Wakefield MA, 02/04/1981

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February 4, 1981

Yesterday morning, before going to see my grandmother for a second day in a row, I went to the post office, to check the P.O. Box I was renting.  I had two letters from the other traveler.

 

You never responded if Sammy was ok.  I have been checking all of the local newspapers, and have found no reports of missing persons matching her description.  Please let me know if she’s alright.

 

The second letter had more.

 

So, I should tell you, I know who you are.  Michael, I mean, and Darren.  I found your address, but your car has been gone for days, and I haven’t been able to find you.  I really want to know if Sammy’s ok.  Please…

 

As I read the second letter, I felt the desperation come across, and I felt bad.  I quickly wrote a response and sent it off from the post office.

 

Hi,

She’s fine.  She left on her first jump back.  She wouldn’t tell me anything about you, just that there were other travelers, and so I put the ad out, hoping to contact you, and I used her name because it was the only way I could think of to reach out.

I went away for the last month to take care of some business, and I’m sorry that I worried you.

I’d like to know who you are, afterall you know apparently know who I am.  But I do understand that you may feel the need to remain anonymous.  I just have two questions for you, do you know me, and are you close to Sam?  I ask the second question, because you refer to her as Sammy, even though I didn’t to you, and she prefers Sammy.  Did you pick that up from the little bit of help you gave her, or did you know her already to call her that?

I’m sorry, I know that I’m probably asking too many questions.  The couple of people who know about me have complained about being left in the dark, and so I understand how frustrating it is, but I’ve been as far forward as 2010, so I’m wondering if you’re from 2040 like Sam, or further forward, or what. I don’t understand, and any information you can give me to settle my brain down would be great.

Thanks,

Mike

 

I dropped it in the box, and left.  I know my letter must have sounded like a madman, but he or she must understand.  Then I went to see my grandmother again, for the second day in a row.

 

“I forgot to tell you, I almost messed things up,” she confessed sipping on her coffee.

I had just finished telling her about the letter, and she must have sensed from my frantic tone that she needed to change the subject.

“Maria mentioned that you hadn’t been at work lately, and that Scott thought you must have quit.  Without thinking I said, ‘no he’s just gone on a long vacation to take care of family business.’ Everyone was curious as to how I knew, finally I just had to tell them I went to your store to get groceries one day, and asked about you at the deli counter.  So, for the time being, I have to shop at your store, because I told them all how great it was.”

I laughed, then gulped down a sip of water.  “I’m sorry that you have to lie to them.”

She shook her head, and said, “if they knew what I know, they’d understand why I’m lying.  They’ll get their time with you, and so I don’t really feel like I’m keeping anything from them, at least nothing they won’t eventually learn.”

“Well, Sam and my parents will apparently find out when I save their lives, but I don’t know if Grandpa will.  Sam never told me.”

She shrugs.  “That’s ok.  I’ve been thinking a lot about the movie you want to make.”

“Oh yeah.  I saved a little bit of the money from Vegas for the equipment.  Can we do it at your house?”

“No, let’s do it at yours.  That way you don’t have to try to lug all of that equipment in.”  She was smoking a cigarette, which after all of these months I still wasn’t used to.

 

I was able to go into Boston and purchase all of the equipment and film stock that I needed, this morning.  Our plan is to record on Monday or Tuesday assuming Aunt Amy isn’t home from school for any reason.  My grandmother asked why I never asked about Aunt Julie being home from school, and I played dumb like I forgot Aunt Julie was young enough to be in high school, but the truth is that I remembered her telling me that she had a perfect attendance record in school, and so I hadn’t ever considered for a second that she might be home. Unless it was a snow day.

I have to go in a little early for work this morning, because I’m covering in the butcher’s department, and they want to show me a few things before I start my shift.

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