William grady began hearing voices on a Friday evening in late September.
He was on his way home from work when he heard someone say, “Can you hear me?”
Grady ignored the voice. He figured it was coming from one of his fellow train car passengers. People say all kinds of crazy things on the tube.
“Hello? Can you hear me?” the voice asked again.
Grady eyed the people around him casually, barely turning his head, not wanting to make eye contact with whoever was talking.
“WILLIAM GRADY, CAN YOU HEAR ME?” the voice thundered.
Grady winced and covered his ears with his hands. He looked at the woman sitting next to him, expecting her to have her hands over her ears as well, but the woman was behaving as though she’d heard nothing.
The voice boomed again, louder than before.
Grady cried out and fell to the floor and was sure that his eardrums had ruptured. He checked his palms for blood; there was none.
“I can hear you just fine,” Grady said. “Please stop shouting.”
A mother and her child got up and moved seats. A plump bald man followed their lead. Grady had always wondered what it would be like to be the crazy person on the train — one of those people who don’t have to worry about rent or mortgages and are fond of talking to themselves.
“IS THIS ANY BETTER?”
“Please stop shouting,” Grady pleaded, holding his ears again. “My head is going to split open.”
A second voice said, “Turn it down.” It was quieter, farther away.
“I’m sorry,” said the original voice. “How’s this?”
“Much better.”
Grady looked around, but as far as he could tell, the owner of the voice was invisible.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Don’t worry about that,” the voice answered.
“I’ve had a stroke, haven’t I?”
“No, Mr. Grady. You are in excellent health as far as we know.”
“Then why am I hearing voices? And who is we?”
The last few people sitting near Grady changed seats upon hearing him say the word voices. He didn’t blame them. He knew the drill: you encounter a crazy person on the tube, you do your best to keep your distance. Grady had seen all kinds of strange behavior while riding the tube over the years, but there was one strange person in particular he had never forgotten:
A disheveled woman talking to herself rapidly, as though she were an auctioneer. She stank. There was debris in her hair. Grady and the rest of the commuters had given her a wide berth, but he couldn’t help but listen to her ramblings. The woman was saying something about a bumblebee that had the wings of a rooster — an insect with feathered wings. As the train pulled into the station the woman began growling like a dog. Grady and the rest of the commuters had left the woman behind. They left her and went to work and had meetings and drank coffee and ate their lunches without ever asking the woman if she was alright, if she needed help.
Grady had looked for her on the ride home.
He did not see her, that day or ever again.
The train-car lurched and slowed.
The voice in Grady’s head said, “I’ll explain what’s going on later.”
“Later?”
“Yes. Now when the train stops, proceed as usual.”
Grady did not respond.
“Is that clear?”
Grady whispered, “Yes,” as the feeling something was terribly wrong settled inside him.
The train stopped and the doors slid open. Grady stepped out onto the platform and headed for the stairs. The crowd swallowed him. He looked around to see if anyone was watching him. No one seemed to know he existed.
The voice said, “When you are streetside I need you to proceed directly to your ex-girlfriend Sheila’s apartment.”
“Sheila?”
“Yes. Her flat is only a few blocks from your current location, is that correct?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty close.”
People were looking again. The crowd around him thinned. He might as well have been talking about bumblebees and feathers.
“Why am I to go to Sheila’s? Did she put you up to this?”
“Proceed to Sheila’s flat,” the voice said quietly, like it was farther away than before. “I will give you further instruction once you arrive.”
Grady stepped out of the underground and ducked into an alley to get some privacy. “No,” he said, “I’m not going one step further until you explain what’s going on.”
“Proceed to Sheila’s apartment.”
“I will not. I need some answers.”
“This is your last warning. Proceed to the apartment.”
“I won’t, and I want to know —”
A low tone rang inside Grady’s head; with the sound came a feeling; it washed down to his hands and feet like cold water. He had to lean against a dumpster to keep from falling. His bones burned. His muscles contracted. His thoughts raced, scattered and wild. He tried to yell for help and out came a noise a startled walrus might make. The tone grew louder, loud enough to drown out the sounds of the world around him. Grady could not hear. He could not breathe. He was drowning on his feet, submerged in a pool of liquid electricity.
Then the sound was gone.
Grady gasped for air.
The voice said, “Unless you want that to happen again, you’ll do as we say.”
Grady vomited. He looked down at his trousers to see if he had wet himself and was surprised to find he hadn’t.
“What was that?” Grady panted. “What did you do to me?”
“That was a specific sound that makes every nerve ending in your body light up at the same time. I can do that again any time I want.”
“Please don’t.”
“Start walking,” the voice said quietly, barely audible.
Grady shambled out of the alley.
“What am I to do once I get to Sheila’s?” He waited for an answer. “Hello? Are you there?” He listened, but the voices were gone.
Grady wanted to do what he did every Friday evening: pop into Dooley’s — the little pub around the corner from his flat — and grab a few drinks. But he kept walking toward Sheila’s. He feared the tone — feared its return.
• • •
Twenty minutes later, Grady was standing across the street from his ex’s building. And there she was, Sheila walking on the sidewalk, their son Walter dawdling along beside her. They didn’t see him. They disappeared inside the building.
“I’m here,” Grady said. “What now?”
He waited.
He asked again.
And waited.
The insanity of his situation came crashing down. Grady never came to visit Walter unannounced, so Sheila would want an explanation. If he told her the truth about the voices … Grady imagined himself locked inside a padded room, nothing to do but bounce from wall to wall and wonder where it all went wrong.
His body acted on its own: he hurried down the sidewalk and ducked into the first pub he came across. He’d never needed a drink so badly in his entire life.
• • •
Three pints later, Grady was convinced he had imagined the whole thing. He wondered if he was starting to go crazy and hearing voices was the first symptom. His mother had gone looney in her later years. They say that kind of thing runs in families, so perhaps it had caught up to him. His depression had been getting worse for months, so maybe he had crossed some kind of threshold.
He said to himself, “I’ll head to the doctor on Monday and get everything sorted out.”
He finished his pint, paid his tab, and went to the loo.
He was standing at a urinal when the voice said, “Mr. Grady, can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Have you arrived at Sheila’s yet?”
“I have not.”
“Are you on your way?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not going to listen to the voices inside my head — I’m not crazy. And even if I am crazy, they have medication for that nowadays, and I intend to get a prescription.”
“You are not crazy, Mr. Grady. Where are you?”
“Please, if you’re going to be addressing me regularly, lose the Mister. Everyone just calls me Grady, always have.”
“Alright then, Grady, where are you?”
“At the pub.”
He was speaking loudly. He was a little drunk, and he didn’t care if people heard him talking to himself. He went to the sink and washed his hands.
“How many drinks have you had?”
“Two or three, whatta you care? Maybe I’ll have a few more.”
“You need to leave immediately. Proceed to —”
“Yeah, I get it, I know where you want me to go, but I’m not going, and that’s that.”
Grady walked out of the restroom with the intention of having one more before he left, just to show the voice who was boss. Then he was on the floor, writhing and making noises, riding an invisible electric chair again.
The tone was louder than it had been before.
It shook the deepest parts of him, rattled him to his core.
People appeared above him. They looked worried. Their mouths were moving. A lady with bleached blonde hair was holding a phone to her ear and staring down at him, her eyes bulging.
When the tone stopped, Grady found himself saying, “Okay,” over and over again. He fought to get his feet under him. One of the pub patrons said he needed to lie back down. Another said the word, “Seizure.” And apparently an ambulance was on the way.
Grady ignored the rabble of concerned drunks and stumbled outside. He turned his head and puked. He did not stop walking. The sun was setting. Many people were on the sidewalks, headed out for food and drinks; most gave Grady a wide berth.
“Please tell me what’s going on.”
“If you aren’t at Sheila’s in ten minutes, you will receive another correction.”
Grady picked up his pace.
It didn’t take him long to reach Sheila’s
“I’m here. What now?”
“Go upstairs and talk to your son,” the voice said.
The voice may as well have told him to jump the fence at Buckingham Palace and storm the Royal Chambers. He would have almost preferred it had.
“I can’t do that,” Grady said.
“Grady, it is very important you talk to your son.”
“Please, just leave me alone. I don’t care if you correct me again. I’m not doing anything else you tell me to do. For all I know, as soon as I’m inside Sheila’s flat you’ll ask me to stab them both to death with a steak knife.”
The second voice whispered something.
“We would never do anything like that,” the first voice said. “We are here to help you.”
“Thanks a lot. I feel so much better now. I always wanted to hear voices — you know, just go completely mad.”
“You’re not going mad. We suspect you are suffering from severe depression, but you are not crazy.”
“I’m not —” he started to say depressed, but that would’ve been a lie. “Respectfully, I disagree. I’ve lost my marbles and I need medication.”
“Please, Grady. I don’t want to give you another correction, but I will.”
Crazy or not, the last thing Grady wanted was another correction.
“I’ll do it, I’ll talk to my son, but you have to tell me what’s going on.” He was standing on the street corner, his hands on his hips, staring into the sky. “You say I’m not crazy, so make me believe it.”
There was muffled talking — voices at the end of a long hall.
The voice said, “We wanted to wait until after you had spoken to Walter, but since you insist, I’m going to tell you, but the explanation might be difficult for you to accept. Are you ready?”
“I’m listening.”
The voice said, “I’m speaking to you from the year 2068. That makes you the first person in history to receive direct communication from another time. You’ll be remembered with the likes of Columbus, Armstrong, and Magellan. Congratulations, William Grady, your name now belongs to the ages.”
Grady stood there, the words echoing inside his head. Something about it struck him as silly. He began to laugh. Not chuckle or snicker, but laugh. He bent over and held his belly and bellowed, tears running down his face.
“Twenty sixty-eight!” he balked, choking on his laughter. “I’ve gone totally bonkers!”
“You haven’t,” said the voice, “and I can prove it if you’d like.”
Grady laughed a little more. “Sure, go right ahead.”
“If you go upstairs and ask your son what his favorite memory of you is, he will tell you about the time you took him to the fair.”
Suddenly it wasn’t funny anymore. It felt personal. Grady started to ask the voice how it knew about that day at the fair then remembered the voice was him, was his own deranged mind; it knew what he knew. Still, what the voice had said intrigued him.
“That day at the fair was a disaster,” Grady said. “There’s no way Walter has fond memories of it.”
“Ask him yourself. You’ll see.”
Grady stood staring at Sheila’s building, debating.
“Fine.”
He sprang across the street and poked the buzzer.
Through the speaker, Sheila said, “Yes?”
“Sorry to just pop in, but I need to talk to Walter.”
“Grady? What are you doing here?”
“I’m uh — I’d really like to spend a minute with Walter, if that’s alright.”
A long pause.
“You didn’t even call. You could’ve at least called.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But if I could just talk to Walter for a moment, I’d owe you.”
Grady stood listening to static pour through the intercom. Sheila was up in her flat, silently deciding his fate.
“It’s not a good time. We’re about to have dinner. Maybe we can meet up tomorrow at the park.”
Grady couldn’t wait. He needed to know if the voice was right about the fair. Also, he wasn’t looking forward to being violated by the electric tone again.
“Tomorrow’s no good. It needs to be tonight. Right now.”
“Are you drunk?”
Maybe back at the pub, but not after receiving a correctment, and not after puking.
“I’m stone sober, I swear. Please, just give me a minute with Walter. I’m begging you.”
Sheila considered.
Grady waited for eons.
“Come on up but make it quick.”
The door buzzed and Grady darted inside the building. On his way up the stairs, he thought about that day at the fair with Walter, his only son. The whole day had been a disaster. It had been hot out, the ground wet and soggy from recent rain. The smell coming from the livestock pens had been stunningly pungent. Even so, the place was packed.
Grady remembered thinking that half the city must’ve driven out to the country to visit the little fair. He and Walter had waited twenty minutes in the sun to ride the spinning teacups — in hindsight, probably not a good idea right after lunch. Walter had spewed chunks the moment he stepped off the ride. His shoes and shirt were soiled. The children waiting in line had laughed, and Grady and Walter had gone home prematurely, their father/son day ruined.
Sheila must have been waiting by the door; she opened it before Grady could knock.
“Make it quick,” she said.
She stepped out of the doorway, and Grady went in. He stood writhing his hands and looking down the hallway toward Walter’s bedroom.
“Have you forgotten where your own son’s bedroom is?” Sheila asked.
“Course not,” Grady answered, then headed down the hall.
He took a deep breath and knocked on the door before pushing it open. Walter was sitting at his desk, his eyes fixed on a computer screen. Grady stood motionless in the doorway. The feeling that he was unwanted and uninvited was overwhelming.
“Your dad’s here, Walter,” Sheila called from the kitchen.
Walter glanced at Grady, then went back to his game. He had grown since the last time Grady had seen him. How long had it been? Five months? Six? More?
“You bring me something?” Walter asked.
“Uhm, not this time.” Grady faked a smile and ran his hands down the front of his shirt.
“What are you doing here?”
Oh, you know, just doing what the voices told me to do. Say Walter, did you know that some bumblebees have feathered wings? That’s right, just like roosters.
“Just wanted to pop in and see how you’re doing,” Grady said.
Walter made a dismissive noise. Walter wanted to play his game. Walter didn’t want anything to do with his sorry excuse for a father. Grady would never say it, but he didn’t really want Walter either. Grady had been at the right place at the right time and Walter had been an accident. Ever since Sheila had informed Grady she was pregnant, he had felt like an intruder, a nuisance, a deranged elderly relative who refused to die.
Knowing how to be a father had never come to him. Parents are supposed to love their children unconditionally, but that wasn’t the case with Grady. It had taken him a long time to learn to love his son. Did Walter know that? Probably. Wasn’t it obvious? Anyone with eyes could see that Grady had zero fatherly instincts.
Walter paused the game and said, “You dyin’ or somethin’?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
Walter was far more attuned to the world around him than Grady had been at ten years old. Sharp as a tack, as they say. One of the smartest in his class. A good egg. A good kid all around. He deserved a better father than Grady. Much better.
“I’ve got an odd question I’d like to ask you, Walter.”
“Go on then.”
“Have you got any fond memories when it comes to me and you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Really?”
“Well, yeah.”
“What’s your favorite one?”
“My favorite memory of me and you?”
“Uh-huh.”
Walter leaned back into his chair and thought about it. “Probably that time we went to the fair.”
Of all the moments that Grady had shared with his son, of all the pathetic attempts at bonding over the years, he would have never guessed the fair to be a fond memory, not in a thousand years.
But the voices had known.
“The fair?” Grady asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Sure. What’s the big deal about that?”
“It’s just — I’m sorry, but I don’t remember one thing going smoothly that entire day.”
“Yeah, but I had a great time anyways.”
“What was so great about it?”
Walter took a deep breath and let it out. “You remember when I puked?”
“Of course.”
“It’s just …”
“Just what?”
“I thought you’d be mad at me, that maybe you’d think me a sissy for puking, but you seemed so unbothered. You were so … cool about it. And we even stopped for ice cream on the way home. I felt like you really cared about me that day, like I was really your son, like I didn’t need to impress you or anything.”
Grady was speechless. He crossed the room and knelt down in front of his son.
“I know we don’t have the best relationship, but I care about you plenty, Walter. I’m sorry I’m not a better dad. I’m sorry for … Well, I’m just sorry.”
Walter stared, a blank expression on his face. For a moment Grady thought they might hug, but they didn’t. Grady wasn’t sure what to do next. He loved his son, but he didn’t know how to love him.
“Guess I’ll be going now,” Grady said, standing up. “I’ll let you get back to your game.”
He turned and headed for the door.
“You think we can go to the fair again sometime?” Walter asked.
Grady wasn’t sure if he had heard correctly.
“You say, go to the fair?”
“Uh-huh.”
Grady nodded. “Sure, we can do that. See you later then.”
He stepped backwards into the hall and pulled the door shut slowly, Walter still watching him. Sheila was waiting in the kitchen.
“Don’t start thinking you can show up here whenever you get drunk,” she said.
“I’m not drunk.”
“Please, I can smell it.” She crossed her arms. “What did you and Walter talk about?”
Bumblebees and roosters.
“You know, just father-son stuff.”
“That’s a load if I ever heard it. Walter needs a father, not some drunk showing up and making empty promises. I went through the same thing with my father and I won’t let it happen to my boy. You will not lead him on. Half in half out is worse than all the way out, so you can just go back to being absent. We both know that’s what you want anyways.”
Not knowing what else to say, Grady said, “I’m sorry.”
He went for the door and Sheila didn’t stop him.
Back on the street, Grady said, “You were right.” He waited for the voice. “Hello? Are you there?” Grady knocked on the side of his head as though it were a door. “This is Will Grady calling the year twenty sixty-eight.”
“Am I coming through?” the voice asked.
“Yes, crystal clear.”
“How’d it go with Walter?”
“Alright I suppose. You were right about the fair.”
“Now do you believe what I told you?”
Grady answered before he could think. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
“Good.”
Grady began walking down the sidewalk. He barely noticed the strange looks he received from the people he passed.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” the voice replied.
“Why me? I mean, why did you contact me, of all people? Am I important to the future? Or do I do something terrible? Will there be assassins sent to kill me?”
The voices laughed, one much louder than the other.
“Don’t worry, there’ll be no assassins,” said the voice.
“That’s good to know.” Grady realized something. “So if you’re just some bloke from the future, what’s your name?”
There was a long silence.
“Nate,” said the voice.
“That’s it? No last name?”
“We think it best to avoid telling you too much, as we aren’t fully aware of the repercussions this conversation could have on the future.”
All the movies Grady had ever seen featuring time travel flashed through his mind. Sometimes changing the past changed the future, sometimes it didn’t. In one film, a small change to the past could alter the future. In another, you couldn’t change the timeline if you tried. He thought of the story by Bradbury where the man steps on a butterfly and changes the entire course of history. Grady didn’t think such a thing could happen. Surely time wasn’t that delicate.
“Has anything changed in the future since we started talking?” Grady asked. “Is your Prime Minister still your Prime Minister?”
“Nothing has changed so far, though it might be impossible to tell if it does. As I said, you are the first test subject, and we don’t know how much our conversation will alter things, if at all.”
“So, is there anything you can tell me about the future?”
“What do you think?”
“No, probably not I’d say.” Grady rounded a corner and caught a whiff of food and his stomach rumbled. “Can’t you tell me one small thing? One little fact that might surprise me? Promise I won’t tell.”
“If I told you that England still hasn’t won another World Cup, would you believe me?”
Both of them laughed, then Grady asked, “Would it be alright if I grab a bite to eat? I’m starving.”
“No problem.”
Grady ducked into a nearby shop and ordered a ham and cheese bap and took his meal to a corner booth — as far away from the other customers as he could get.
“Are you still there?” he said, quietly.
Nothing for a moment.
“Can you hear me?” Nate asked, but his voice was muffled.
“Yes, but not very well.”
There was a grainy static sound inside his head, like someone was searching for the right frequency on a radio.
“Is that better?” Nate asked, clearer.
“Yes, much better. Why does it take you a minute to come back every time?”
“Each time we communicate we are both at slightly different points in time. We have to re-tune in order to get on the same wavelength again. Not to mention the potential micro-effects our conversation may be having on the timeline.”
Grady listened while he ate, trying to understand.
“How are we … I mean, what is allowing us to talk? Some kind of machine? Or …”
“Even if I could tell you, it wouldn’t be easy to understand. The process that is allowing this conversation to take place utilizes a great many technologies that haven’t been invented in your time yet.”
“I see.”
Grady ate. None of the other customers paid attention to him. What would happen if he told them? He imagined standing up and saying, “Attention everyone, I am the first man in history to communicate with the future. See this shirt I’m wearing? They’ll hang it in the British Museum one day.” He chuckled quietly and took another bite.
“You never did say why you contacted me, or how you knew about Walter and the fair.”
“I’m going to be honest with you, Grady. You were not selected at random. You were chosen for a reason.”
“Which is?”
“According to the current version of history, you die in roughly four hours.”
A knot appeared in Grady’s throat. He struggled to swallow the food he’d been chewing.
He choked out a single word: “How?”
“Suicide,” the voice answered.
The noise of the sandwich shop faded. Grady was seeing through a tunnel.
“How often do you think of suicide, Grady?”
“Pretty often. At least once a week. Sometimes more.”
There was no use in lying.
“How long have you been having those thoughts?”
“Wait, don’t I have a choice? Do I have to die?”
“Of course not. That’s why we contacted you. Our goal is to change your outcome. We don’t know what spurred it on, but according to what we know, you leave Dooley’s Pub a half hour past midnight and you are never seen alive again. They find your body Monday evening. Single gunshot to the head. No note.”
Grady pushed his plate away, no longer hungry.
His thoughts went to his grandad’s old pistol, which was unregistered, loaded, and hidden in his apartment closet.
“So I’m not important to the future? I’m just a guinea pig for some kind of government health program that saves people from offing themselves? Is that it? Retroactive suicide prevention?”
Grady waited, listening intently.
“Very close, but it’s a bit more complicated than that. Originally, yes, we received public funding for research and development with suicide prevention as one of our primary goals, but at the present we are a private venture.”
“Aren’t there a hundred other blokes you could save?
“A thousand. Hundreds of thousands.”
“Then why me?”
“In the future, your son Walter is a very wealthy man.”
“Walter? Really? Did he hit the lotto or something?”
Nate laughed then said, “No, not that kind of wealthy. Walter is the richest man on the planet.”
“Walter? The richest?”
“Yes, filthy rich as they say.”
“Exactly how rich?”
“I’ll put it this way: Walter was worth more than the next five wealthiest people in the world combined by the time he was forty.”
“Walter’s a billionaire?”
“Try trillionaire.”
The word rang out.
It started with a T.
“How’d he get so rich?” Grady muttered.
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“Did he invent — is Walter the reason the future can talk to the past?”
“Yes, but that’s not what made him rich. Truth be told, to build the machine that is making this conversation possible, your son exhausted most of his fortune, and by using it to contact you, he has broken federal law.”
“Talking to the past is a crime?”
“As of four months ago, yes. The government wasn’t worried until Walter actually built the machine, and when they learned what he meant to do with it, they passed laws. They fear it will change things for the worse in our time. Most of the world agrees. Everyone is worried that Walter will destroy our timeline by using his machine. There have been protests for months. As we speak, there are dozens of protesters outside the compound which houses the machine. The government cut our power off months ago, but Walter saw that coming; we make our own power, have for years. They’ll probably send in the Army Reserve when they find out we’ve made contact, but we should have a while longer to talk, a few hours at least.”
It was too much information for Grady to process. He was staring out into space, mouth hanging open. The shop owner had noticed Grady and was watching him.
Nate said, “I know how it sounds, but I assure you it’s true. If you still don’t believe me, I can tell you the final score of a football match that hasn’t started yet. You just can’t bet on it, of course.”
“No, I believe you.”
And Grady did. He could see it all in his mind: Walter, a successful inventor, the Bill Gates of the British Isles; a sprawling compound; crowds outside the gates holding up signs that said things like, “HELP THEM=KILL US!” and “YOU CAN’T SAVE THEM ALL!” and “THE PAST ISN’T WORTH THE FUTURE!”
Grady believed everything.
“We thought it might be too much for you to handle initially, but Walter is here and he wishes to speak with you, if you’re ready.”
Before Grady could respond, another voice said, “Dad, can you hear me?”
The voice was different than he expected, but Grady knew that it belonged to Walter at once. There was no mistaking it. A father always knows his son. It looked like Grady had more fatherly instincts than he thought.
“Sorry to put you through all that,” Walter said.
“No worries,” Grady breathed.
“And sorry about making you go to mom’s flat. We wanted to find out if I would receive any new memories after you talked to the past version of me.”
“Did you?”
“Not yet.”
The future remained silent for a few seconds.
“I don’t know where to start …” Walter mused. “I’ve rehearsed this conversation in my head for decades now, but I can’t seem to remember a word of what I planned to say.” He chuckled nervously. “I’ve moved heaven and earth to have this conversation, so to say I’ve missed you — well, that wouldn’t quite cover it. I forgot what your voice sounded like a long time ago, so just sitting here and listening to you talk has been wonderful.” Grady’s eyes burned. “Sorry about those corrections earlier. It was for your own good, you understand.” Walter paused. “Dad? Are you there?”
“Yes, Walter,” Grady choked. “I’m here.”
The weight of it was unbearable. To think of all that Walter had done just to speak to his father again … It was hard for Grady to believe that anyone would miss him so much if he were to die. Opting out was no longer an option. Suicide was off the table, now and forever.
“I’m sorry I ever thought about leaving you, Walter,” Grady said, wiping his eyes. “I’ve got good news: it worked. I’m not going anywhere, I promise. All your work has paid off. I’m proud of you, Walter, so proud.”
There was a hiss of static and a pop, like someone had unplugged an old tube TV while it was still on.
The shop owner appeared beside Grady and said, “Can’t have you talking to yourself, mate. Out you go.”
The shop owner pointed toward the door. Grady tried to stand but his legs wouldn’t work.
“Come on then,” said the shop owner.
He grabbed Grady under the arm and guided him toward the door. Grady tripped over the entryway and fell outside onto the sidewalk.
“Sorry about that, Walter. I just got tossed out of a restaurant for talking to myself.” Grady laughed at the absurdity of the situation. “Are you there?” Walter said nothing. “Can you hear me?”
Grady stood up and spun in a circle and held his head at different angles in an attempt to get a better signal. He vaguely noticed that people were watching him.
“Walter, am I coming through?”
He marched around in odd patterns and twisted his head and yelled for Walter over and over again. Two policemen appeared on either side of him.
“What’s the problem here?” one asked.
“No problem,” Grady said. “I’m just trying to …”
Trying to what?
Communicate with my son in the future?
Catch a feathered bumblebee?
“Nothing. I just got a little confused. I’m sorry.”
The officers eyed him suspiciously.
“Had a bit too much to drink?” the second officer asked.
“Yeah, guess I did. Got a bit carried away I suppose.”
“Can’t have you out here making a scene.”
“Of course not. I’ll go straight home.”
The officers watched him.
One said, “Well go on then,” and Grady took off in a fast trot.
As soon as he was out of earshot he resumed talking and trying to get something to go through. He tried the whole way home. He tried after he got home. He tried all night. But the voices were gone. Walter was gone.
Sometime around sunrise, Grady passed out while lying on his couch, still mumbling to himself.
• • •
Grady was standing in a field. Walter was riding some kind of spinning contraption. There were people all around, some eating cotton candy, some carrying oversized stuffed animals.
Walter was laughing. He was getting older, but he still loved going to the fair.
Two years had passed since the voices stopped. It had taken Grady months to accept that things had changed, that he wouldn’t be hearing from future-Walter again. Sometimes he considered telling present-Walter about that night but knew he never would; it was better to leave the future in the past. And it wouldn’t be fair for Walter to learn of the price he’d paid to save Grady.
Trillions of pounds.
Billions of lives.
An entire future stripped of existence.
Walter was blissfully oblivious, but Grady wasn’t; he could feel the debt hanging over him every moment of every day. But the guilt was beginning to fade and he couldn’t help but be proud of his son for doing what he had done. Whether anyone knew it or not, Grady was the world’s only trillion-dollar-father. It had become his life’s purpose to make sure that Walter got his money’s worth, but he often wondered how well he was doing …
The ride ended and Walter staggered over to Grady and looked up at him, a dazed expression on his face.
“Had your fill?” Grady asked.
“Yeah. I don’t think I can handle much more.” Walter rubbed his stomach with one hand.
Grady put his arm around his son and guided him toward the parking lot.
“Was it a good day?” Grady asked.
“No, it was a great day.”
Walter was getting bigger. Soon, he probably wouldn’t want to hang out with his father in public.
“Can I ask you a serious question?” Grady asked.
“Sure.”
“What would you trade for a day like this?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Would you trade the whole world?”
Walter thought about it for a moment. “I don’t know. Probably not. Might trade France, or maybe Ireland. But the whole world? Not for a trip to the fair with an old bloke like you.”
Grady couldn’t help but laugh as they climbed into his car.
As they drove away from the fair, he gazed into the rear-view mirror and watched all the laughing families and happy children grow smaller and smaller until each and every one of them finally disappeared.