangling at their sides, waiting for Arthur and Azor to finish.

Finally Azor steps back from the craft and gives it a quick slap. "That ought to do it, Arthur. Now we just need to get Walter outfitted." With little fanfare Azor produces an old leather aviator's cap and a pair of greasy goggles. "There you are. You're ready now."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Walter slowly adjusts the leather cap into place, fidgeting with the chin clasp. Arthur rushes to his side in order to help him tighten the strap. Walter feels like a young boy again, uncertain about his life, nervous to see Freddie. "Hey there, Arthur. Not a word about this to Lou, huh?"

Arthur says nothing but, without smiling, zips his fingers across his lips.

The aviator's cap makes what is happening seem real. Walter moves 210
slowly, pulling the goggles over his head. With his absurd costume now complete, he watches as a sparrow who had been resting on one of the hangar's high crossbars flies out through the doors into the winter air outside. The storm clouds are moving in.

"I want to say a few words on this momentous occasion." Azor, also wearing an aviator's cap and goggles, puffs out his chest, clasps his hands behind his hips, and stands before the craft. Arthur and Walter gather in front of him, striking thoughtful postures. Azor begins his oration there in the empty hangar. "Time," he says, looking not at Walter and Arthur but rather at some phantom audience filled with reporters and state dignitaries. "What is time?" Azor begins to pace. "I'll tell you." He stops. He eyeballs the invisible crowd, leaving them waiting for his words, wondering what the answer is. "The question itself is timeless."

Walter scratches the top of his head through the leather cap. Arthur, polishing some grease from his glasses, looks eager to learn the answer to Azor's question.

Azor continues. "Men and women, old and young." He freezes, smiling for the imagined cameras. "People throughout the centuries have asked, 'What the heck is time?'" And here Azor really draws back for dramatic effect. There is not a sound to be heard in the hangar except the ticking of the cold air outside on the corrugated metal walls. He extends the pause even longer, then turns quickly and says, "Well, I'll let you know just as soon as I get back tonight." Azor does a quick soft-shoe and the phantom crowd disappears as he turns to Walter. "OK. Come on. You ready?"

"That's it?"

"That's it." Azor pokes his head outside the hangar door. "Oh, no."

"What?" Walter asks.

"They're back again?" Arthur wants to know.

"I'm afraid so," Azor says. "Come on, Walt. We've got to hurry."

"What's going on?"

"Those guys from the Army," Azor says and points. There, far off, but making its slow approach down the runway, is an Army jeep.

"Hold on," Arthur says. "I'm not sure about the heat transformer. I wanted to check it one last time."

"It's fine, son. I looked last night."

"But I didn't look yet, and—"

"Don't worry. We've got to go. Now. Walt, come on." Azor has one
eye on the jeep as he makes his way over to the time machine and begins to push it down the ramp. Walter joins in the effort and all three men watch while the craft rolls down to the launch pad.

"Azor," Arthur says, but Azor pretends he doesn't hear. He follows the time machine outside.

Walter makes his way down the ramp, closer to the craft, though his nerves are getting the better of him. Each step he takes is smaller and smaller, baby-sized, in some attempt to prolong his time here in this moment. Outside, he feels the first drops of rain on his cheeks. He places one hand on the rail of the craft's small gangway and turns to look behind him. A second sparrow flies out through the door. Walter takes this as a good omen and climbs aboard, turning once to wave goodbye to Arthur.

Azor winks at Arthur. "You might want to hide out in those trees over there, Art" Azor points to a spot behind the hangar. "See you in just a moment, son." And with that Walter hears the door seal behind him.

Azor has sensibly installed some lap belts since the last time Walter was in the craft. Though the belts are nothing more than a few bits of braided twine that each rider must secure by tying the ends in a tight knot across his thighs, Walter takes the precaution of fastening his. The jeep is getting closer, so Azor moves quickly, takes his seat and starts to fiddle with the controls. Walter stares at the console. It is truly a wonder that Azor built such a ship.

"To the past?" Azor asks Walter.

And Walter nods. "OK. To the past."

The engines turn over without a hitch this time, and Walter can feel it: a powerful thing is happening. He grips the console's edge. "I'm terrified," he finally confesses to Azor.

"So am I," Azor says, but it doesn't stop him. He lowers a lever that engages thrusters of some sort. Spinning around, he adjusts an airflow knob behind him and sets a number of dials. Azor turns back to face the window just as the jeep stops in front of the hangar. Walter can see two young soldiers climbing out. They are approaching the craft and appear rather stunned. Azor bends his head, listening to the console for a moment. He flips two overhead switches to on, extends his pointer finger, and depresses a button labeled, simply,
GO
. Walter can feel it: the craft is airborne. Azor and Walter stare straight ahead, through their goggles, through the front window, in disbelief. Walter becomes giddy. They have left the ground. They are flying. The soldiers shield their eyes, looking up.

"What's happening?" Walter asks. The machine hovers just a few feet above the launch pad. He can see Arthur waving from his hideout in the trees. Walter asks again, "What's happening?" but Azor has his ear directed down to the console, listening for some sound that Walter does not hear. Quite suddenly Azor smiles. He lifts his head and takes the lever in hand again, then depresses it all the way.

And they are gone. Walter reaches forward, grabbing on to the panel just below the window with one hand. The speed makes his stomach swirl. He shuts his eyes and notices that he is breathing very quickly. Walter thinks of Freddie. "Look," she would say. "Open your eyes and look, Walter." And so he opens his eyes and the fear dissipates. He surrenders and turns to greet Azor. Both men smile ear to ear. They are rising high above Rockaway. There is much to see as this world, as this time in history, falls away from them. For one moment, despite the coming storm, all of New York City is visible from their vantage. The amusement parks at Coney Island, the entire island of Manhattan and the bridges leading there. And then past the city, out into the green of New Jersey and New York State. "It's so small" Walter says, but with the noise of the thrusters churning, Azor doesn't hear him. "Small and beautiful from here," Walter says, and in that smallness Walter feels certain that something great, something tremendous, can happen.

He smiles, though he maintains his tiger grip on the console. He is admiring the view, unspooling notions, thinking of Freddie, and from the flood of everything he plucks out one idea: the importance of this moment. A piece of lace, a spider's web. Walter is overwhelmed. It is all so beautiful. He tries to hold on, but the moment won't have it and, anyway, Walter realizes that it wasn't
that
moment, but
this
one here. The perfect alignment of thought shifts in one second to the perfect alignment of the next, a kaleidoscope dissolving from one impossibly beautiful arrangement of color into another. He understands each and every tiny spot of beauty Freddie ever pointed out to him. There it all is. Yesterday and tomorrow. There goes the ground. Walter smiles, acutely aware that they are exactly where they ought to be, even if that is somewhere between here and there. "Azor!" he screams so that his friend will hear him, and though Walter says nothing else, Azor, perhaps owing to the effects of the thinning atmosphere, smiles and seems to understand what Walter means perfectly.

"Yes! Yes! I know!"

Walter watches, unafraid, eager to meet each moment and shake its hand. His eyes are wide open, so that time, the lovely parade of it, can pass through him, and there, inside the time machine, Walter lets go his grip.

Dear Mr. Tesla

Have you Austrian & English patents on that destructive terror which you are inventing?—& if so, won't you set a price upon them & commission me to sell them? I know cabinet ministers of both countries—& of Germany, too; likewise William II. I shall be in Europe a year, yet. Here in the hotel the other night when some interested men were discussing means to persuade the nations to join with the Czar & disarm, I advised them to seek something more sure than disarmament by perishable paper-contract—invite the great inventors to contrive something against which fleets & armies would be helpless, & thus make war thenceforth impossible. I did not suspect that you were already attending to that, & getting ready to introduce into the earth permanent peace & disarmament in a practical & mandatory way. I know you are a very busy man, but will you steal time to drop me a line?

Sincerely Yours,
Mark Twain