I could smell cigarettes as Grandma and I walked into the Midway. If you ever visit 1976, that's one of the first things you'll notice-- everybody smokes here, and the scent of tobacco is everywhere. At least it seems that way. The Midway was one of those rundown cinemas that still advertised itself as "air conditioned", and it would be gone by the mid 80s, but it was operating this Thursday in 1976. Grandma had dressed me "like a big boy" for the occasion, with some shorts to cover my diaper. Like half the kids in the theatre, I was wearing a shirt that had a picture of "The Fonz" and his catchphrase ("AAAAAYYY!"). Mr. Winkler was at his zenith this summer.
Grandma had brought me to a movie on advice of my pediatrician, believing that Mom's depression had carried over to me. As it was, Mom and I were both despairing over the fact that we were stuck in '76 for months to come. Dr. Lister's advice was for Grandma to "spoil" me, so here we were to see a movie starring Benji, the talented dog.
It was the 1st of July, and I had been here almost three weeks. By now, I was used to being a baby. I'd lost count of how many diapers I had worn, or bottles I'd been given. I had stopped caring about anything, since I couldn't return to my life in 2004. Everyone else here was very excited about the approach of the Fourth of July.
I had been too young to remember, but apparently "The Bicentennial" was something people had looked forward to for more than a year, sort of the way they would thrill at the approach of "The Millennium" as we neared the end of 1999. I didn't get excited about January 1, 2000, and July 4, 1976 would normally have given me no thrills. Today, however, it had a new meaning.
The lights dimmed, and there was the obligatory "coming attractions" clip. A hush fell as the song "Yankee Doodle Dandy" began to play. In this era, kids associted the tune with "Yankee Doodle went to town" instead of "Barney is a dinosaur". What came afterward here was no less corny. A solemn narrator spoke about George Washington, Ben Franklin, and other people whose pictures I used to carry in my billfold. I yawned most unpatriotically as the announcer intoned, "and now, 200 years after that great day...."
Suddenly, the scene shifted from colonial days to modern times, with fireworks and marching bands. "...It's your birthday, America!!" Mr. Solemn was now shouting, as if the amphetamines had kicked in, and the music switched to "Happy Birthday". I think those damn sisters who wrote the words were still alive in 1976, raking in their royalties. Anyway, the next image was of a small child blowing out a candle shaped like the number 200, then clapping her hands. That got my attention.
"Sunday, July the 4th, is the dawning of America's third century. Celebrate the accomplishments of the past, and the promise of a bright future..." At this point, the scene dissolved and the little girl was grown up, wearing a silver jumpsuit, and standing next to a calendar that told us that this is what 2000 would look like. Corny. "Your birthday! Our birthday! (pause) America's birthday!" The spot closed with lots of fireworks and waving flags.
Sitting on Grandma's lap, I clapped my hands and shouted "Burfday!" "Shhhh! We're in a movie theatre, Spencer!" she whispered. I was excited in spite of myself. I knew how we were going to return to 2004. I could hardly wait to tell Mom, and it was torture to wait through an entire Benji movie. Apparently, Grandma was no more excited than I, because when I woke up, we were home. "He fell asleep halfway through the picture show!" she told Grandpa.
I was awake now, and I ran over to where Mom was watching Dinah Shore, jabbering about our impending rescue. "What honey? Slow down!" she said, "I can't understand what you're saying."
"He thinks it's his birthday," said Grandma, "from something he saw at the movie. There was this commercial..."
"Movies have commercials?" Grandpa asked.
"It was about the Bicentennial, and they showed a birthday cake, and Spencer thinks that...well, he'll forget it soon," she said.
"Not this idea," said my mother. "Let me take him for a drive, and he'll settle down. Spencer, honey, let's get you ready to go back out." By now, I knew that "getting me ready" was a euphemism for being carried to the changing table. I started to speak to her and she whispered, "Wait. You'll have plenty of time to tell me at the playground."
When we got there, I explained what I had seen, and how we would use July 4th to activate the magic birthday candle. "You're getting your hopes up, and I don't want your feelings to be hurt if this doesn't work," she said. "Just because it's 'America's birthday' doesn't mean that any U.S. citizen can travel through time on the 4th of July. You understand that, don't you?"
"Uh-huh! But mommy, if it works, we can go home! And not have to wait till I turn two!" I was practically jumping up and down.
"All right then, Spencer. We'll have a birthday party for America on Sunday, complete with cake. But don't expect presents."
"Mom! I'm not a little.... okay, I guess I am little, but going home will be my present." I gave her a hug for the first time in years, and she was touched. "For that, I'll let you stay up until 9," she said.
Friday and Saturday passed quickly, and I was certain enough about going home that I had resolved to be the most well-behaved baby possible. By now, the embarassment had passed. What did it matter if people saw me in a diaper? In 1976, that was what I was supposed to wear. When I get home, I thought, this will be just a memory. Mom put me to bed that Saturday night, and it took longer than usual for me to fall asleep. "Spencer, you're as restless as a kid on Christmas Eve," she said, adding, "July 4th will be here soon enough. Okay? I'll wake you up. Tell you what, do you mind if I rock you? This will be the last time you get to be rocked to sleep by your mother." I climbed into her lap. She was right-- in 2004, I weighed 180 pounds. "Okay, Mommy," I said. I slept like a... well, you know.
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"Wake up, honey. It's the bicentennial!" she said. "You're going home."
"Just me?" I asked. She could tell that I seemed hurt.
"Spencer, I'm in no hurry to be 50 again. There's nothing for me in 2004, even though I was a lot wealthier the second time around. In 2004, you're in your 20s. And I'm in my 20s here..."
I understood. I had become close to Mom in the last few weeks, and I had wanted for us to make this trip together. "But you hate it here," I pointed out.
"Not as much as I hate to see you trapped here. Besides, I have to make sure things turn out the way they're supposed to. I can wait 28 years to talk to you about this."
"You'll still have to take care of a baby," I said.
"We'll see your trip from two different perspectives. You're going to find yourself instantly transformed into an adult and back in 2004. But I'll be here, watching my son transform from a grumpy midget into a real 14 month old baby. No offense, but you were a lot sweeter when you were this age."
"Mom, I was mean to you in 2004. I'll treat you better, I promise."
"We'll see. I guess it's time for you to make a birthday wish."
I sat in her lap as she lit the candle. It was just me and her in the kitchen. "I wis.. I can weturn to two fousan' four." I said. I turned to her. "I hope dis works."
"It will," she said. "Have a good trip."
"I love you, Mommy," I said, gave her a final kiss and blew out that candle. I knew it was working because I could feel the same near blackout experience that I remembered from a few weeks ago..."
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I was in the kitchen-- the same house, 28 years later-- and before me was a cup of coffee and sections of Sunday's paper. After three weeks as a baby, I felt like a giant, surrounded by small objects. The date on the paper was right-- July 4, 2004-- and the news was about Kerry and President Bush, instead of Carter and President Ford. I stroked my chin, smiling as I felt the rasp of my hand running over stubble. Just as I had when I had arrived in 1976, I had to see myself in the mirror. I bumped into the door, still getting used to being big again. This time, I didn't have to climb on anything. My reflection confirmed that I was back as a 29 year old man. Taking a whiz (just to be sure) was sufficient to apprise me that I hadn't lost the ability to hold urine, and that I was definitely a grown man, no further comment necessary.
I heard the front door open. Mom must have been waiting for 28 years to arrive at this house at this precise time. "M...." I began, then stopped. She hadn't aged! No, this was another woman, carrying two bags of groceries, and she had two small children behind her. "Well don't just stand there! The guests are going to be here in less than an hour!" she shouted.
I helped bring some more things in from the minivan parked outside, and on my way back, I picked up mail that was still in the box, including some junkmail directed to "Mike and Pam Wheeler" Mike Wheeler had been my Grandpa, but he had passed on in the late 80s, before Grandma.
"Pam?" I tested, trying to figure this out.
"What now?!" she replied, more as an irritation instead of an inquiry.
"Uh. Nothing."
"Start the grill at 11:00, because the guest will be here at noon," she commanded, "And it wouldn't kill you to shave." Something was wrong here. Nobody spoke to me that way.
"And I told you to keep that dog outside!" she said, as Mom's beagle, the only other witness to our time travelling, walked in. As I let the dog out, I felt the urge to flee, and I grabbed the car keys and headed to the minivan.
"Hey! Where are you going?" she demanded. "Mike, get back here!!" Now Michael was my middle name, but everyone called me Spencer, except for this "Pam".
"Where's Dad going?" I heard the little girl ask. This was getting worse with every event. I had never married, and I had no children. I drove directly to the junction of U.S. 136, the site of Transom Industrial. My heart sank. The place was gone! And where it should have been, there was a Wal-Mart supercenter and a bigger parking lot than the factory had ever needed. There had never been a Wal-Mart here in Roosevelt County. I had led the effort to keep them out. Quickly, I drove back to Mom's home, cursing her name all the way. No wonder she hadn't wanted to come back with me! She had screwed my life over this time around.
When I got there, Uncle Pete was getting out of his car. "Where is Mom?!" I demanded.
"Huh?" he asked, adding, "My mom? Or..."
"Your sister, Pete! Betty Transom! MY mom."
"Spencer, what's wrong?"
"Never mind what's wrong. Just tell me where that woman is. I swear, when I...."
"Are you okay?" he asked. "What made you start thinking about your mom all of a sudden. You know she's been..." He trailed off, and the way he spoke, I knew the worst had happened.
"What...what happened to my Mom, Pete?"
He looked away, sort of embarassed. "Something brought back all those bad memories, huh? Let's get you a beer and we'll talk."
"Pete..." I lowered my voice, "I know this is going to sound like I'm crazy..."
"It's okay. Let's go for a drive, talk, and if you're still upset, we'll go to a doctor. OK?"
I elected not to tell him that I had been a millionaire in a parallel universe. He was already debating whether I should be in a psych ward. So, for the next half hour, I sounded him out. When I mentioned trouble with "Pam", he sympathized and I learned the details about this stranger, my wife in this universe. Pete hardly ever saw the kids-- Kimberly, and Chase. Chase's first birthday had been in May, but Pam had been angry at the Wheeler family at the time.
We drove out to Brookhaven Cemetery, and there it was-- a granite headstone erected to Betty Wheeler Transom, who had died on August 27, 1981. She was only 27 when she died, and I had been six.
It had been an auto accident, a driver running a stop sign while she was on an errand. You can know enough about the future to avoid certain doomed airline flights, but knowledge can't protect you from being in the wrong place at the wrong time. After she died, Mom had no way to protect my future.
As my drivers' license confirmed, I was not Spencer M. Transom. I was Spencer M. Wheeler. Apparently, my grandparents had adopted me after Mom's death, and since Jimmy Transom's parental rights were terminated in the proceedings, I never inherited a dime from him. I gathered that I hadn't done much in this lifetime, since Pete was assuring me that if I could get a G.E.D., I could go beyond working at Wal-Mart. I couldn't believe it-- I was working in a department store, perhaps on the same spot where I should be controlling Transom Industrial. What a contrast to the life I had built. And I realized that I had never appreciated my mother's contributions to the success I had known. You don't know what you've got, till it's gone.
"I know it still hurts," said Pete, "and I still miss your Mom too. There were times I said that I should have died in a car wreck, not her." He had no idea, of course, that in my world, that was exactly how he had been killed. Even with Mom gone, though, he survived 1991 in this world. Mom had made it through 1981 twice, but got killed on her third go round. In that regard, it was my fault. Had I not been consumed with greed, she would not have repeated that year.
"Spencer, none of us could have stopped this from happening. You were just six." Perhaps it was guilt, but I inferred that Mom might have been killed on her way to do something for her six year old son. It was a moot point-- my actions as an adult had put her there. No matter how I tried to rationalize it away-- I hadn't forced her to stay behind, she might have gone back anyway, etc-- I couldn't
"You have to move on," said Pete, as we approached the house. "You can't go back an dchange what happened." Pam scowled as we pulled into the driveway. "Don't worry about what Pam says, okay?"
"You could have talked with the other guests," she said, "instead of running off with Pete. You ruined the 4th for all of us, I hope you know." What had I seen in this person? Of course, there as no "I" about it. The other Spencer Transom had married her, a guy who called himself Mike Wheeler , and who had no ambition or self-respect. In Pam, I saw what I had been-- a control freak, mean to everyone around me. "If you're done being lazy for the day," she said, "you can watch the kids." She drove away with the only set of wheels we had.
"What's Mom mad about?" the girl-- Kimberly?-- asked.
"Uh, she's angry about a lot of things. Why don't you go play?" I looked at the girl and her brother. They were not really "my" children. I had never wanted to be tied down to a family. I was married to my work, and female companionship was something I arranged on my own schedule, with my choice of ladies. The Spencer Transom of this world had taken a different road. The more I learned about him, the less I liked him.
"Daddy, Chase is crying," said the girl, interrupting my brooding. She assured me that Pam had fed them both, so that meant only a few other things. I guessed right. He needed changing.
He did kind of look like me. "If you were born last May, that makes you 14 months old," I said to him as we went into the nursery. "It wasn't that long ago that I was your age." I didn't hesitate in cleaning him up. I was probably one of the few parents who could remember what diaper rash felt like. "Take Chase into the other room," I told Kimberly, and went back to my brooding.
What was I going to do? Looking at the months mail showed that we had almost no savings and a huge Visa bill. I had a family that, realistically, stood in the way of a duplication of my former success. By the time these kids were grown, I would be in my 50s. Maybe THEY would be successful in this universe, but they had their lives ahead of them. I was washed up.
I searched through the drawers in the house, not certain of what I was looking for. A life insurance policy? A handgun? I found neither. Instead, there it was-- the red, white and blue candle. still here after all these years.
In that moment, I knew what I had to do.
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It wasn't a decision I made lightly. Who in their right mind would choose to change himself from a grown man into a little baby? But existence as a failed adult looked a lot worse than being a baby in the 1970s. I had little control over this life or that one. In 1976, however, I would at least have a future.
I looked at the clock-- quarter to nine. I needed to make my decision lightly. Once I become a baby, I thought, it's unlikely that I can undo the transformation. I walked into the nursery to consider the impact of this more carefully. There was Chase's crib. It had been repainted, but it was the same one I had slept in 28 years ago, only yesterday. I picked up one of the Luvs diapers. If I go back, I thought, it'll be more than a year before I can stop wearing these.
I heard the van pull into the driveway, and the sound of Pam bitching as she headed up the walk. No, I had to thwart my mother's demise, even if it meant growing up again. I owed my Mom that much. "Why aren't you watching the kids?!!" was the last thing I heard Pam yell. If I ever think about marriage again, I'll be more careful, I thought. I lit the candle and blew it out...
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From the next room was the sound of Walter Cronkite's voice, talking about "the tall ships in New York Harbor", whatever that had been.
I was in the nursery, the same place I had been in 2004 a moment ago, and standing next to the crib.
"There's my baby!" my mother said as she walked inot the room. She was alive.
"I've been looking for you," she continued, "I guess you were waiting for Mommy to put you to bed. Oh, how did you get ahold of this?" She noticed the candle in my hands and took it away. "You sure don't want to play with this." That sealed it. I wasn't going back anytime soon, and I was going to be a baby for awhile. I didn't mind. I was glad to have her alive again, and even if I had to stay here five more years, I wasn't going to lose her.
She laid me on the changing table, putting one diaper over the top of another. "There you go. If we double up, you might not wake up soaked," she said. I looked up at her as she laid me in the crib. Someday, I would let her know that I had returned. But not just yet.
"Spencer, I can't help but wonder what you'll be like in 2004," she said. Was she talking to the baby, or to the future? She looked at the candle in her hand. "But I guess we'll find out in 28 more years, huh?" I couldn't tell her that I was wondering the same thing.