Disclaimers: See Part 1
Chapter Four
Yalia signed her name to Helen's birthday card. The card, store-bought, showed a balloon on the front. The pre-printed inside message read: To my lovely wife, happy birthday!
Helen had left almost two hours ago, called away by her father. Odd old rich man, that Josiah Franklin, but at least he had given Yalia the opportunity to run to the store and get a card. Helen would be gone a while. After the shooting and after Yalia quit the police force, she and Helen moved to Front Royal. The town was an hour and twenty minutes from D.C., and that was when traffic was good. Today was Saturday, but D.C. traffic was nearly always bad.
To my lovely wife, happy birthday! Yalia mentally adjusted the message so it would read: To my lovely soon-to-be ex-wife, happy birthday!
Yalia replayed Helen's anguish from the night before. The fear, the apprehension in Helen's green eyes. The wavering in her voice. The dread in Yalia's own soul. Helen had had enough, and there was no way Yalia could explain, no way she could make Helen understand.
Because they were over. No two ways about it. The end had come like a turtle, slow, but steady and purposeful. The end had become blacker, more fearsome, more sure with each day that passed after the shooting. Yalia did not blame Helen for clocking out of their marriage. Yalia had broken a huge promise, broken Helen's heart. And Yalia pretended she did not want sex anymore, that she did not feel the need to cuddle, to be with Helen anymore. To be with anyone anymore. Nothing was wrong with that, Yalia had told herself many times. Helen would adapt. She would adjust. She would grow to feel the same. They did not need human children. The dogs were enough. Hell, they could throw in a couple of cats, a couple of bunnies, for variety. Yalia wanted Helen to shut up about counselors, about therapy, about doctors, about date nights. Date nights: did Helen think Yalia was a prostitute? That if Yalia was replete with good food and drink, she'd spread her legs? Expose her dry, withered pussy? Magically forget she had killed a child?
Yalia bit her lip. Withered pussy was not exactly true. The past year or so, she had tried to masturbate. And she had come a few times. Maybe more than a few. Every time, really. Sometimes the shooting flashed in her mind, but more often than not, she was safe from memories while she jilled off. However, the masturbation was not borne of sexual desire, per se, but more of a desire to escape. To become something, and someone else, for a few minutes. Before the shooting, Helen and Yalia always slept naked. After the shooting, Yalia started sleeping clothed. After a while, Helen followed her lead. Many nights, Yalia had wanted to reach out and touch Helen. To kiss her. To sneak her hands into Helen's underwear, or guide Helen's hands to Yalia's breasts.
Yalia had been unable to. Simply unable to. And now we're over. We're done. Fork's stuck in us. Yalia imagined a solid, substantial fork: silver, perhaps six feet long. No, she would make the fork gold. Stop, Yalia. Stop what you're doing. Yalia hurt all over. Last night, after Helen's words, Yalia had felt like a weight was smacking her into a pancake. It was an awakening of sorts, screaming: "You're screwing up your life. The best person, the best woman, you will ever know is going to leave you. The love of your life is leaving you, and why in fuck are you letting it happen?"
Louis popped into Yalia's mind. Tell Helen you love her, Louis said. Tell her you want to have children with her. Because you do. You know you do.
Yalia blinked three times. Go away, Louis. Mercifully, he did. Many times, he did not. A few times, he told Yalia what he was up to in heaven. Of course, that was not Louis really, just Yalia's imaginings, Yalia being haunted.
Yalia hated what the shooting had done to her. She and her partner, Curt, had responded to a domestic violence call. A stepfather, a paranoid delusional, sat on a kitchen chair. In his lap was his six-year-old stepson, whom the father was calling Satan. At the six-year-old's temple was a gun. Held by dear old Daddy.
The boy's mother, a few paces from her husband and son, cried and pleaded, to no avail. Her face was bruised, and she refused police orders to leave the house. It happened like this , Yalia thought, as if she had not been there. The man swiveled the gun onto his wife, like the crack of a whip. Curt fired, hitting the man. Yalia fired a nanosecond later, nanosecond enough for the man to twist his six-year-old Satan stepson into the line of fire.
A shooting, a dead child. Was it any wonder Yalia did not want children anymore? Why was Helen sticking around, for Christ's sake? Helen needed to find someone more deserving of her than Yalia was. Helen, she was special. Very. She would be a wonderful mother.
"Woof! Woof! Woof!" Luigi, probably at the mail truck.
I love Helen. I do. And she's leaving me. Was she, Yalia Rose Yamaoto, going to let her wife leave without a fight? She could have children. She knew she could. She wanted to. Perhaps the time had come to stop punishing herself.
Yalia studied the card. Damn that card-balloon. This was the best she could do? She grabbed a piece of red construction paper. She would make her wife's card herself.
*****
Yalia finished the birthday card for Helen fifteen minutes later, but it did not feel complete. Yalia rummaged through her art scraps bag and found glitter. That will do. She added the glitter and let the dogs out. A light snow was falling, reminding Yalia of the glitter on the card.
Yalia loved watching the dogs. Could watch them all day. They were her best escape from reality. The four dogs had developed their little gang. Their little way of relating to one another. They went everywhere together. Slept together. They were all mutts but looked nothing alike. Mario, the eldest dog at nine years (chronologically, not in dog years) seemed to be mostly Labrador retriever but with some Dalmatian. Toad, eight years old, was ugly. No way around it. He was tiny, mostly hairless and was missing a few teeth. Yalia had gotten Toad last year from the SPCA. She had seen in his ugliness what she felt deep in her own soul. Toad was sweet, though. Extremely. Helen had said nothing about the new dog except to ask his name. She flinched, yes, because dang, Toad was ugly, but Helen said nothing.
Luigi was seven years old and had the best brown eyes Yalia had seen. Bowser, the sweetheart and the baby at five years old, was fat and cuddly.
Yalia loved them all. She would die for them. They were better therapy than the chirpy happy Bo Peep the police had made her see after Louis's death.
She checked the time on her cell. When would Helen be back? Why had her father summoned her, and so urgently? Josiah never had made a big deal of birthdays. Do I have time to run back out and get maybe a cake, ice cream? A present, not just a card?
Helen would like that. Would really like it. But it might send a signal Yalia was not sure she wanted to send. She did love Helen, and so maybe she should let Helen go. She should not fight for her wife. She had put Helen through enough.
Yalia realized something. She did not know Louis's birthday. Odd, wasn't it? She had shot him. She had ended his life. And she did not know his birthday. Google would probably tell her, so Yalia pulled up the search engine on her phone. She typed: Louis Louis Gambalta hostage killed by D.C. police birthday when?
Yalia had to click on a few links, but she had her answer at last: July 2.
*****
Helen found Josiah in his office. "What the hell? You invented a time machine and snatched Anne Boleyn?"
Josiah ran a hand through the remnants of his hair. "Essentially, yes. Aren't you happy?"
Helen let out a shriek. "Why would I be?"
"Anne Boleyn. Your life's work."
"That shows how much you know me. My primary focus is Edward VI, my secondary--"
"Anne Boleyn!" Josiah was gleeful.
"You don't screw around with the space-time continuum!" Benjamin. Benjamin was Benjamin Franklin, but he had lost weight. Gotten contacts. Made sense. He was an indirect ancestor of hers, a many times great-uncle or something. No wonder Benjamin had freedom. Josiah Franklin worshipped the man. Hell, good old Ben was probably in charge of the whole shebang. And I thought he was a simple security guard.
"We saved Anne's life," Josiah was saying. "We got her the morning of her execution."
"We? You and I? There's no we."
Her father grunted. "The organization."
"What's it called?"
"The name is rather boring, I'm afraid. The History Project."
"You didn't save her life. She still died."
"In one timeline, yes. Maybe in the only timeline."
Helen's head hurt. She knew more about time travel than most people did. She understood the grandfather paradox, understood mutable time lines, understood about the possibility of wormholes helping facilitate time travel. Still, this.
This!
Helen clenched her jaw shut but could do nothing about her ragged breathing. She refused to think about Anne any longer. If she stopped to dwell on her father's prisoner, she just might cry. With joy. Weep with the joy that she had actually conversed with Anne Boleyn, had seen in person the beautiful little sixth finger of the doomed queen of England . Helen yearned to return to the woman, to look deep into Anne's raven black eyes, take her hands into hers, and ask so many questions.
Did you love your husband?
Was it your intention all along to overthrow Cardinal Wolsey?
Did you enjoy holding your daughter? What did she feel like? What was your last time with her like?
Why did your marriage to the king spiral downward so fast? Some scholars said Anne was undersexed, and that was how she was able to resist Henry's advances for years. That after she finally let him into bed and they were married, and he saw how tame she was, it was too late for him. Anne was pregnant with the future Elizabeth I, Anne was Henry's wife, and the damage was done. Other scholars said the opposite, that Anne was oversexed, that her years at the French court of Francis I had rendered her a much better lover than Henry could ever be. The king was jealous, they said, when he bedded Anne and realized she was no virgin, that she was his better in the gymnastics of sex.
Helen's theory, or as she called it, her wishful thought, was that Anne was a lesbian trying to make her way in a ruthless, heterosexual world. Helen had shared this theory with no one except Yalia, long ago. She had no shred of proof to back up her theory. But one question Helen would never need to ask: Was Anne guilty of the charges the king brought against her?
"You're committing a human rights violation," Helen argued. "Anne Boleyn is a person. You're keeping her prisoner."
"What am I supposed to do? She tried to escape once. I can't trust her."
"Tell me what happened."
"We went into Starbucks, and she faded into nothing. Luckily, the place was not crowded, and she reappeared four minutes later in the exact same spot. She had on the same clothes, same everything, as before she faded. She said she'd lived those four minutes in her own time, in the same clothes she had then, with the same people. She was four minutes closer to her execution. She faded under her own will many times after that. It's some sort of superpower. She won't tell me how she does it." Josiah scrunched his face. "If she fades in a public, crowded place, she could run away when she reappears. We'd never see her again. Or another person would be standing in her spot, and Anne's reappearing would kill them both."
"She's not chattel."
Josiah heaved a weary sigh. "Save your breath, Helen Bear. In a few weeks, maybe days, you may do what you wish with Anne."
"You're leaving me Anne Boleyn when you die?"
"You'll take good care of her. Better care than I could. I made terrible mistakes with her. I advise you, however, to keep her here in this building. This is her home. Keep her secure."
Helen saved impossible thoughts for later-- I am going to inherit Anne Boleyn, what, how? "Is Anne going to die? In 1536, I mean."
Josiah gave an anxious cough. "Maybe there is but one timeline, and this always happened. Every time she fades, she gets closer to her execution. Every time Benjamin fades, he progresses in age, too. But Anne can control her fades. Benjamin can't. When he fades, he's gone longer. Last month, he was gone for a week our time. Five years his time. It's worrisome, but so far, history has not changed. Benjamin is working on a proportionality life force equation that may explain--" Josiah stopped and half-smiled. He studied Helen a long moment. "I have reason to believe that once Anne and Benjamin meet their deaths in their original times, they will stabilize here. Their power to fade will be gone."
"Why wouldn't they die in their original times and never return here?"
Josiah looked away. "There was another," he murmured. "Time Traveler Zero."
Oh, great. Helen had a vision of half of Earth's population being time travelers, unbeknownst to her.
"Time Traveler Zero died in her original time. But she lived here after she died in her original time."
"Who is she?"
"No one you know."
Helen let the matter drop. She had enough to worry about with her inheritance of TT2. "Anne Boleyn. You're leaving me Anne Boleyn as if she were a house."
Josiah grimaced. "Anne has not responded as we'd hoped. She has refused to discuss her life, her history. She refuses to substantially answer questions." Josiah's expression turned wistful. "We had high hopes for Anne. Such high hopes. Before we retrieved her, we outfitted elegant apartments for her in Tudor style, Tudor decorations. We devoted one of our workers to becoming a transition specialist to work with Anne, ease her transition, help her learn to write and speak modern English and so forth. When she arrived, we all wore Tudor clothes, and..." Josiah shrugged. "She was innocent. We saved her life. Would you rather we stood by and let her die?"
"She had windows in the tower. She doesn't here. She's in the basement!"
"We let her outside every day. Getting her was Benjamin's idea, by the way, after he read your book on her. He thought it would please you."
"And you do what Benjamin wants you to, is that it?"
Josiah did not reply.
"How long has Benjamin been here?"
"Ten years, but his fades did not start until after Anne's. The matter is quite perplexing."
"Why not Edward?"
"Edward?"
"Why did you not get Edward VI? Even as a baby or as a child?"
"Well, he..." Josiah's brows furrowed "Helen Bear, practically no one knows who he is. Sorry."
"What do you want from Anne?"
Josiah's expression went blank. Cooperation, that was what he wanted. Gushing thanks from Anne. Complete and total obedience. He wanted to break her, turn a wild, passionate, completely human queen into a servant. Josiah wanted to do what Henry VIII could not.
"Never mind," Helen muttered. "What happens to Benjamin?"
"Benjamin is taken care of."
"What does that mean?"
"He is going to continue our work here. Solve the problem of his fades and, Lord willing, get the time machines running again. They stopped working after Anne. If we are lucky, Benjamin and I will meet again after I die."
"Meet in the past?"
Josiah proffered a skeletal grin. "Precisely."
"Get the time machines working again? You haven't learned anything, have you? Your project is a mess, and you have no idea what you are doing. What the hell is wrong with you?"
A muscle twitched at Josiah's jaw.
Helen's thoughts were dull, disquieting, and all over the place. She was Helen Franklin, Helen Eliza Franklin, a perfectly ordinary woman with a failing marriage and four dogs, one of them freaking ugly. She was a regular Jane. She was not some freaking time traveler's caretaker.
Stay calm. Think. One fact about Anne jumped out and grabbed Helen. Anne Boleyn had lacked the capability to form true friendships with women, although with one apparent exception: Lady Lee. Anne clicked with men. Probably she had the ambition and mindset of a man and did not like to bother with society women's idle chatter. Could she, Helen, break through the barrier of--
What are you doing, Helen Eliza Franklin? You're not thinking about keeping your father's secret. You can't.
"How do you know I won't walk out and report you?" Helen asked.
Her father's eyes were sad. "Because you don't want to hurt Anne any more than I've hurt her. Being in the middle of a media storm would be even less of a life for her. How about it, Helen Bear? Want to see her file?"
*****
One thing about Josiah Franklin: he loved technology, but he loved paper, too. The file he directed Helen to was paper, and about five inches thick. "TT2" read the label at the top of the file. The first page was a table of contents with page numbers and headers reading:
Overview
Biographical Summary
Historical Portraits
Modern-Time Photos
Rationale
Retrieval
Adjustment (first week)
Adjustment (second, third, fourth weeks)
Adjustment (first year)
Adjustment (second year)
Adjustment (third year)
Time Fades
Historical Information from Time Fades
Medical Records (Dental, fertility, etc.)
*** For video of interviews, please see yellow chip.
*** For complete video surveillance, please see red chips for year one, blue chips for year two, green chips for year three.
Helen started with the overview.
The History Project (in the person of Josiah Paul Franklin, from 2008) retrieved Anne Boleyn, consort queen of England, on the morning of May 19, 1536, approximately two and a half hours (six-thirty a.m.) before her recorded death of about nine o' clock a.m. Ms. Boleyn came willingly, with a smile. After a fairly good first week, she has not adjusted according to expectations. As of this writing, she has been in modern times about three years and seven months. She alternates between embracing and hating modern technology. She has, however, learned to cook with a high degree of skill using modern equipment. She claims to enjoy the cooking and has picked up modern English well. She enjoys reading novels.
She refuses to give substantial interviews. Her gratitude to The History Project for saving her life quickly transformed into a suspicion that continues to this day. She believes, perhaps not surprisingly, given her background, that The History Project is a devil or a witch. Ms. Boleyn apparently maintains her belief in God.
In 2010 at a Starbucks, one year to the very date of her retrieval, Ms. Boleyn experienced a controlled time fade that lasted four minutes. She said it was her first fade, and we have no reason to believe it was not. She came back pale and shaken. However, to test her newfound power, she quickly performed several more fades in the Starbucks. She will not discuss how she is able to harness this power. Her fades seem to happen in real time, both in the modern world and in 1536. Ms. Boleyn says that each fade moves her closer to her execution. She further says that her life, such as it is, seems to be progressing normally in 1536, according to history. In a rare moment of cooperation with us, she admitted that she attempted to change recorded history by trying to escape her jailers, but her body would not cooperate. Her experiences, and these of the other time travelers, seem to indicate the presence of a single, unbroken time line. What happened, happened. Eventually, Anne Boleyn will most likely die in 1536. The question is: Where is Anne in her life here when she dies in 1536? The experience of Time Traveler Zero indicates the high possibility that if Anne were to allow herself to be executed, she would stabilize here in modern times. It is a big risk for her to take, though. We can only hope her death in 1536 is her choice, perhaps a choice she makes when she has lived a full life in this time and is ready to pass on. Perhaps when, or if, she dies her natural death in modern times, she has no choice but to live the rest of her life in 1536.
She is aging normally in modern times.
Chills broke out across Helen's arms. Josiah's God-play could only end in disaster. "Tell me who Time Traveler Zero is."
"It is irrelevant. Watch this video," Josiah suggested.
"Fine."
A clear, crisp image popped up on the television. Josiah, vibrant and outfitted in Tudor garb, complete with a purple doublet. He looked ridiculous, like the pretender he was. "I am here," he said, "on Monday, the nineteenth of May 2008 . With me is Anne Boleyn, consort queen of England from 1533 to 1536. Twelve hours have passed since her retrieval. This is our first videotaped interview." He spoke giddily, excitement running his words together.
The camera swiveled to reveal Anne. Her hair was shiny and flowed to mid-back. She had changed out of her execution outfit; she wore tan corduroy pants and a white T-shirt. Helen wanted to laugh. So the modern man was dressed like an old-time man, and the old-time woman was dressed in modern clothes.
Helen paused the video and flipped to the "Modern-Time Photos" section in the file. Her father had not disappointed. The first photo was aptly named: "First Photo, Taken Two Seconds After TT2's arrival in 2008."
Well. Well.
Most of the eyewitness descriptions had been correct after all, but Anne was not wearing the--Helen stopped herself. Anne was retrieved two and a half hours before her execution. Plenty of time to modify her final outfit. Helen flipped through the rest of the photos, noting the not-great state of Anne's teeth when she arrived and resisting the urge to linger on Anne's dark, mysterious, compelling eyes. She was violating Anne's privacy enough already.
Helen continued the video interview.
"Your Majesty," Josiah said, curtsying with his head and affecting a British accent.
Anne smiled back uncertainly. She did not show her teeth.
"Tell me who you are," Josiah continued.
Anne swallowed. "Anne Boleyn Tudor. Is that how you wanted me to state it?" Helen had to replay the words several times. Even with Helen's discriminating ear, Anne was hard to understand. Her modern English speaking skills had progressed immensely.
"Anne Boleyn Tudor is your name, so yes, as we discussed. If you do not understand me, stop me. Okay?" Josiah said.
"I will."
"I will stop you also, if I do not understand."
Anne nodded.
"What happened this morning, Your Majesty? In 1536?"
"I heard your voice. I perceived a light of the most glory and entered it with you."
Josiah grinned encouragingly. "Let's go back a bit. You are married, correct? To the king of England ."
"Yes."
"Do you love His Majesty?"
"His Majesty is a most goodly prince."
"Is that your true belief? You can speak your mind. We will not punish you."
"Am I a witch?" Anne whispered, her eyes large and round.
Josiah laughed. "No, my dear queen. You are no witch. Answer the question. Did you love your husband? Do you?"
Anne did not answer. Her expression was frozen, fear in her eyes. Yalia used to volunteer at shelters for battered women. Helen had gone with her once. That was enough. Too depressing. Helen preferred the comfort, the sameness, of old documents, of hard-to-read English. She hated the look in the battered women's eyes, the same look in Anne's eyes on the television. Anne Boleyn had not been battered in the traditional sense, but she had been abused, sure enough. Her father and uncle had practically put her out to hang, her husband had killed her brother and four of her friends, was going to kill her, and now this strange man with this strange voice who was probably a devil was claiming she would not be punished if--but she would be punished. Why would she not be?
"I love His Majesty," Anne said, her voice quavering. She was lying, and Helen stopped the video. Her father had approached Anne all wrong. Benjamin Franklin's retrieval had obviously gone smoothly and surpassed Josiah's wildest expectations. No doubt Benjamin had been thrilled to find himself in modern times and had waxed eloquent about his life.
However, Anne Boleyn was not Benjamin Franklin. Enough of this crap.
Chapter Five
When the knock sounded on the door, Anne, as usual, made a point to note the time (three fifty-five p.m.; Helen had been gone almost two hours) but did nothing else. She knew the knock had to be Helen's. The other knocks were different. Another knock came, soft and hesitant, and then a: "May I come in?"
"The doors do not have locks."
"I don't want to presume to...I don't know."
"They monitor me," Anne called. "On camera, everywhere. In the bathroom. They record what I say. They are recording our words right now. So whether you enter or not matters little."
The door opened. Helen was ashen, but Anne had no intention of making matters easier for her. She sent Helen a steady, impaling gaze. Anne had to admit, though, that she had liked chatting with Helen earlier. Until then, the only woman Anne had interacted with since her retrieval was Regina Franklin.
Helen wobbled to a stop in the middle of the room. She placed her right foot slightly behind her left, dipped her head, bent her knees and curtsied. "Your Majesty."
Anne kept her face still. How long had it been since someone curtsied to her? Called her "Your Majesty?" Her first week here, nay, her first month here, they had been rats scurrying about, curtsying, "Your Majesty"-ing rats. The worst was Benjamin Franklin. He curtsied with snide amusement in his eyes, in his voice. He undressed her with his eyes, too. No doubt the shine eventually would rub off for Helen Franklin, but for now, Anne liked having a subject again. Anne was a queen. She was a queen! A QUEEN! She deserved the corresponding respect. She wished she could whitewash her "date night" with Benjamin, which occurred about a month before her first fade. Benjamin had set up a fancy table and a fancy meal. After dinner, he had grabbed Anne and tried to kiss her. She pushed him away but not before she felt the degree of his arousal. Appalling.
Anne rose from the bed. "Lady Franklin."
Red smeared Helen's cheeks. "Lady? I'm not--"
"Please," Anne said. "Humor the old dead queen."
"Right. Yes, of course."
Awkward silence.
"How are you?" Helen asked.
"How am I?"
"Yes, how are you, Your Majesty?" The question, the concern, seemed sincere, but Anne saw adoration fill Helen's eyes, an adoration absent earlier. The same adoration they had displayed, at first. They, who had their prize, their queen, their TT2, their witch.
Shall I tell you what you are thinking, Lady Franklin? You are thinking: I cannot believe it. I am in the same room as living, breathing Anne Boleyn. How shall I get her to answer my questions? What is the best way to get into her good graces? Will she sign my books? Oh, this is unbearable, this secret! I have to tell someone. But whom?
"How am I? I am alive, and my daughter is four hundred nine years dead," Anne replied.
"The time machines are broken. They cannot get Elizabeth ."
"It matters not. I do not want this curse upon Elizabeth . It is right to let her stay where she is." The way Josiah had explained the situation to Anne was thus: Every time they tried to set the time machine to various dates and latitudes and longitudes to get Elizabeth , the machine simply would not work. They did not know why. It did not work at all, period, not anymore. No return trips. If they wanted to take Anne home, they could not. They built other time machines. These, too, failed. The only visitors from the past, it seemed, would be Benjamin Franklin, Anne Boleyn and Time Traveler Zero. Anne had a good suspicion who Time Traveler Zero was no confirmation. Yet.
"My father said you have been home a few times--many times--since you got here," Helen said.
For a moment, Anne saw the browns and grays of the crowd. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to disassociate from the emotion of the moment. She would not give Helen Franklin anything.
"Is the smell different?" Helen asked gently.
The question was unexpected. Very. "Yes," Anne said, giving Helen points for originality. "The smell. Being in this time has spoiled my nose." Modern people in this place called Arlington , Virginia , United States of America , smelled good. But sterile.
"Do you like the smells here?"
"Shall I eventually perish under the blade of the sword, do you think, Lady Franklin?" According to the books, Sir William Kingston, constable of the tower, had escorted Anne to the scaffold. So far, history was as it was. Some two thousand people had turned out to witness the spectacle of her death. Anne's last words had been exactly as she practiced in her mind that last morning in 1536 before the sun rose.
Helen's jaw tensed. "Is that what you want, to die?"
"It depends when you ask me."
"I am asking you now."
Anne gave a humorless laugh. "My execution was postponed two times. I was supposed to die May 18. The executioner from Calais was delayed. And then he still did not arrive, and my death was scheduled for the morning of May 19. Only, Lady Franklin, my heart beats nearly five hundred years later. Today you ask me what I want. Today I say I am glad for it, glad to be alive. Tomorrow I might not be so happy."
"You're alive. You go home. And you keep bringing yourself back here."
"Yes," Anne whispered. "I do." She saw on Helen's face that Helen understood. Anne, like Helen, loved and hated Josiah Franklin at the same time.
"May I sit?" Helen asked.
Anne nodded her assent, and they sat on the bed, across from each other. Helen asked Anne how she passed the time. "I read," Anne said. "I cook. I take long baths. I watch television. I walk outside. I paint. I play video games. I dance to a Zumba fitness program. I ride on the exercise bike and the elliptical trainer. I parktake in the conveniences of modern life. In other words, I drift. And you, Lady Franklin, how do you pass your days?"
Helen gave a little laugh. "I used to pass many days with Your Majesty. I traveled to places you have been and searched for documents you wrote. Your alleged birthplaces--do you realize that history knows not the year of your birth, or even the place of your birth? Were you born at Blickling Hall in 1505?"
"You surmised that in your book."
Helen smiled, a cute, impish smile. "Am I right?"
Anne found herself drawn to Helen's smile. Drawn in that way. Like she had been drawn to these women she wanted to kiss and make love to. This will not do. "Lady Franklin, do you imagine I do not perceive your plan? I am no fool."
"What?"
"You are on their side, pretending to be my advocate."
"I'm not, Anne. I mean, Your Majesty. I promise you, I'm not. My father is dying. He won't live a month. After he's gone, you are my responsibility, and I don't know what to do. What do you want me to do? Tell me. I want to help you."
"For now, I should like to rest. Good afternoon, Lady Franklin."
Anne could tell her words stung, for something flared far back in Helen's eyes, some glimmer of hurt and pain. But no argument came. "Very well, Your Majesty. As you wish." Helen got to her feet.
Wait. Do not go.
Helen paused, as if Anne had spoken aloud. But she had not. She was sure of it.
"Your Majesty?" Helen asked. "Were you going to say something?"
For a second, so quick Anne was not sure at first it was happening, she dropped her gaze to Helen's breasts. Helen's nipples were visible points through her shirt. Anne wondered what color the nipples were: red, pink, brown? What did they taste like? Were they sensitive? All this Anne wondered in a second's spark, until she realized she was looking.
She brought her gaze back up to Helen's face. The look they exchanged took a mere heartbeat, but it was long enough for something to happen, long enough for Helen's expression to shift. Long enough for something primal to pass between them. Long enough for the area between Anne's legs to roar to life.
"I used to be queen of England . Now I am but a doll for some grubby American. A plaything."
"I am not my father."
"You are dismissed," Anne said icily, but God help her, she did not want to, she absolutely did not want to, but she dropped her gaze to Helen's breasts for another brief moment.
*****
After Helen left the Icarus building, she drove to the bar down the street. She was not much of a drinker. She had nothing against alcohol, per se. She just liked having her wits around her at all times.
Well, forget having her wits about her. She was Anne freaking Boleyn's caretaker. Caretaker-to-be, anyway. Helen ordered a shot of vodka, then another. She ordered a third. Might as well. No sense spending this birthday Saturday at home with a wife lost in her own demons. Helen certainly did not feel like having the moving-out talk today.
Her insides were a mess. Her wild theory about Anne Boleyn was right. Or maybe the look was wishful thinking on Helen's part. For an instant, Anne's eyes had been open, hopeful, and scared, very scared. Begging Helen to help her. To make her a woman again. I could go home and clean. Get the place ready for Anne to move in. Yeah, right. Anne could not move in with Yalia around. Was Helen crazy? Thinking about moving Anne Boleyn in with her? Well, where else would Anne go? Her life held more in store than being a prisoner of Icarus. Than being stuck in that damn building. But what would Helen do with her?
The situation was impossible. Helen was leaving Yalia and could get an apartment, a two-bedroom apartment. But... Ask Anne again what she wants.
"She's my father's problem," Helen whispered. "I won't let her become mine." She would do what Yalia had been doing: avoid the problem until it left her.
Helen wished the bar had a couch. What was the bar's name, anyway? K-something. Or C-something? Now, the couch at home was comfy. Oh, yes. Helen ordered a fourth shot, but with a glass of water as well. All Tudor historians would kill to be in her place. Helen did not want Anne Boleyn in the here and now, though. She wanted Anne a long-dead mystery, comfortably at a distance. Easy study, conjecture. History was supposed to be history for a reason.
Anne Boleyn is dead. She is not my problem. Period. My problem is my wife. My problem is what to do with this craptastic gooey blob that is our marriage.
"Hey," the bartender said. "You might wanna pace yourself, or I'll have to do it for you."
"Fuck off," Helen muttered under her breath.
*****
Yalia checked the time when she heard Helen come in. Ten oh seven p.m. Helen had been gone too long. Yalia had been tempted to call or text. She had not. Helen would have her reasons for staying away. It was not like Yalia had gotten cake and ice cream, anyway. Helen only had a dumbass construction-card paper to come home to.
Shuffle shuffle clank. Helen was walking like she was drunk. Is she? Come to think of it, Yalia had not heard Helen's car pull in. A cab must have dropped her off. That would have been pricey. Against her better judgment, Yalia got out of bed.
Helen was sprawled on the couch. Except sprawled was the wrong word. Helen's limbs were akimbo, unnaturally akimbo. She should be yelping in pain, but her eyes were closed. The alcohol smell hit Yalia as she approached. Yep. Helen was drunk. Something bad must have happened.
"Helen?" Yalia ventured.
No reply.
Yalia shook Helen.
"Wha...what?" Helen rubbed at her eyes.
"Where have you been?"
"Out."
"What did your father want?"
"What do you care?" Helen snapped.
"I..." Yalia wished the dogs were with her. One of them, at least. A dog she could pet, a dog she could distract herself with. But, no. The dogs were sound asleep in bed. Yalia was on her own. Would that be a good name for a band? Yalia on Her Own. Or maybe:
Yalia Childless.
Yalia Trying to Care.
Yalia Trying Really Hard.
Of course not. Sucky names.
"I do care," Yalia whispered. "I made you a birthday card."
"Thanks," Helen mumbled.
"What was she like, the woman you kissed?" There. Yalia would admit it, at least to herself. Jealousy had gnawed at her since Helen told her about the kiss.
Helen swallowed. "She was...she was..."
"Was she pretty? Butch? Femme?"
"In between. Tomboy."
"What's her name?"
" Devon ."
"Nice name."
Helen gave a little smile. "Not as nice as Yalia."
"Thank you."
Helen pressed her hands over her eyes. " I'm...shit."
"I love you. I always will. You should go. Be free. You can do better than me. I'm sorry I can't give you what you need."
Helen gulped hard, and then she was crying. Yalia moved to hug her, but Helen shoved her away. "Don't. I think I'm going to throw up."
"I don't care."
"I need you, Yalia. I really need you. Daddy needs me to do something for him, and I can't do it alone. And Daddy is dying."
"Dying? I'm sorry."
"Me too. I think." Helen's hands flew to her mouth, but too late. She puked, all over Yalia.
Helen spent the next couple of weeks teaching her classes at Gallaudet and pondering ridulcata. Pondering how to fit a dead beheaded consort queen of England into her life. Some days, Helen searched for two-bedroom apartments. Once, she got as far as nearly filling out an application.
Yalia had asked Helen a few times what Josiah wanted her to do. Helen brushed the question off with something along the lines of: I'll tell you later. I need to think about it. If she had been sober, she never would have mentioned the matter to Yalia. How was Helen supposed to ask her wife: "Want to baby-sit Anne Boleyn while I'm at Gallaudet? Might as well, right? You work at home, and let's face it, you don't do shit." Yalia had a private investigator's license and did the odd case here and there, but she was basically a PI in name only. Yalia's way of continuing to run away from what she had done.
Yalia's I do care and her I love you. I always will weighed on Helen. These, and the birthday card. The birthday card had been odd, with its glitter, yellow smiley face and crayon message: To my lovely wife, happy birthday! At least Yalia had tried. Her eyes with the I do care had been begging Helen to understand just a while longer. To stay. To give her just a little more time.
Anne and the ridiculousness of her situation were easier to think about than Yalia. What am I going to do about Anne? Helen could leave Anne in Benjamin's care, but Anne's open, hopeful eyes haunted her, just as Yalia's pleading eyes had. Helen could not abandon Anne. Or Yalia.
Home to Helen used to be a one-bedroom DuPont Circle apartment. The place was three blocks from the metro, and Helen had loved living there. Sure, the place had been cramped sometimes, especially with the dogs. But the apartment was not where Helen lived now. The Front Royal farmhouse stood on fifty acres of land. Helen missed the city, but at least the house had extra bedrooms. Bedrooms without children. The first spare bedroom Helen already used for her office. The second bedroom contained a mishmash of junk and furniture, but it could be whipped into shape easily enough for Anne.
If need be.
"The bedroom with the junk," Helen said to Yalia on the fifteenth day after she met Anne. The time had come for Yalia to know. Yalia was good about keeping secrets. And, who knew, maybe having Anne would draw Yalia and Helen closer. Yalia would have someone else's troubles to think about, and therefore, less focus on her own.
Yalia raised an eyebrow. "What about the bedroom?" She had just finished bathing Bowser and was in a crouch to dry the dog off.
"I'd like to do something with it," Helen said.
Wriggle wriggle wriggle went Bowser in the towel, what Yalia called delight wriggles.
Yalia let Bowser go, and the pudgy dog took off with an excited bark. Yalia drew herself up to her full height, and her beauty struck Helen, so hard Helen was rendered breathless for a second. Yalia Rose Yamaoto was one damn lovely creature.
"Are you moving into the bedroom?" Yalia asked tentatively.
"Do you want me to?"
Yalia looked away. "No." She moved her gaze back to Helen. "Did you like your birthday card? You never said."
Helen jammed her hands into her jean pockets. "I loved it. Thank you."
"I wanted to get you cake and ice cream. I don't know why I didn't. Let me get you some now. We'll have a proper party."
"Maybe later. We need to talk about the bedroom."
"The bedroom. Okay."
Helen shook her head. "You know what? Let's go for a drive. And afterward, we can get cake and ice cream."
*****
An hour and a half later, Helen parked at the Icarus building where Anne lived. "This is one of my father's buildings," Helen said. She had no intention of going in, but she needed something concrete to associate with what she was about to tell her wife.
"I figured." Yalia's gaze flickered to the logo, a silhouette flying toward the sun, present on all the Icarus buildings. "Are we going in?"
"No. We're staying here."
"You're making a three-hour round trip to stay in the car?"
"Just listen to me, please. You remember Dad called me on my birthday."
"To tell you he was dying. And for something else."
Helen fiddled with her bracelet, which was made of chunky beads. The bracelet looked great but itched a lot. However, the bracelet had been Helen's last gift from her mother, so she tolerated the itching. What she was about to tell Yalia was preposterous. Maybe she ought to do what her father had done and let Yalia meet Anne first. Wait for Dad to die. Then take Yalia to meet her.
"What happened?" Yalia prompted.
To hell with it. Helen had learned she was not one to sneak around her wife's back, and the secret of Anne was a slow-moving poison. "Dad has unfinished business. Business he wants me to take care of after he dies. I wasn't sure I would do it. But I think I ought to. I really should."
"Something shady?"
"It's...you could say that. A woman in that building needs our help. I think she needs to live with us for a while until she can figure some things out for herself. She can't stay in that building. She deserves better."
"Okay," Yalia said cautiously. "Why? What things does she need to figure out?"
Here we go. "Her name is Anne," Helen said. "Anne Boleyn."
Yalia blinked. Then her lips curled upward in a half-smile. "Anne Boleyn as in the queen?"
"Yep. That Anne Boleyn." Helen allowed herself a laugh. "And I'm not kidding. Wish I was."
Yalia was silent. Then: "Maybe we do need counseling," she muttered.
Helen was not sure she heard right. "Counseling?"
"Counseling," Yalia repeated.
Helen wanted to laugh. Wow. Yalia really thinks I have gone crazy. Don't blame her. But Helen suddenly felt light. Buoyant. Yalia was going to try counseling. The love of her life was going to try. Helen gave Yalia a quick kiss on the cheek. Yalia flinched and drew back, as she had since the shooting. But that was okay. They would get past that. Helen slid her hand into Yalia's. "Counseling sounds great. But will you help me with Anne?"
Yalia gave Helen a look. "Anne Boleyn? It isn't possible."
"It is." Helen went on to tell Yalia the whole story, including the parts about Benjamin Franklin and the mysterious Time Traveler Zero, and when she was finished, Yalia looked no more persuaded. That would have to wait until she met Anne. And Benjamin.
*****
Benjamin called Helen two days later with the news Josiah had died in his sleep. The funeral service was a few days afterward, at the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, the largest Roman Catholic church in the United States. Josiah was born a Catholic but did not practice. Neither did Helen. Anne Boleyn had been a practicing Catholic, though. Sure, she had gone along with the Reformation cause and Henry's efforts to disband from the Catholic Church, but at heart, Anne Boleyn died a Catholic.
Or had she even died?
Helen slid a sidelong glance at her wife. They were in the front pew, and Yalia wore a black mourning dress. Helen was in black too, but a pantsuit. The past few days had been strange for Yalia, no doubt. Disbelief had tinged, and still tinged, Yalia's expression, her gaze, her voice. She would have to meet Anne and converse with Anne to fully believe. Until then, she would think Helen had gone splat off her rocker. That the kids issue and the lack of kissing, cuddling and sex had sent Helen screeching off the rails of sanity.
The spare, junky bedroom remained untouched.
"Yalia," Helen said now, as the pastor droned on about Josiah Franklin's charitable contributions, "will you come with me to meet Anne today?"
Yalia's response was a tight-lipped smile. "I have no choice, do I?"
"You always have a choice."
Yalia dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. She was not crying, so the gesture was likely something to help her stall. Her fingernails were painted silver. Yalia looked lovely, as always. "Whoever this woman is, do you like her?"
"Like her?"
"Are you attracted to her?"
"Why do you ask that?"
"A look your eyes get. The way you..." Yalia laid the tissue on her lap. "Just answer the question."
Attracted to Anne? Am I? Yes. Yes, you are. The way Anne had looked at Helen's breasts had done it, sending an erotic thrill up Helen's spine. And then the beseeching in Anne's gaze afterward. "She needs my help," Helen said meekly. "Our help."
Another Yalia tissue dab. "This better be good, Helen. This damn well better be good."
*****
After the funeral, Helen made her excuses to other family members and mourners. Thirty minutes later, she and Yalia were walking into the Icarus building. Benjamin, his eyes red, greeted them.
Yalia's life is about to change. "Hi, Benjamin," Helen said. "This is Yalia, my wife. Yalia, this is Benjamin."
Yalia gave Benjamin a tentative smile.
Benjamin blubbered into a tissue for an uncomfortable moment. "I apologize," he said afterward. "I miss your father already, Dr. Franklin." He gave Yalia a nod. "Ms. Yamaoto. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"Likewise, Mr., uh, Mr..."
" Franklin ," Benjamin said. "But you can call me Ben. Or Benjamin. Or Bennie. Ben-ben. I'm Dr. Franklin, too. I have two honorary doctorates." More blubbering.
A strained, horrid smile from Yalia. "Dr. Franklin," she murmured. "Dr. Benjamin Franklin."
"How is Anne?" Helen asked.
Benjamin tossed his tissues into a nearby trash can and wiped at his eyes. "Let us see what she is up to."
Helen and Yalia followed Benjamin to the Anne surveillance room, and Helen found Anne on one of the monitors. She pedaled furiously on an exercise bike. She wore a white wife beater shirt and dark blue shorts. She stopped her pedaling to mop sweat from her forehead and to swig from a water bottle.
"How many people are involved?" Helen asked. "How many people know what is going on here?"
"Six," Benjamin said. "Me. Jordan and Ted, the security guards. Anne. You. Another guy, Nathan, who lives off site. Your cousin Darlton Vanher knows just enough to leave us alone. And, uh, I guess you too, Ms. Yamaoto. So, seven."
Yalia stayed quiet.
"You're the only scientist involved?" Helen asked.
"No. The guards and Nathan are scientists. They're very helpful." Benjamin's eyes teared up, and he pulled a wad of tissues from his pocket. "Excuse me, Dr. Franklin." Benjamin went off to blow his nose, and when he returned, he said: "I didn't think it was possible to cry more than I did after your mother died. I miss her every day, too."
"My mother? You knew my mother?"
"I did. She was a brilliant woman."
"You met her?"
Benjamin grinned. "Many, many times. She helped retrieve me. Why do you look so surprised? She had two doctorates. She was a genius."
Helen's tongue and her mind were like molasses.
"To be blunt, your father and I are--were--nothing next to your mother."
"It's not true. My mother wouldn't have....she wouldn't have..." She wouldn't have what? What exactly happened? Regina Franklin had been a stay-at-home, late-in-life mom, seemingly all too happy to fling herself into the domestic cares of her child. Helen had nearly forgotten about her mother's Ph.Ds.
"Dr. Franklin," Yalia said. "Dr. Benjamin Franklin."
"Yes, Ms. Yamaoto?"
"Show us the time travel machine. Or machines. Whatever."
Benjamin inclined his head. "Follow me."
*****
The time machine was named Aries, and it fit snugly in Helen's palm. It consisted of a big, simple red button. Aries did not pull the heavy-duty work. A computer program did, and the red button on Aries was to push to return to the departure time--modern times, in other words. "We coded everything here." Benjamin patted the computer monitor. "Latitude, longitude, altitude, date. It was a lot easier if you could be standing where you wanted to appear. For instance, if I wanted to be in this exact spot ten years ago, I'd do anything possible to actually be standing in this exact spot. If I could not, however, not a big deal. Computer's accurate."
Helen felt sick. All this glib talk was not theory. It was...it was... "Guess it helps to be affiliated with a giant defense contractor," Helen said sarcastically.
Benjamin stroked Aries affectionately, and Yalia said: "Tell me how Helen's father got started."
More affectionate stroking. "Helen's parents and a group of their friends worked night and day for years on solving the riddle of time travel. One by one, the friends dropped out. They were tired of giving their lives over to an impossible dream. Finally, though, on May 1, 1998 , Helen's mother found the missing piece. They made a few trials with a doll, and each time, the doll came back unscathed." Benjamin turned his gaze onto Helen. "About a month later, your parents were ready to try with themselves. They had worked for years, never had a honeymoon. They figured, what better place than the past to have their honeymoon? They traveled to 1901, to Victorian England. London ."
Helen blinked furiously. My mother. My mother! Involved in this shit. "Who was Time Traveler Zero?"
"I am not at liberty to say."
Fury swirled inside Helen. "Excuse me. I must introduce Yalia to Anne. To Her Majesty."
"Dr. Franklin, I do not know your plans for Anne. However, I must tell you that your father and I disagreed on his idea to leave Anne in your hands. I advised him that you would take Anne from here, but he said perhaps it was for the best. He was wrong. It is not for the best. Even I don't dare go out in public. You will be playing Russian roulette, Dr. Franklin. Sooner or later, the bullet will get Anne. She can control her fades now, but for how long? She will lose control, I promise you. She will be riding in your car, fade, and reappear in someone else's car, maybe in someone! Or reappear in the middle of the road just as a bus smashes her. Or perhaps history is wrong and she dies earlier in her time than she thinks she will. She is unsafe out in the world. Keep her here. Keep her safe."
Helen stared into Benjamin's brown-gray eyes, impossibly calm eyes. "I will ask Anne what she wants. It is her life, not mine."
"Your parents and I worked hard to bring her here. It's not just about her, and I--"
"Take me to Anne, please. Now."
*****
Anne stepped out of the shower and dressed in her bedroom. Somewhere in this building at least one man, maybe several, and perhaps even Helen, were monitoring her. Observing her nakedness, her breasts, her buttocks, the trimmed patch of dark hair between her legs. She was a zoo animal. This time was no different from Tudor times. She had been a zoo animal then too, whose sole purpose was to breed a son. When she could not--well, off with her head.
Chop, chop.
Anne brushed her hair and blew it dry. She liked her hair better short. More manageable. Not as pretty as her long hair, though.
The knock came a few moments later.
"Lady Franklin," Anne said.
Helen curtsied. "Your Majesty." No smile. Her eyes were dark and haunted. She wore funeral clothes.
"Lady Franklin, please accept my condolences on the death of your father."
"Thank you." Helen paused a moment, and Anne had the thought Helen was going to ask why Anne had been looking at Helen's breasts a couple of weeks ago. Of course she will not ask that. But electricity was back in the air, sure enough. Anne felt it so keenly she could probably reach out and grab a particle. And then bring the particle to Helen's lips. Helen was charming-looking with her troubled expression and tousled hair.
And her black funeral shirt did accentuate her breasts.
A spurt of bravery found Anne, and she extended her right hand. "My condolences, again."
Helen took Anne's hand and kept their touch together for a good few moments. Helen's hand felt nice. No, better than nice. Divine. Since Anne's retrieval, no one had touched her. Not really. And now this beautiful woman and her divine hand were in contact with Anne. Anne felt her body, her womanhood, responding, as she had known they would. Delicious words of promise murmured between her legs.
Helen let go at last, and she ran her fingers through her hair. She proffered a tentative smile. "Your Majesty, I have brought my wife to meet you."
"Very well," Anne said. Another gawker. Lovely. Yalia would be a problem.
Helen waved Yalia in, and Anne had to fight not to gape. While Helen was beautiful, in what American books called a girl-next-door way, Yalia was what movies called drop-dead gorgeous. In Tudor times, and perhaps even now, Anne certainly would have developed feelings for Helen that went past friendship. She never could for Yalia, however. Realistic feelings, anyway. Yalia was too beautiful. Too exotic. She was, as one of Anne's favorite American sayings went, way out of Anne's league.
Yalia stared at Anne a long moment. More specifically, Yalia stared at parts of her. Anne's little sixth finger. Anne's eyes. Anne's mouth.
"Lady Yamaoto," Anne said at last. "Is your gawking complete?"
Yalia flushed. "I apologize."
"You are thinking: 'Is this really Anne Boleyn in front of me?' Am I not correct?"
"That's right."
"And what have you decided?"
"Nothing yet."
Anne nodded her approval. Yalia was wise to take her time. "Tell me, Lady Yamaoto," Anne said. "Do you know much about me?"
"I know enough about Anne Boleyn. I traveled with Helen to, ah, to England . I was an early reader for her Anne book. Her Edward book, too."
"Lady Yamaoto, do you think if I pass this test God has put upon me, will he spare my life at the scaffold?"
Yalia's eyes went wide. "Uh, er, I do not know."
"Your Majesty," Helen intervened. "Would you like to get out of here and go to Starbucks or a movie? Or something else, your choice?"
Anne floundered before the question. She had not been allowed past the confines of this building and its courtyard in two years and eight months.
"Just you, Yalia and me," Helen said. "A different place, new to you. No spy cameras. No spy microphones."
"I imagine as we speak, Benjamin has gremlins entering your vehicle and solving that issue. If he has not already."
Helen's expression darkened. "Perhaps."
"But we shall depart," Anne said. "A film sounds good."
*****
"Have you been to the movies before?" Yalia asked Anne as they and Helen settled into their seats, Anne in the middle. The movie theater was semi-dark and empty, save for the three of them. They each had Cokes, and Helen had a small tub of popcorn for them to share.
"No," Anne said. She placed her Coke into its holder and glanced up at the screen. A preview for a shoot-'em-up flick was playing. Boom, boom, boom. "Josiah eased me into outings. We started little by little. By the time I realized I had the power to return to my time, I had gone to the White House. I was your father-in-law's good little tourist. We and Benjamin went to art museums. Bookstores. The National Arboretum. I kayaked on the Potomac River with Jordan . That kind of thing. Later, your father-in-law wanted us to fly to England and show me where I was buried. Benjamin had gone to Philadelphia a few times and visited his own grave. Then Starbucks happened."
Yalia was thisclose to believing the impossible, that the woman next to her at an ordinary movie theater was Anne Boleyn, mother of Elizabeth I, the Virgin Queen, England 's greatest monarch. And that Yalia had, less than an hour ago, met one of America 's greatest statesmen. A man hundreds of years dead.
"Hmm," Yalia said. "Starbucks. How did you fade the first time? I mean, was it an accident or..."
Anne scooped a handful of popcorn, so Yalia did the same. The morsels were soft and buttery and melted in her mouth.
"Popcorn's good," Yalia said.
"Movie popcorn is the best," Helen agreed. Then she added: " Jordan is outside."
Anne grinned. "I know."
Yalia did not like the looks of Jordan . She knew his kind. These people followed orders, period. The world was black and white. Jordan had not been discreet about following them in an Icarus security car.
Anne twisted in her seat a bit to face Helen. "Why are you taking me out, Lady Franklin? It is not because I am Anne Boleyn. If anything, you do this in spite of the fact I am Anne Boleyn. You are much more comfortable studying me when I am dead, are you not? You do not like me alive."
Helen gave a choked, desperate laugh. "Watch the previews, all right? Wait. My mother. Did you know my mother?"
"I did, yes."
"Was my mother like my father and Benjamin?"
"Very much," Anne said. "A little better, however."
"I'm sorry."
When the previews ended, Yalia recalled her last time with Regina Franklin. Regina had been a great mother-in-law. A great mother. Yalia had a hard time imagining her helping abduct a woman, but then, you never really knew people. So, their last time together had been just her and Regina . Regina had stopped by while Helen was teaching a Saturday class at Gallaudet. Regina had brought a little gift, a dream catcher. Its feathers and web were purple. Regina had made it herself, and Yalia still had it above her bed. By now, probably a thousand nightmares had made their way through the dream catcher.
The movie began. It was set during the Civil War, and the opening scene showed a mixed-race child sleeping.
Yalia fought to keep herself still. Fought to keep herself from laughing. Anne Boleyn. I am eating popcorn with Anne Boleyn. And Benjamin Franklin looks so ordinary.
This can't be.
For whatever reason, something Yalia could not begin to fathom, Josiah Paul Franklin was playing a huge prank on his daughter. Maybe he was doing it because he thought Helen would appreciate it. Would enjoy it. History come to life, all that. Josiah was odd in that way. Time travel was simply impossible, no way around it. Yalia was munching popcorn in an ordinary movie theater with an extraordinarily skilled actress.
Yalia let the movie play on maybe an hour, an hour and fifteen minutes. The child was, no surprise, the offspring of a slave master and a slave. The child's name was Tom, and he was a plucky little lad navigating a confusing world in which he looked like Master Williams and in which Mistress Williams and his own mother disliked him. His only friend was Master Williams's grandfather, who had Alzheimer's. Of course, back then, these people did not know Alzheimer's was Alzheimer's. Under other circumstances, the movie would have been touching. White slave owner befriends his half-black great-grandson, right? There was no way Yalia could appreciate the film and its nuances, though.
"Actress, what is your real name?" Yalia asked at last.
Anne turned a piercing gaze onto Yalia. "So you have decided," Anne whispered.
Yalia shrugged. "Physics decided. Science decided. Time travel cannot be done."
Something glimmered in Anne's eyes. Glittered, really. With purpose? With malice? Josiah had done an excellent job casting. He must have cast the woman with the darkest eyes he could find.
"May I touch you, Lady Yamaoto?" Anne asked.
Yalia blinked. "Touch me?"
"Yes, Lady Yamaoto. May I touch you? For instance, hold your hand?"
"Why?"
"You are not enjoying the film. You find it dull."
"So touching me is going to make the movie better?"
"Hardly."
"Something in your voice tells me I should not let you touch me."
"Would you like to go back with me, Lady Yamaoto? To observe a real movie? History come to life? And you, Lady Franklin, would you like to come as well? You might find something good for another book." Something snide, something chiding, lay in Anne's tones.
"Do you mean--is that possible?" Yalia could hear the surprise in Helen's voice.
"Let us observe if it is. I believe it is possible, because sometimes I held a bug when I faded. I could feel the bug with me. If this works not, I will vanish in the middle of the air. Either way, your skeptical wife will be persuaded."
Yalia felt Anne take her hand, and Yalia fought to get free, but then Yalia was standing. Walking. The stink of unwashed masses swept over her, and she fought an upswing of nausea. Yalia almost tripped over her feet, no, not her feet, Anne's feet, but Sir Kingston steadied her. She knew he was Sir Kingston because--because-- she just did. Yalia wanted to scream, but she was in Anne's mind. She had no control over this body.
And then they were back in the theater, on the floor. "You came with me," Anne said. Half in admiration, half in horror. "Both of you came with me."
"Don't do that again! Don't fucking do that again!" Helen was furious.
Yalia's own heart was a quivering lump, her brain a whirlpool, her breaths gasps and heaves. I was in 1536. Dear God, I was in 1536. I was Anne Boleyn. I smelled Tudor stink. The constable of the Tower of London touched me.
Yalia was furious, too. No, not furious. Furious did not come halfway close to describing her rage. Another part of Yalia, however, was exhilarated. The experience had been intense. So goddamn intense. Like an orgasm, and at the same time, not. And she had been in Anne's body, she had felt Anne, and Helen too, the three of them in that body. I am feeling sexual desire. Horniness. The three of them in that body...
Life stirred between Yalia's legs.
"Did you see the men?" Anne asked.
Yalia had, for a flash of a second. Men on the scaffold. The scaffold was wooden and covered with black cloth and straw. From what Helen told her two days ago, Anne was getting close to the end of her Tudor days. She had perhaps five to ten minutes' worth of life left in 1536.
"One of these men is the executioner," Anne said. She looked at Helen. "Your book said Henry performed a last-minute act of kindness and asked them to dress similarly so I would not see my death coming. The next time I return, I shall search each man's eyes and try to find which one has the sword."
"Why do you go back?" Helen asked. More like whimpered.
Anne hauled herself up and sat. She stared straight ahead, and the movie projected shadows on her face. "I do not know. Perhaps because it is the only thing I can control. There, the king controls me. Here, Josiah--" Anne stopped. Remembrance played across her features. "Here, you control me, Lady Franklin."
"I don't. I have no wish to."
"I know what you want," Anne said.
"You don't know what I want. And I'm not my father. Your life here is yours to live."
"Helen and I will help you," Yalia found herself saying. "We'll help you set something up."
Anne looked at her a moment. A quick moment. Something hooded, something dark was in her gaze. "Let us return," the dead queen said.
"To 1536? Now?"
"Now. For a moment. I want to ascertain which man will end my life. I am suddenly impatient to know."
Yalia hesitated. Hesitated some more. Anne did not want to face her death alone. That was understandable. Quite. But… "We're coming back here, right?" Coming back alive? You'll take us back before the execution?"
"Of course," Anne said with a gentle smile.
Yalia had to admit, she wanted, she desired, she yearned, to feel it again. The intensity of the three of them in one body. The three of them together. And she bet Anne saw it in her eyes. "For a few seconds," Yalia whispered. "You up for it, Helen?"
Helen was pale, evident even in the dimness of the room. But she said: "All right." Her voice shook.
*****
Yalia offered her hand willingly, eagerly. Helen's hand came more reluctantly. But came regardless. Anne closed her eyes, concentrated, and willed herself to 1536. Simple as that. Her first year here, in 2008, how many times had she tried and failed to will herself back? Too many to count. She must somehow have had to build the power up.
Kingston helped Anne up the steps, and panic licked at her throat. She fought to maintain her composure. She was at a height for the first time, and she looked around her, before her. She was astonished at the sheer number of people who turned out. So this was what a crowd of two thousand looked like. Books had recorded what she would say next. Should she follow the books or try again to…
Anne sensed Helen inside her, Helen's terror, Helen's panic. Helen trying her best to be studious and scholarly and to remember the scenes for later books.
Helen failing miserably.
Anne sensed Yalia, too. Yalia's panic was different from Helen's, perhaps because Yalia had stared death in the face, because Yalia had lived with it the past three years. This, to Yalia, was a type of punishment. And a type of reward.
In any case, if Anne Boleyn lost control of her bladder and bowels, it would be Helen Franklin's fault. Nevertheless, Anne liked having Helen with her. Yalia, too. Anne liked not having to face death alone.
Anne--and Helen and Yalia--tried to run, but their shared feet would not move. What happened, happened. Nothing would change it.
Shh, Helen. A few more seconds, and we will return. Anne searched each man's eyes but found no telltale signals as to which one would end her life. She turned to Kingston . "I beg leave to speak to the people. I shall not speak a word that is not good."
Kingston squinted.
She pleaded again: "I beg leave of you, sir, please do not hasten the signal for my death until I have spoken that which I have a mind to say."
She concentrated to will herself and her companions to 2012.
*****
No Anne. Yalia, yes.
Oh, shit.
"Anne! Your Majesty!" Helen ran her hands over the empty space where Anne had sat. Just as quickly, Helen jerked her hands back, lest Anne reappear and leave Helen without arms.
"Where is she?" Yalia asked, her eyes wide.
"I don't know!" Shit. Shit. What do I do? What if she's dead and not coming back?
Anne reappeared a few seconds later, slumped on the floor between Helen and Yalia.
"Anne? You okay?"
Anne pressed her hand over her face. "That never happened before. The delay."
Ice spread in Helen's stomach, and she felt an acute sense of loss. "Anne. Anne."
Anne's breaths came in great heaves, deep, dry sobs racking her insides. Lights came on in the auditorium. The End. Helen stayed on the floor but made no move to touch Anne, hoping that her presence was comfort enough.
Yalia was the one to take Anne in her arms, at first slowly, gingerly, as if Anne was made of sand. Helen supposed she ought to feel jealous, and perhaps a grain of her was jealous. Yalia was being more physical with Anne than she had been with Helen in a good while. But at least Yalia was doing something to help.
"Everything all right?" An attendant appeared behind Anne. He was a lanky young man, a beanpole.
Anne dropped her hand from her face, and her gaze met Helen's for an agonizing eternity. Tears trembled in Anne's eyes. "Do you promise?" Anne asked. "You promise my life is my life?"
"Yes."
"Thank you, Lady Franklin. I shall never return to that place."
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