TT – MY SAFE HARBOR, AT LAST (CONCLUSION)

I had little time. I needed to find my dear wife before she ran off with that interloper. Being a widow can do bad things to your mind, I guess. How is it that she could leave with a stranger like that?

In 1996, we lived on Volare, in Buena Park. Southern California was still nice back then. Our house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, with a school behind us. The boys would be at school this mid-morning. I timed my arrival three days past the 15th. I did not wish to intrude on the funeral.

Odd. Roger’s funeral. How was it possible? Roger was alive in 2010, taking hard chemotherapy, but doing OK. Was this my timeline, or not? If Roger died in 1996, he would not write anything of all the stories he had written, which were so necessary to everyone’s future. I wasn’t the one who wrote them. He was.

Had the Story Writers succeeded in killing our future, after all? They were all dead. I just came from there. I trusted my collector to give me the portal to my own past, to my own wife. But Roger not being there unsettled me no end.

I knocked on the door. She answered. We looked at each other standing there for a long moment. I asked to come in. She opened the door and followed me into our living room. Memories of this house came flooding back to me. We had a good life together, raising our boys and taking classes at the local college. She was just beginning her long career to a doctorate in education.

I turned to greet her, but she came running up to me, pounding her fists on my chest, weeping.

“Where were you? What took you so long to get here?”

I was stunned for a minute. Finally I answered, “I came as soon as I heard. You know who I am?”

“Of course. You are my husband. It says so in the book, but I know my own husband without anyone telling me. I was holding my breath, waiting to see if you would come or not.”

“Who did you just bury?”

“Roger, of course. He was my husband, but he was not supposed to die for a long time. The book explained that to me.”

“What book?”

She walked over to a table, and brought it to me. It was a small, leather bound book. I opened it. It was “The Confessions of a Time Traveler.” It was the book I had not yet written. I only posted some chapters from it, at a website that did not yet exist.

“Where did you get this?”

“A man brought it to me about a week ago. He told me what would happen. I did not believe him, but I’ve been reading it since Roger died.”

“Everything is in that book? But who was the man? Why did he give it to you? This book is from the future.”

“I know. Look at the date inside the cover.” She opened it to show me. The date of publication was 2012, eighteen years from now.

She said, “The man did not give me his name. He was very old, wearing a gray suit. I think the man was Stevo, from one of your stories in the book.”

I had to sit down. We sat together on the couch.

“I did not write this book. Roger did, or rather he would have, or will have. . . This is all wrong. Roger should still be alive.”

“I know. But somehow I understand. I was waiting for you to come here. The book showed me that he would die. I did not show Roger the book. How could I?”

“But I haven’t read the ending of the book either. How can I know what will happen from this point forward?”

She clasped the book to her breast, closing her eyes. “It tells me what you and I will do from this point on. I completely agree with it.”

“What will happen?” I suddenly got a vision of that interloper.

“Stevo, if that is who he is, said that we live in his own timeline, and not the one you are from. There is a man who should exist in this time, but who does not. The Story Writers wrote him out. Because of that, the world in our future will change, and become very wrong for everyone. The book says that you are to become that man, so that the future will unfold as it should. He said you were the only one who could do it, because you know all about this man and what he will do.”

I was confused. My only desire was to comfort my wife – and perhaps to live in Roger’s place.

My wife pulled something from her pocket. It looked like a small memory stick from my own time, of 2010. “The man gave me this to give you. He said it contained all of Roger’s stories, and the dates they need to be published. He said you would know when and with whom to publish this book, when it was time. This also contains all of the detailed information about the man you need to impersonate, as well as all of his work.”

“Well, there is no device around here, where I can open and read what is on this. This is a memory stick, from my own time.”

“That’s OK. I know what to do for now.” She smiled. I was pleased to see that she was content, and not weeping, as I expected her to be. It hurts to see someone you love in pain.

“First of all,” she said, “Here is a bank account in your name. Someone by the name of Frank Hinton set it up for you. You have a lot of money in it.” She handed me the bank book. “I got the bank book in the mail yesterday, addressed to Roger.”

I whistled to myself when I saw the amount. “Well, I looks like I won’t be needing to look for work around here. If this is genuine, we are set for life.”

“I know,” was all she said. “We need to go. I have tickets for the Metroline. We have a train to catch.” She stood up. “I’m all packed. I packed some clothes and things for you, which Roger left behind.”

This was all happening too fast for me. My mind was in a whirl. Shouldn’t we be mourning Roger’s departure? I hadn’t even asked about that. How was the funeral? Who came? What was said?

I stood up. “Let me read the end of the book. I need to know who it is I am supposed to be.”

“Not yet. Wait until we are on the train. We are going to Canada, and then to England.”

The Interloper! He was me!

“What about my boys?”

“They’ll stay with my mom and dad. They will enjoy that. We will be gone for a while.”

“At least tell me the name of the man I must become.”

She came over to me, hugging me close. She kissed me, and then whispered in my ear.

I was astonished beyond measure! THAT man did not exist in our future? That was not possible. But if it were true, Someone would most certainly need to make sure the world had such a man. There would be no future as we knew it, if he did not exist. Stevo was right. But why me? Why pick me to play the part? Could I do it? Sure! I knew I could. And with this bank account, it would be easy. The man was a genius with industrial design. I already knew everything he had created, at least through 2010. And I was a good enough designer myself to make it work.

I felt myself falling into the part. Did we look enough alike? No. But that made no difference. He did not exist in this world, so who would compare him to me? I just needed to go to England and build his reputation as a designer. Then I needed to move to Cupertino, and introduce myself to Steve Jobs.

Wow! I was going to work for Apple? Amazing!

No, I was not this man. I know that. It does not matter. I know his work, and I can duplicate the awesome designs he should have created, had he lived in this timeline. I will take no credit for his work. How could I? I am going to wear his name and be him, in order that the future he helped create will happen. He will get all the credit he so rightfully deserves.

Best of all, I have my dear wife with me. I felt wonderful, for the first time in a long time. I had a future. A good one. And I had found my safe harbor.

(And I could even warn Steve about his cancer, before it was too late.)

I guess I had my training for this, all those jaunts through time, pretending to be someone else. It takes a selfless man to do it right. You have to become the person you are supposed to be. I guess Stevo picked the right man after all. I was going to enjoy this!

Yeah, I’m Jonathan Ive.

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