Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [122]
She was looking out the window. Usually, Dave’s grounds were alive with blue jays and squirrels. But none of the critters was in sight at the moment. “It’s lovely,” she said. Then: “So, what’s this about?”
“Son of a gun,” he said. “I went out to get it, and I forgot.” He suggested she relax for a minute “while I get something.” He hurried upstairs in search of an idea.
The wardrobe also functioned as a small museum. It held items brought home from their travels, objects of inestimable value, but only if you knew their origin. It had a sextant designed and built by Leonardo, a silver bracelet that had once belonged to Calpurnia, a signed folio of Jean Racine’s Andromaque, a pocket watch that Leo Tolstoy had carried while writing War and Peace. There were photos of Martin Luther and Albert Schweitzer and Pericles and Francesco Solimena. All more or less worthless.
He couldn’t bear to give Calpurnia’s bracelet to Helen without being able to tell her what it was. He decided instead on a gold medallion he’d bought from a merchant in Thebes during the fifth century, B.C. It carried a serpent’s likeness. An Apollonian priest had insisted it was a steal. At one time, he’d said, it had belonged to Aesculapius, the divine doctor, who had been so good he cured the dead. He’d backed up his statement by trying to buy it from Dave, offering six times what he’d paid for it.
He carried it downstairs and gave it to Helen, telling her that Shel had wanted him to be sure she got it in case anything happened to him. She glowed and turned it over and over, unable to get enough of it. “It’s exquisite,” she said. And the tears came again.
If that thing had possessed any curative powers, Dave could have used them at that moment.
RAIN filled the world. Gradually, a murky curtain descended on the windows, and the world beyond passed from view. “I think we’re going to get six inches before this is over,” he told her. The Weather Channel was saying two.
He put on some music. She stood by the curtains, enjoying a glass of Chablis. They’d started the fire, and it crackled and popped comfortably. David added Mozart and hoped the storm would continue.
A pair of headlights crept past, out on Carmichael Drive. “I feel sorry for anybody who has to get around in this,” she said.
“Stay here.”
She laughed. “That wasn’t a hint, Dave. Thanks, anyhow. But when it lets up, I have to get home.”
They talked inconsequentials. She had composed herself, and Dave wanted to believe it was his proximity. But he had no real chance. Even if Shel were safely in his grave, he was still the embodiment of too many memories. The decent thing to do would be to fade out of her life, just as Carmichael Drive, and the trees that lined it, were fading now.
She talked about a break in the weather so she could get home. But Dave’s luck held. The rain continued to pour down, and they stayed near the fire. Dave was alone at last with Helen Suchenko, but it was a painful few hours. Yet he would not have missed them.
The Weather Channel reported that the storm system stretched from New York as far south as Baltimore. Rain would continue through the night.
What had she said? “I feel sorry for anybody who has to get around in this.”
Dave was out in it. And on that night, shelter looked far away.
SHE talked about Shel. She’d shake her head as if remembering something, then dismiss it. She’d veer off onto some other subject, a movie, a nephew who was giving the family trouble, a medical advance that held hope for a breakthrough against this or that condition. There were a couple of patients she was worried about. (She did not name them, of course.) And she had to deal with a few hypochondriacs whose lives were centered on imaginary illnesses. She revealed that Katie had told her he was leaving teaching at the end of the semester. How did he plan to support himself? He said he was going to buy and sell art.
“I didn’t know you knew anything about that.”
“Ah, me proud beauty,” he said, drawing out the last syllable, “there’s a