The Trailing Edge

                     Previous chapter Gerry intended to head back to East Rutherford at the end of the evening. Our sofa was available for an overnight, but he said he had “always hated that thing.” But it was quite suitable for conversation. We transferred the pot of brewed coffee to the small but comfortable living room. For the first time, we lit a fire. Actually, Warren and Trevor laid it but Gerry got it going. He’d been doing it since he was a teenager, staying here with his grandparents. Ben informed us that he “much enjoyed” a good winter fire and would be pleased if we assigned him that chore, along with his barn tasks. “So, Ben,” Gerry asked, “What types of 21st century things have you learned about from this crew?” Ben proceeded to tick off various innovations such as zippers, electricity, radio, telegraph, telephone, indoor plumbing, microwave ovens, refrigerators and automobiles. Gerry nodded. “Good. What about photography?” Ben confessed to having learned not

Previous chapter Friday. We ate a light breakfast and lunch because Gerry had warned us that an Italian feast would be arriving with him shortly after sunset. I wondered: With New Jersey traffic being what it was, especially on Friday afternoons, he might be delayed. Nonetheless, we made sure that we and the house were ready to greet him. Gerry had asked us so many questions about Ben, it was even more amusing when Ben started quizzing us about Gerry! Ben seemed to have established a mental picture of our friend, mostly based on his name and age. He considered 40 to be a “mature” age -- this was hilarious to us. Gerry was inordinately fond of fart jokes and paintball weekends. Out of respect, we declined to tell Ben anything about Gerry’s stretch in Federal prison, even though it hadn’t been a long one and the process that he hoped would lead to the conviction being overturned was underway. Gerry is fundamentally honest and decent, albeit naive and gullible. He comes from the

                                 Previous chapter The next day was busy, as we knew it would be. Ben handled the lice issue with as much equanimity as he did everything else, and of course he was well aware of the problem. He apologized for having brought an old worn-out comb with him and asked if we might get him a newer one when Trevor went to the store. He showed us his lovely comb, carved from ivory. As one, we stood with our hands behind our backs, refusing to touch it.  Warren had decided to go to the store with Trevor, since a supermarket was right next to the drugstore and we now had a fairly sizable shopping list anyway. The guys thought I could soften Ben up on the subject of present day cleanliness standards, promising to take a more “hands-on” approach with him once they got back. I smiled inwardly, trying and failing to picture my two post-doctoral buddies becoming strong-arm artists and forcing Ben into the shower. We hadn’t yet introduced television, internet

            Previous chapter The story starts  here... November 18, 2030, 11:00 p.m. Here I go again, journaling in the night... Just glad I don’t have to sneak now. God, what a day. It’s all I can do to just breathe. Because beyond that, there’s just nothing that will calm my mind. I keep telling myself to grow up. If things were reversed, and I woke up in Ben’s time, and this thing happened, I would have to deal. Getting hysterical would make me look, well, hysterical. Every living person during that time dealt with this, and they survived. Ben dealt with it his entire life. We really are a bunch of wimps here in the 21st century. This is my journal, and no one else will see it, so I don’t even have to go into detail. But I’m thinking that writing it out, wringing out all the horror onto the page will help me to feel better. Maybe even to sleep. I’ll bet the guys are tossing and turning. Trevor will be at the drugstore tomorrow morning, probably waiting for the doors

Previous Chapter The guys finished the car and invited me out to look at it. They had done a fine job -- the Nissan gleamed. Ben was comically soaked, so Warren helped him with the process of showering and changing into dry clothes. Now that Warren, Trevor and I were back full-time in our own clothes, we felt free to pop them into the washer and dryer that we kept outside (formerly camouflaged) under an eave. I didn’t offer to do this for Ben; there was an excellent chance that the machinery and detergents would shred his hand-stitched garments, so until Gerry arrived and offered him an alternative wardrobe of standard 21st-century washables, we hung his wet things out to dry. If they weren’t done by the time the sun went down, we’d just bring them back in. All I got from Warren -- all I had time for, really -- was a quick horizontal shake of his head as I met his gaze with the silent question of whether anything interesting had been found in Ben’s pockets during the change. Af

Previous chapter I was in the kitchen with the contents of several cabinets and drawers spread out on the table and the floor. I heard a quick knock elsewhere in the house, and then a door opening. “Ben.” Warren’s voice. “Let’s go. You’ve been cooped up most of the day. Y’need fresh air.” Warren was a fairly tall guy, whose father had been a Marine and a decorated cop. He knew how to use a voice of authority. He had used it in the classroom, and now he was using it on Ben. A moment later, the three of them were coming down the hall, but instead of going out back as per usual, Trevor opened the front door. “Want to help us wash a car?” he asked Ben, who promptly broke out into a grin. Without further conversation, they headed out onto the front porch and the driveway beyond. “Have fun!” I called out, as an afterthought. As soon as the door shut, I was up and headed toward the bedrooms. I passed the bathroom and proceeded toward my bedroom, and looked over my shoulder to s

Previous chapter “Madam, I am in need of pen and paper,” Ben asked me the next day. I went to the study and looked around, but none was to be found in drawers or cabinets. I couldn’t fathom where we might be storing it. I hadn’t thought about a quill and bottled ink since many weeks prior to Ben’s arrival. I looked at him. “Ben, we’ve showed you a lot of newer innovations. Would you be interested in trying out a pre-filled pen?” He gave a weak smile, to convey that he’d try anything once. So I went to my room and found a Bic, as well as a blank spiral-bound school notebook with perforated edges. “Yours,” I said, handing both to him as he sat waiting at the desk in the study. I showed him how the pen was already filled with ink, with the available amount clearly visible through the transparent barrel. I removed the pointed cap, refastened it to the other end, and scribbled on the back cover of the book to demonstrate. I then opened the book and pointed out the perforations,

Previous chapter Once we were all assembled back in the kitchen, Ben quietly asked Warren if he might have a word in private. The two of them disappeared back down the hall. A moment later, I heard a chuckle from Warren and their voices combined in discussion. Then they came back, but no one offered any explanation. Warren was smiling. Trevor had a cloth bag with him; he set it on the table and brought forth the contents. It was a black Bakelite rotary-dial telephone, like the one I remembered my grandparents having. I thought I might even remember how to operate it. Trevor untangled the long cord, reached behind him and plugged the phone into a jack. He lifted the earpiece and we could all hear the faint humming of a dial tone. Without saying anything, he rotary-dialed a 1, followed by a 10-digit number, listened for a moment, then replaced the receiver. “All right,” he said. “Ben, this is a telephone. This morning you learned about one of the earlier modes of communication