November 23, 1981
James sticks two fingers up under his collar. He stretches his neck and loosens his tie a bit. Jesus, this is uncomfortable. Used to, when he put on a suit, he'd feel smooth and powerful, like he could talk a skeeter into bug spray. Now he feels like he's faking it. Faking what, he's not sure. Faking like he belongs here with all these fancy-pants opera lovers. He's undoubtedly the only person here without a high school degree. The 'patrons' (the polite word for 'snooty folks who like this kind of shit') all gotta be college grads at the very least. He's pretty sure even the catering staff walking around with glasses of champagne and trays of canapés (he heard someone call them that) are college kids.
"Enjoying yourself?" Doc B asks, and James hadn't even notice him sidle up. James doesn't get a chance to answer, before the older man starts laughing to himself. "Of course you aren't," he answers himself. "At least the booze is free, eh?" He lifts his champagne glass, and James raises his.
Doc B's been here at Michigan for decades, but hasn't lost his South Carolina lowlands lilt. His accent is smooth and cultured, but undoubtedly Southern. First time James ever had to work security for an event here in the music building, Doc B caught right on, asking where James was from, reminiscing about their shared Southern background, fried okra, "real" college football, soupy summer air, and syrupy sweet sweet tea. Doc B's got a PhD in music theory or some such, but he's all right. James takes shifts over here for most big events and even slips Doc B betting tips from time to time.
James sips his champagne. "Thanks again for the tickets, Doc."
Doc B used to beg James to call him Emil, but he's given it up. He laughs again. "No problem. I can see you're having a fabulous time."
"She's havin' a great time, and I guess is that's enough for me." She had tears in her eyes and goosebumps on her arms for some of Pavarotti's . . .er, songs? Arias? Whatever . . . during the first half? Or, you know, the part before intermission.
"I've not yet had the pleasure of meeting your wife," he says.
James indicates a clutch of folks in the center of the room, listening to some member of the Detroit Symphony wax eloquent about something.
"In the red?" Doc B asks, gesturing to a shorter youngish woman, pleasant-enough looking.
"Nah, the blonde in the black dress." James misses Doc B's ogling look because he's too busy ogling her himself. Goddamn, that's a pretty amazing dress, modest enough to be appropriate given the setting, but flattering, goddamn. And heels. James tilts his head to get a nice good look at her calves. Goddamn. Maybe if this fancy pants bullshit and uptight pinched nosed blah blah blah means she'll wear heels more often, maybe it's worth it.
"And how on God's green earth did you manage that?' Doc B asks.
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
Doc B raises and eyebrow, clearly expecting a humorous story of missed connections and unfortunate bad dates: "She was on a date with my best friend," "Just ran into each other in the break room," or some typical shit like that.
"Trust me," James emphasizes. "Beyond belief." At one point she held a gun to the woman I thought I loved. Ha ha, right, Doc B?
Doc B shrugs. It's not the first time he's butted up against a conversation block with James. There are things the younger man simply won't tell. Doc B chalks them up to a private nature. So, he simply notes, "All that, and an opera lover, too? You are quite lucky, young man, that I'm not thirty years younger."
James grins. He'll never completely lose the sin of pride.
An attractive older woman approaches. She's short, overly bejeweled, with that sleek older lady helmet hair that seems like it might crack off if you touch it wrong. She looks right past James to smile broadly at Doc B, and he smiles back, even bigger. James knows before Doc B says, "Jim, this is my wife, Edith."
James almost laughs. All that Doc B said about what he'd do if he were thirty years younger? All a big game - he's clearly enamored of the short, sparkly woman he's with now.
Before James can say anything, Edith reaches out to squeeze his arm, and say, "You're the young man Emil talks about so much. I'm so glad he's finally found someone he can talk Auburn-Alabama with."
"Speaking of, Jim, who you got this year?"
James fumbles for an answer. He and Jules drill all the time on the big games ("Super Bowls of the 90s, ready . . . go"), but random games in-season, fuck if he has a clue, and he don't wanna steer the old fella wrong. He doesn't get a chance to answer. Edith pulls a camera from a heavily beaded bag, and asks if he'll take a picture. She and Doc B stand together and smile. James clicks the shutter. They're cute. Doc B's a lucky guy. He takes another – in case someone had their eyes shut. Someday, someone'll invent a camera where you can peek at the back and see your pic . . . and Juliet plans to be out of Kodak before that happens.
Doc B murmurs thanks, rolls his eyes at his wife, and starts right back with, "So, Iron Bowl. Who ya got?"
"Gotta go with 'Bama," James asserts. Gotta go with figuring out a way to park my ass in front of the TV this coming Saturday. Thanksgiving's day after tomorrow. He'll spend all day Friday with the kids. That should earn him some couch potato time. He'll never ever ever tell her he coulda got tickets to the Pavarotti thing in Detroit on Saturday. He didn't want to miss the game.
Luckily Juliet's little clutch of fancy pants symphony chatterers breaks up, and she heads in his direction. He makes introductions, and Juliet thanks Doc B for the tickets. Edith whips out her camera again, asks for a shot with the two of them. They smile for the camera in their fancy clothes and Edith clucks "Lovely, lovely lovely," and maybe that picture turned out all right. The house lights start blinking. Time to go back in to listen to some more warbling in a foreign language. Fantastic.
Doc B claps him on the shoulder offering up, "Congratulations, son. You hadn't said anything." James nods, smiles. And, yeah, since they're not officially telling anyone yet, then why'd she wear that dress?
"He doesn't look at all like I imagined he would," Juliet says, braking at the light.
"Pavarotti? Looks like Dom DeLuise to me. Just like I knew he would." James rests his head on the seatback.
"Your friend, Dr. Beattie."
"What'd you expect him to look like?"
"I guess I pictured Doc Brown from Back to the Future."
"He's a musician, not a time travel guru."
"Well, too bad for us, then."
What's that supposed to mean? She wants to go back to the future? Their "right time?" Cause what is that? What about all that money? She thinkin' at all about that? Or what goin' back to the Island might mean for them? All of them? Jesus Fucking Christ, how did Claire manage cartin' that baby all over the damn place? And . . .
"Thank you again for tonight." She's on to something else. Maybe that was a joke, but what about what she said last week about wanting to be important? What was all that about?
She's turns to smile a dazzling smile at him. "Hey, keep your eyes on the road," he huffs. "And thanks for driving."
"Lucky you, traveling about with your personal designated driver."
He taps his temple with a forefinger. "Yep. 'Bout time you realize, I got a ulterior motive for everything. I mean, screw havin' another kid. I just want someone to drive my drunk ass around for the better part of a year." So two and a half glasses of champagne don't constitute drunk exactly, but even so.
"Nice."
"Speakin' of nice. I was thinkin'. When we get home, and you're, uh, payin' me back for how awesome tonight was, mind leavin' on the shoes?" Those heels? Fuckin' amazing.
"I didn't realize there was going to be payback."
"Again: ulterior motives, baby. Ulterior motives."
Juliet sees Claudia to the door, and James was meaning to ask her something about Miles. Like where the hell is he tonight? But . . . well payback (in heels) awaits, and if Jules wants to hustle Claudia out, then let her. There's somethin' about the kids goin' to bed, and Rachel wanting something, and blah blah blah, and maybe he is a crappy dad, 'cause who the fuck cares what in the world Rachel wanted, she's asleep now, ain't she, and pretty much all that matters anyway is Juliet's calves. In those shoes, good god, WHAT THE FUCK could they be talking about that is taking so damn long, and of course, he could turn on his ears and listen, but maybe not, the blood's pounding in them so hard. Why doesn't she wear shoes like that more often, annnnnnd . . . Claudia is, mercifully, gone.
They race up the steps, him tugging at his tie knot as he goes. By the time they get to the bedroom, all he's managed to do is loosen the knot so it hangs midway down his chest. That's OK, though, 'cause Juliet uses it to pull him toward her. Somehow she's kissing him, and holding his face, and loosening his tie all at once. This must be why he never wears ties. Takes too damn long to get undressed. She's still working at it, and just forgetabout it, he thinks, move on to the belt buckle, please. God, please. He's got a fistful of dress fabric clutched at her ass, and . . .
"Mama? . . .Mama?" from down the hall.
Juliet closes her eyes. "No, no, no," she murmurs, shaking her head. "Go back to sleep," she whispers, as if really really meaning it and saying it very quietly will make it come true.
For a moment, the only sound they can hear is their own panting. Sonofabitch, maybe it does work. Juliet takes the opportunity to finally slide his tie out of his collar. Then . . .
"Daddy?" It's from down the hall still, so it's not like they got caught, but still . . . she's gonna come waltzing in here any minute if someone doesn't go find out what the hell she wants.
"Hold that thought," he growls, letting go of the back of Juliet's dress, smoothing his hand across a perfect, perfect ass cheek as he goes, grumbling all the way.
He opens the door to his daughter's room. She's sitting up in bed, a sad look on her face, illuminated by her Holly Hobby nightlight. "Watcha want, babydoll?" he asks. Make it quick, hop to, hop to, got better things to get back to.
"Claudia said you'd give me a kiss before you went to bed."
"Well, I ain't gone to bed yet." (Not for lack of trying) "I'm here to give you a goodnight kiss now."
"Claudia said you'd do it first thing when you got home."
Thought she said I'd do it before bed. Pick one, kid. "Well, I got sidetracked."
"Whassat mean?"
"Got distracted doin' somethin' else."
She narrows her eyes suspiciously. "Doing what?"
"Uh," he stumbles for an appropriate lie.
"I'm your best girl, right? You said that."
Yeah, see, men say things like that to get women to do what they want. Probably told you that when I needed you to get your socks on or eat your broccoli or something. Better learn that lesson now, string bean. Or, well, no. No, fuck that. No. Don't you ever learn that lesson, princess. No. You are my best girl, and one day you're gonna be grown up, and you better damn well believe you deserve to be someone's best girl, and don't accept nothin' less.
"That's right. You are my best girl, and now I'm gonna give my best girl a big ole goodnight kiss."
She wiggles under her covers and beams at him. That's kinda worth it. He plants a big smacker on her forehead and one more on each cheek. She giggles. "You smell like Mama's perfume."
"That OK with you?" he asks.
She nods. "Mama smells nice and looks pretty when she dresses up fancy."
"Yep." Yep, yep, yep, dammit. And yet here I am.
"Will you stay with me a little bit?"
He sighs heavily, but does as requested. She's his best girl. She needs to know that. Besides, if she ain't all the way conked out yet, no point in going back to his own room.
It doesn't even take five minutes for her breathing to even out. He slowly eases himself from her bed, and tiptoes out the door. In the hall, he notices the door to Jimmy's room is cracked. Claudia must not remember they usually keep it completely shut. He opens the door a bit wider, just to poke his head in. Jimmy's lying on his tummy with his little butt in the air. He's sucking his thumb, and the hair stuck to his forehead is slightly sweaty. He's sleeping peacefully.
James doesn't worry so much anymore. Not like he used to. Worried that the rug iss gonna get pulled out from under them at any minute. What happens doesn't happen, or someone figures out they ain't who they say they are, or Dharma somehow comes knocking on the door. Shit, maybe it will happen. Maybe he should worry. But he don't. Fuckin-A, his life is on autopilot now. His kids are happy and healthy, they're busy filling up their nice white-picket-fence four bedroom place in the 'burbs, and that amazing bank statement that grows just a little bit each day.
Nope, ain't no sense wanderin' around worrying that the bottom's gonna drop out. That don't do no one no good, and the thing is, life's too good right now. Too good to mess it up by worrying about shit they can't control. What happened, happened, and they just gotta hang on for the ride to find out what that is.
He quietly shuts the door on his sleeping son's room, and struts back down the hall. Yeah. He's on a high. He opens the door, and finds Juliet, fully dressed, sprawled sideways across the bed, her face pressed into the pillows.
"Sonofabitch," he murmurs. So much for tonight.
He leaves the door to the bathroom open while he brushes his teeth and washes up. Maybe it'll wake her up. No luck. He approaches the bed, and she's breathing loudly, not quite snoring. He lifts her feet, scooting her over, so he'll at least have a place to sleep. He takes off her shoes, tossing them to the floor. The clomp of shoes on carpet rouses her.
"Thought you wanted me to leave them on," she mumbles from the depths of her pillow.
"Yeah, sorta wanted you to be awake, too."
She snuffles into the pillow, then half sits up, blinking into dim light. "I can rally," she offers in a voice clouded with sleep. The pillow's begun to leave a crease over her left cheek. She wipes her lips with the back of her left hand. She's wiping away drool, he realizes. Sexy.
He chuckles. "No thanks. " She's immediately facedown in the pillow again. "You gonna sleep in your dress?" he asks.
"Mrher isza lukwiz," he hears from the pillow.
Whatever. "Love you, too, babe." He pulls her to him. So this is a minor disappointment, but of late, he's getting much better at dealing with minor disappointments. Life's good. Tomorrow he has to go buy the turkey. Tomorrow Juliet has to fight with Miles about pies.
Now for some blah blah blah from me:
Doc B was supposed to play a larger role in the story, appearing in many of the Ann Arbor flashback chapters in one way or the other. I think he was going to give the kids music lessons or something. Then, he didn't. This chapter was kind of purposeless, but for some reason I still liked it, so put it up anyway. At some point, I had in mind this gimmick that any photograph that appeared in the story, you'd eventually see the time it was taken. So, FYI, the picture they took at the opera thing is the one Ben is looking at when he crashes James' 70th b-day party. I think if I kept it as part of the "real" story, I may have tried to do something different. Here I think it comes across as kind of shoehorned in (because it was). But, even so . . .
Also, the whole point of this series of events is that they spent so much time obsessing and worrying over how being time travelers could mess with their life, when in reality, the worst thing that ever happened to them was something that could happen to anyone, and it ended up blindsiding them for a little bit. I think that comes across more here than it did in the original, which may be why I still like this chapter as much as I do.
OK, bad news/good news:
First the bad news: All these chapters that I've just put up? They were all at least somewhat written. Some almost completely, some half-written, some just dialogue, some just outlines, but all had something written. The bad news is that there's not a single other word committed to "paper" for this story. Sorry.
Slightly better news: I know what happens next. Ha, so do you if you've read the first story. But, I mean, I have very concrete ideas in my mind about how it actually plays out and I just have to commit it to "paper." I'm actually somewhat motivated about it, so I can pretty much guarantee that it will happen . . . sooner or later.
Good news: I forgot completely about this chapter called "Baked Ziti" that I ended up being too lazy to put in to the original, but I think it is fun, and it is almost completely written (all the dialogue is, at least). So that will go up soon.