I was standing in my front room conversing with a ghost—either that, or I had slipped through a time portal and somehow ended up in the Depression era.
Regardless, I was as perplexed as my fellow time traveller and had no explanation for what happened to us or how to deal with the situation.
Blythe had been lighthearted at first but now even she was beginning to get apprehensive about our predicament.
A cloud crossed over her features, as gloomy as the stormy weather outside. “Do you think we’re stuck here?”
The question reminded me of Mae and her complaints about always being stuck in the house while I pursued my writing.
But being stranded in the Thirties with a woman with movie star looks certainly gave new meaning to her remarks.
I stared back at her speechless. We sat opposite each other trying to come to terms with the mystery.
The whole bloody thing struck me as absurd. I began to laugh. I remembered some lines I memorized in school and muttered them aloud:
Time travels in diverse paces with diverse persons. I’ll tell you who time ambles withal, who time trots withal, who time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.
Her eyes grew huge. “I know those lines—they’re Shakespeare. I recall them too. And for whom does time stand still? She gazed deeply into my eyes, “For us, Dawes—for us.”
“Yeah, but for what purpose, Blythe?”
“I don’t know. Moods of weather create their own atmosphere. You know how rainy days are perfect for curling up before the fire with a book? Maybe they also provide the right conditions for other things too.”
“Like time travel?” I snorted.
“Who knows? Maybe.” She grew pensive for a moment. “Tell me, Dawes, are you comfortable in your time —I mean the era in which you live?”
I shrugged, “Not really. We live in a society of fast walkers – people didn’t walk as fast in the 1930’s and ironically, housewives spend about half as much time on housework – and have appliances and all kinds of free time and don’t know how to use it to justify their lives.”
“That’s so odd. I hate my time. I always envisioned a future where women would be liberated—free from roles and drudgery—able to travel anywhere on earth at a moment’s notice, free as birds.”
I sighed. “We do have free time, but what’s the point if there’s nothing to fill it with? Anyway, why do you think we ended up here—is this some kind of Limbo?”
She shook her head. “I have a friend who’s a writer. He’s a kind of mystic, I think. He’s got this theory based on ancient texts that we’re tied to certain moments and certain people.”
“That sounds plausible,” I mused.
“Just picture it, Dawes—there’s this golden cord trailing behind us, that tethers us to people. It permits a certain radius of freedom but becomes entangled in relationships. In troubling ones it becomes knotted, and in devastating circumstances, it becomes broken and the person floats freely away, drifting like an untethered kite for all eternity.”
“Don’t tell me that’s happened to us.”
Her eyes were moist.
“Is that what happened to you? I asked.
She didn’t answer for a long while. “No, that is not what happened to me. I was afraid it might happen to me, so I remained behind the shelter of these walls, safe from pain and suffering.”
It was then I realized what we had in common—we were both stuck and the house was our common point of refuge.