CHARLIE
@ 1993 Randy S. Tanner
Charlie Vane sat in front of the dresser mirror, rubbing lotion on his dry arms. They itched. They always itched when it turned cold outside. The humidity dropped, his skin cracked like old asphalt, and he reached for the lotion. What else could he do? The doctors -- God, there had been a lot of them -- they couldn't do anything.
"It's not a disease," they had told his parents growing up. "Charlie just has sensitive skin. You see," said the idiotic child specialist, "it's an inherited trait."
One arm was smooth and greasy. He rubbed the other, dislodging tiny white flakes that floated like glitter in the morning sunlight. An inherited trait, he thought. Lucky for him leprosy wasn't hereditary; he'd have that too.
His parents weren't the blame. They were normal. And his grandparents, at least the three whom Charlie had met, had never had dry skin.
Of course, he had never met Grandpa Charles, on his mother's side. It was probably he, the dirt farmer from Kansas. Since Grandpa had died of emphysema shortly before Charlie was born, little Charlie had received the legacy of his name . . . probably his dry skin, too. Too bad he couldn't go back in time and strangle the dry-skinned old coot!
He laid the half empty bottle back on the dresser next to the golden framed picture of Grandpa Charles' wife. Grandma Kayte. Why couldn't he have been more like her? She had good genes. Yes, she had been very attractive as a young woman, ivory smooth skin and a perfect complexion.
Charlie finished the daily ritual with the lotion bottle and left for work.
#
As he had every day for the past eight years, he drove to the research center, parked in his reserved spot, and walked straight to his office. He hung the gray tweed jacket in the closet and put on his white lab coat. The distinctive logo of DIANETICS RESEARCH covered his heart.
Charlie Vane was a good research scientist. He couldn't change a flat tire without help, but he was a brilliant microbiologist, one of the best in the field of genetics, that's why Dianetics had hired him. He had published four papers before attaining his PH.D. that received critical acclaim from the all-knowing American Scientific Journal. The reverse congenital diseases. "He had blazed new trails in Man's path for understanding," quoted one article. He had even come close to a Nobel prize. More than once, he remembered bitterly.
What the heck, he still couldn't find a way to reverse his own problem. Years of research had tracked the exact location of the sex-linked gene. He had even devised a method to disable the recessive gene for dryness. But there was no way to correct the result of its ravaging effects. His only consolation was knowing the vaccine ensured his son would never have "snake skin," if he ever had a son. Charlie was thirty-five and still single.
He walked down the narrow hall to the lab. He had a respectable lab, according to the standards of his profession. He had the latest sophisticated equipment money could buy. And Dianetics had spent a lot of money, but why not? They knew a Nobel prize would mean more juicy government grants for the company, maybe even a lucrative patent or two.
"Hey, Charlie!" came a startling call.
It was the department head, Fred Towles. Red hair, big ears, and a circus of freckles. "How's my number two potential feeling?" Fred Towles had an annoying habit of ranking his researchers by precedence of profit potential to the company.
"Fine, I guess," Charlie answered. "Who's number one this week?"
"Abdul, of course," Fred said with a smug grin.
"Abdul's a camel jock." Charlie never learned to mask his displeasure with professional etiquette.
"Careful, Charlie. Be nice to the little guy or he might prevent the competition."
"Prevent?"
Fred shrugged like a little boy with a big secret. "Can't talk about it . . . but it's big. Bigger than genetics."
"Horse hockey! The big money's in genes and you know it, slowing the aging process, eliminating cancer, transplant parts. What could be bigger than changing the future?"
"Preventing the present," Fred said. That was all he said.
#
Charlie refilled his coffee cup and waited impatiently. It was his fifth cup and he didn't even like coffee; he was feeling jittery. He had paused at the lounge periodically all day, hoping to catch Abdul. Didn't the rag head ever take a break? Tired of waiting, he tossed the cup in the trash and decided to return to the lab. He had a couple of dead mice to dissect.
Abdul burst through the door like a Sahara dust storm. "Excuse me veddy much," he said nervously. "Veddy, veddy soddy. Did not see where I was coming to." He brushed the unkept hair out of his face, black frizzy hair that refused to be tamed by any mortal comb.
Abdul didn't wear a turban. Or a bed sheet. But the little sun-ripened olive from the Mediterranean, with the beady eyes of a terrorist that darted back and forth when he talked, was still a camel jock to Charlie. Just another darned Arab who couldn't speak English holding another American's job.
"I must excuse me," Abdul continued, "I am short break taking."
Charlie swallowed an insult and followed him awkwardly to the vending machine. "So . . . how's things going?"
"Things?" Abdul seemed puzzled.
"Yeah, you know. Anything interesting happening?"
"Oh, yes. Thank-you muchly, I mean veddy much. We making many interesting things, yes. Go back in time veddy soon, now." Abdul pulled his drink from the soda machine and turned as if to leave.
"Go back where?"
"Yes, it is true. Must not talk now. I am to be secret, you know."
No, he didn't know. Charlie didn't understand a single word the Arab said. He wanted to ask more, but the little bundle of nervous energy didn't wait for a response.
"It was good to look at you; bye-bye," Abdul said as he blew out the door and down the hall.
#
Charlie returned to his office and tried to concentrate on the summary he was writing. He couldn't. What was that crazy Arab talking about? Go back in time? Impossible.
Abdul's work was in the field of . . . What did he work in? Charlie couldn't remember. He had a degree in physics, or something like that. Charlie deliberated. Maybe he should take a peek in Abdul's lab tonight, check up on the little terrorist.
#
The hallway was empty.
Charlie ducked under the remote camera and tiptoed down the hall till he reached Abdul's lab. The door was locked, of course. He pulled the encoded pass card from his lab coat pocket and held his breath. It shouldn't work. Dianetics was a big company; they could afford several combinations. But Fred Towles was the tightest department head since Ebenezer Scrooge. He ran the card through the slot on the door.
The door opened.
He closed it behind him and listened carefully before turning on the lights. He wiped his sweaty forehead and looked around. Abdul's lab was bigger than his, he realized, much bigger. And it didn't look similar at all; there wasn't a single animal cage anywhere. A small cubicle reminiscent of an old phone booth -- it actually was a phone booth -- sat against the far wall, squeezed between a montage of strange looking electronic equipment, equipment Charlie didn't recognize. He edged closer, wishing he had taken a few more physics and engineering classes. What kind of equipment was this?
He wiped his forehead again. His hands felt clammy. Security could come in at any moment and catch him. He searched the lab table for Abdul's notes. Jeez, he hoped they weren't in Arabic.
Nothing on the table. He scanned the edge of the cluttered room and saw a small desk tucked away in the corner. He smiled. At least the camel jock didn't have his own private office. Maybe the notes would be there.
They were, and in an unlocked drawer. Abdul was such a stupid rag head. And, of course they were in Arabic, at least one side of the page. The other side had a short summary in English, probably scribbled by one of his underpaid American assistants. He tried to decode the disjointed notes: spatial distortion . . . magnetic resonance . . . an endless string of mathematical equations, and something about chronological regression. What had Abdul said? Going back in Time?
Charlie shook his head. Everyone knew that crap was impossible, even for a rag head camel jock. He thumbed through a few pages and froze. Different handwriting, he recognized it as Fred Towles', described their latest experiment. A maser clock -- whatever that was -- had been put in the phone booth at 0715. The flux fields had been energized for exactly ten minutes before throwing the main switch. The clock had disappeared, then reappeared ten minutes later, having gained forty-five minutes. An exotic formula supposedly proved that the clock had been sent to some other time reference for those forty-five minutes.
He read further, forgetting the danger of being discovered. Another experiment was planned for tomorrow. A test with a live subject!
#
Charlie was back in the lab the next night to check on Abdul's progress. The experiment had been successful. A golden hamster had accompanied the clock back in time . . . he reread the statement to be sure. According to the excitedly scribbled notes, the pair had been "chronologically regressed" approximately ten years and then returned ten minutes later. The clock had gained thirty minutes and the hamster had appeared completely healthy, just a little excited.
Charlie scanned the remainder of the notes. Abdul had adjusted the controls and made another trip. Someone had drawn a chart depicting the ratio of power setting to trip length, and flux densities to trip distance.
Charlie was scratching his arm. He watched the flakes of dry skin falling on the page of notes. Preventing, that was the word Fred Towles had used.
Charlie wondered. Preventing Grandpa Charles?
He copied down the chart of figures and brooded over the possibility. Going back in time. Grandpa Charles was the man responsible for his dry skin. He had to be. Could he do anything about it? He couldn't kill him; that would be suicide. If Grandpa had never had a daughter, Charlie wouldn't have had a mother, or skin to worry about. But what if Grandpa had been -- or could be -- inoculated? What if his recessive, dry skin gene was disabled? It made his hands sweat thinking about it. Screw around with the past? He scratched his arm. It was worth a try.
He went to his apartment, poured himself a stiff drink, and took out his notes, studying the equations for control settings. He began making some calculations of his own. His mother was twenty-five when little Charlie was born. If it really was possible, he'd have to go back in time nearly eighty-five years. He'd be in the early 1900's. No telling where he would arrive. Transportation would be limited back then. Did they have cars yet? He didn't think so. At least not many. He'd need a couple of days, forty-eight hours. He would need money, too. He'd stop by a coin collector's shop. Better get mint dates around 1890 or so, just to be safe. It would be expensive, but what the heck? He'd already spent a fortune on useless doctors. And normal skin would be worth any price.
#
Charlie waited at his desk, staring at the clock. He had spent the whole day waiting, and wiping his forehead. Wondering if he had forgotten anything. Wondering if he had disturbed anything in Abdul's lab that would make the beady-eyed rag head suspicious. He had told Fred Towles not to expect him at work for the next two days. He said it was another doctor's visit. Fred would believe that.
He checked his watch again -- a half-hour past quitting time and the stupid camel jock was still in his lab. Twenty-three minutes later, Charlie heard someone pass by his door. He peeked through the cracked door to see Abdul walk around the corner. Finally it was time.
He used his card again and slipped inside. He approached the controls and took a deep breath. His heart was pounding. He pulled out his calculations from the night before and went over them. No need to hurry and make a mistake. He set each of the controls and double checked them carefully.
The machine would activate in sixty seconds. He stepped inside the booth. It was cramped. He had to duck in order to squeeze in. He swallowed hard. He was going back in time. He checked the pockets of lab coat for the old coins, mostly silver with only a few gold pieces.
His lab coat!
He was still wearing it. That might be a little conspicuous. He took it off and laid it on the floor beside the booth. His new suit underneath had been chosen especially for the times; he shouldn't stand out too much. He hurried back to the booth and checked his watch. Thirty seconds to go. His watch! How stupid could he be? A digital watch in the early 1900's? He tossed it on the folded lab coat next to the black medicine bag.
His bag! He grabbed the antique black bag and jumped back into the booth. He almost didn't make it . . . before the whole world dimmed. He felt dizzy. A thousand tiny needles pricked his skin. He felt sick. Nauseous. His throat tightened and his stomach cramped. He would have vomited, but he couldn't move. Something had paralyzed him.
When he opened his eyes, he was standing outside, surrounded by bright sunlight and open countryside. Charlie couldn't enjoy the view or think of any catchy phrase to immortalize the moment for history. He was doubled over, examining his lunch on the ground. So much for the glory of becoming the first time traveler.
#
The dust-covered surrey pulled over to the side of the road as the sweating horse protested with a snort. Charlie crawled down from the carriage and turned to the driver.
"You sure this is it?"
"Yep." The driver had a big bulge in his cheek. "This be the Vane's place, Doc."
"Doc?" Charlie looked at his bag. "Oh, yeah. Thanks for the ride."
"Chuck ain't real sick . . . is he, Doc?"
"No. No, I'm just uh . . . making a checkup call."
"Mighty nice of ya, Doc." The driver placed a well-aimed spit of tobacco juice on the road. "Folks around here don't see a doctor much."
Charlie started down the long turn row. He hadn't planned on impersonating a doctor, but what the heck? If people were going to assume he was one, why argue? It gave him a good excuse to call on total strangers with no warning. Freshly plowed fields lay on either side. An old tractor popped and sputtered on the horizon dragging a cloud of dust behind it. The smell of damp soil drifted through the clean country air and Charlie liked it. It was much better than the pollution of the city.
He approached a freshly painted farmhouse -- a white clapboard squatting on an old brick foundation like icing on a chocolate cake -- and knocked on the crooked screen door. A beautiful young woman with flaming red hair came to answer his intrusion. Charlie was amazed. She looked like a porcelain doll, petite and fragile. Cradled in her arms, she held a bowl of sticky bread dough. Smudges of white flour dotted her pink cheeks and turned up nose.
"Kayte-- I mean, Mrs. Vane?"
She nodded hesitantly and smiled. It was a catching smile. "Yes?"
"Afternoon, Ma'am. I'm Dr. Charl-- I mean Dr. Carlton. May I come in?"
#
Charlie leaned back in the wooden rocker and took another sip of iced tea. Kayte was proud of the new ice box that her loving husband had given her, and enjoyed nothing better than serving a cold drink to visitors who stopped by so rarely. She was sitting across from him on the sofa, trying to wipe off the last traces of sticky dough from her fingers.
“You'll have to excuse the house," she said. "We don't get company much out here. Our closest neighbor, the Millers, live about four miles down the road. But it's so nice of you to stop by."
"It looks fine, Mrs. Vane." She was even prettier than her picture. A little younger than he expected, too. He tried not to stare, but it wasn't easy.
"Please, call me Kayte; it's short for Kayterina. I didn't know we had a new doctor in town. Is Doc Johnson leaving?"
"No. Actually I'm visiting and thought I'd help out a little while I was here."
"Oh, I see . . ." Kayte's pleasant smile faded slightly. She seemed disappointed. "Well, I'm glad you did. Charles, my husband, he's had a chest cold for a week or so. Coughs a lot at night because of it. He'll be home around dark if you can wait. Or I could go out in the field and call him."
"No, don't do that." He was too quick to argue. Why? he wondered. He had gone to a lot of trouble to come here and find Grandpa Charles. Suddenly, sitting in front of this beautiful young woman, he was no longer in a hurry. "I uh, I have plenty of time," he said, adding a grin.
"Then you can stay for supper?" Her pale blue eyes seemed to be tempting him.
"I'd like that very much. It will give me time to get to know you a little better. I mean, your health background." He tried for a more comfortable position.
Kayte seemed to blush, but said nothing.
"Why don't I let you get back to your cooking. We can talk while you work."
"My cooking?"
"The bread . . ." He pointed to the white spot on her nose.
Kayte rubbed it off and blushed again. "Oh. Yes, of course. I'm sorry, I must look a mess."
"Not at all, Kayte. You look very nice." It was hard to think of her as his grandmother. Or anyone's grandmother. She was at least fifteen years younger than he. And the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
He followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the table as she finished kneading the bread dough and sat it aside to rise. He watched her prepare supper, pot roast and corn-on-the-cob. He enjoyed the way she talked casually as she worked, as if he were an old friend just visiting. Charlie offered to help, but she refused.
"It was woman's work," she said, and she seemed to enjoy it.
Charlie savored the sight of her; her movements, her scarlet red hair fixed up in a tight bun that bounced happily as she moved, the way the strings of her apron wrapped around her slim waist like caressing fingers. Grandpa Charles was a lucky man, he thought. If he hadn't been so preoccupied with searching for a cure to his dry skin, maybe he would have found someone like Kayte for himself.
She placed the roast in the kerosene stove and then joined him at the table. "Do you . . . want to look at me? I don't have to take any clothes off, do I?"
"What?" He had caught himself several times wondering what she would look like, and had wrestled the desire for most of the afternoon. Now he was shocked by her vulnerability.
"Oh. I, uh --" He tried to recover. Doctors did that sort of thing all the time. But he wasn't a medical doctor. He again envisioned the beauty concealed beneath her clothes.
"No, that won't be necessary," he said finally, wiping his forehead. She was still his grandmother, or would be. "You seem quite healthy."
"Oh good," she said, her voice filled with relief. "I'm afraid I'm still very shy about those things. I mean I haven't even shown my husband --"
"Have you had any problems you want to tell me about?"
She bowed her head slightly. "Well, not really. It's just, well, I am getting older. And Charles wants children real bad."
Charlie smiled. "I wouldn't worry about that, Kayte. I'm sure you'll have a little daughter crawling around the house soon enough."
"But he wants a son."
"Of course, or a son. Nobody knows, do they?" He wiped his forehead again. "Maybe you're both just trying too hard. As a matter of fact, stress is often a reason most women don't have children sooner. I'm sure it's nothing."
"Really?"
"Trust me," he said with a smile. "I know what I'm talking about."
A shout from the front door startled him. It was Charles coming in from the field.
The tall, sun-tanned figure walked into the kitchen. He was in his mid-twenties and already honed to a sinewy strength by years of hard work. His skin was dark and weathered. And dry. He seemed tense until his wrinkled frown spotted the black medical bag on the table. Then he offered a more welcome face.
"Charles Vane, Doc," he said, extending a callused hand. "Call me Chuck. Everyone does, 'cept Kayte." He gave his young bride a peck on the cheek. "You feeling bad, Kayte?"
"No, honey, I'm fine; Doctor Carlton is just checking up on folks." Charlie ignored a slight brush of envy.
"You staying for supper, Doc? I'm sure Kayte fixed plenty. She don't have much call to entertain visitors."
"Yes, thank-you. I was hoping to talk to you."
Charlie sat back down while his young grandfather went to the basin of water by the window, grabbed a chunk of lye soap, and washed half the farm off his hands.
#
The home cooked meal had been the best Charlie could ever remember. He leaned away from the table as Kayte cleared the dishes and caught himself staring again. He turned instead to his grandfather. The two men had found a lot in common during their meal and Charlie had learned a great deal about life on a farm and the simple concerns of his young grandparents: good weather, rain and sunshine at the right times; hopefully no hail this year; and the constant struggle with weeds. He found himself admiring the tall farmer for his independence and honesty, his clear-cut plans for the future. He was no longer a faceless reason or the blame for a life of dry skin. He was a very likable person.
Chuck seemed to share a mutual respect, as if he looked up to Charlie as an older, wiser man of learning. How ironic, Charlie thought, Chuck admiring the maturity of his own grandson.
Kayte was in the kitchen washing dishes, giving the men some time alone. Charlie took advantage of the privacy. "Kayte mentioned something about a chest cold?"
Chuck shrugged and rubbed his chin. "Aw, it's nothing, Doc. Just a little cough. It comes and goes. A hot toddy chases it away just fine."
"But it comes back, right? That's not good." He tried to make it sound threatening; he needed an excuse. It might really be serious, he realized. After all, Grandpa Charles had died of emphysema, or would someday.
"It ain't nothing, Doc."
"Let me be the judge of that. I'm the doctor." Charlie reached into his bag for the DNA pills and handed them to Chuck. "Here, take one of these a day until they're all gone. If it's just a cold this medicine will take of it. And if that cough persists, you go see Doctor Johnson about it. Understand?"
"Johnson? I figured you'd want me to see you instead."
"I'm sorry, no. Like I told Kayte, I was only helping out. In fact, I'm all through with my business here and need to be getting home soon. I'm sure Doctor Johnson will be able to take care of both of you just fine."
"Well, maybe. But listen here, Doc. I ain't never been to the clinic before. Never been sick. And I don't like taking no pills. Never have."
Charlie leaned close, as if to share a secret. "It also improves progeny."
"Huh?"
"Fathering offspring," Charlie explained. "Kayte also mentioned your desire for having children."
Chuck leaned back. "There ain't nothing wrong with my, uh . . . my progeny, Doc."
"Oh no, of course not. But this certainly won't hurt matters, will it?"
Chuck took a closer look at the pills. "Well, if you say so, Doc."
#
Charlie waved as the Model-A truck pulled away. Chuck and Kayte had insisted on giving him a ride to the main road. It had been awkward saying good-bye. Kayte was so beautiful. The perfect woman for someone like him. If only he could have found her first, he wished.
He waved again as he started walking toward the new two lane highway. He would catch a ride into town and rent a room for the night, maybe even do a little sight seeing in the morning before Abdul's machine took him back to the future, or the present. Whatever it was. He took a deep, satisfied breath. The plan had worked. Grandpa Charles' genes had been fixed, or would be. No more dry skin. No more lotion. Charlie was proud of himself. A very small part of the past had been altered; the present would be set straight now. And no one knew. Charlie smiled. No one would ever know what happened.
#
Charlie placed the unused bottle of lotion back on the dresser next to Grandma Kayte's ageless picture and paused to reflect. She truly was a beautiful woman. Ivory, smooth skin -- soft to the touch -- and a near perfect complexion. Charlie stared into the mirror, admiring the strong family resemblance to Grandma Kayte, especially the pale blue eyes . . . yes, an inheritance of beauty.
Charlie hurried to finish. Even though Charlie was a good cosmetologist, one of the best, the boss would not tolerate tardiness. She reached into the vanity drawer to choose the appropriate shade of lipstick for the day.
Luscious Lavender or Ravishing Red? she wondered.
No, today was Pretentious Pink. After all, appearance was important for a cosmetologist.
Charlene Kayterina Vane applied the lipstick with meticulous care, then paused to admire her reflection; her pale blue eyes, her porcelain cheeks, her soft delicate skin. She almost smiled. If it weren't for the awful hair she'd be perfect. She adjusted the wig, trying to hide the insidious little roots which were beginning to show traces of red again. She hated red hair, the only unpleasant legacy from Grandma Kayte. Why couldn't she have been born with normal hair instead of being forced to constantly dye it? Oh well, she thought, tugging the hairline lower.
No one would ever know.
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