Hazards of Time Travel Read online

  In the lecture hall, it did not seem quite right that a girl should speak so frequently, or rather so—impressively. Even Wolfman sometimes frowned. Enough! For now.

  I WONDERED WHEN Wolfman would ask to speak with me after class in his office? I did not want to appear in his doorway without an invitation.

  I thought—He is frightened of me. We are both at risk.

  I thought—But he knows me! He is the only one.

  Initially, at the start of the term, Wolfman had ignored me. Hadn’t seemed to see me.

  Not because he recognized me as an Exile like himself. But because he’d had little interest in me, as a “coed.”

  His manner toward the three girls in our class had been courtly, condescending. He hadn’t been malicious, or cruel. Unlike other instructors of mine who made casual sexist remarks in their classes—(“sexist” was a concept unknown in Zone 9, I’d quickly come to realize, for “sexism” prevailed everywhere here, like the atmosphere: it was degrees of “sexism” that mattered)—Wolfman wasn’t insulting. It was just that the category female was freighted with a kind of comic irrelevance in the field of psychology—(except for abnormal psychology, in which female degenerates were given nearly as much attention as male degenerates, though for different reasons). In our psychology textbook examples of representative psychological subjects were exclusively male; the behaviorist model was male. Professor Axel’s lectures alluded incidentally to male experimental subjects and only once did the professor discuss a specifically female phenomenon: the failure of “good mothering” that was thought to cause autism in children.

  In our quiz section the next morning I raised my hand to ask Wolfman —“Is there any scientific proof for saying such a thing? That ‘bad mothers’ cause autism in children?”

  Wolfman was taken by surprise. Class had scarcely begun. He had no choice but to look at me.

  Tried to smile his genial smile. But his manner was stiff.

  He said that frankly, he wasn’t an expert. Child development wasn’t his field. And “Freudian theory” wasn’t his field. He’d like to think that there was proof for Professor Axel’s casual remark—but he couldn’t personally swear to it.

  “However, it’s a good question, Miss Enright.”

  Others in the class glanced at me, curious. It must have seemed to them preposterous, that a freshman girl might question the great authority A. J. Axel.

  “It’s just that I can’t imagine an experimental situation in which ‘mothering’ was observed by these psychologists, over a period of time. Aren’t they just inferring it? Wouldn’t there be simultaneous ‘fathering’ too? I think that psychologists must select autistic children, or children they label as ‘autistic,’ and try to determine if their mothers had been ‘good mothers’—but how would they know? Unless they lived in people’s houses with them on a daily basis . . .”

  Now this was going too far. Saying too much!

  There was a kind of ripple in the room, of discomfort, disapproval. You could see that Wolfman was surprised by my remarks, and the length of my remarks, so unlike those of other students when, not very frequently, they spoke in class.

  Yet I’d taken care, for this was Zone 9, “1959,” to speak in a soft, unassertive, “feminine” tone, to avoid blatantly offending the professor.

  Wolfman acknowledged that this was a good point—

  “Autism is a poorly understood mental condition that is presumably ‘caused’ by something—so, an agent is hypothesized. Why not a neurological deficit? Why blame the mother? You are right. The circumstances don’t lend themselves to experimentation, like Skinner’s work. Which is why Skinner, and not Freud, is the great scientist of the twentieth century.”

  This was an odd thing for Wolfman to say. Like wiping away an equation on the blackboard with his sleeve, to change the subject.

  “But—but—behaviorism doesn’t even try to measure ‘subjectivity’—does that mean that ‘subjectivity’ isn’t a proper study for psychology? Ever?”

  “It means that ‘subjectivity’ is ‘subjective’—it can’t be objectively demonstrated. Behaviorism concentrates on what is objectively available, what works.”

  Wolfman spoke curtly. It was the standard Skinner line. He’d had enough of our exchange for now.

  He might have said Come see me after class, Miss Enright. If you are interested in discussing this further.

  Instead Wolfman turned to another subject. For the remainder of the class he didn’t call upon me, and I didn’t volunteer to speak.

  Nevertheless I went away elated—He respects me! I’m more than just a “coed” to him.

  LIKE A LITTLE BALLOON, elated. Filled with helium but not quite enough helium, the little balloon doesn’t soar only just bobs along the ground. Blown a bit by the wind.

  Finally stuck somewhere in a bush. Little balloon pierced of helium, reduced to just rubber.

  Unidentifiable as a balloon.

  Where do elation, happiness, hope go?

  B. F. Skinner had not a clue.

  Dear Professor,

  I love you.

  Sincerely,

  “Mary Ellen Enright”

  PS. No need to reply!

  Alone I was assailed with thoughts of Wolfman. Of course Wolfman wanted me to see him: he was waiting for me to make the first move.

  Composing absurd little love-notes to Wolfman. Such pleasure in writing these notes, folding them up into tiny squares and hiding them at the rear of my desk drawers.

  The Wolfman-spell was like a narcotic. In such a state you are not unhappy for you are under the spell and to be under the spell is to be incapable of being unhappy.

  But my devotion to Wolfman wasn’t selfless. No. Always I was thinking, if Wolfman too were in Exile, he could help me—somehow . . . This I wanted to believe.

  The wariness in his eyes, when he saw me—this, I tried to ignore.

  He doesn’t want a special relationship with you.

  Can’t you see, he doesn’t even want to “see” you.

  Where in the past I’d never lingered after class to speak with other students, or to hear their remarks, now I yearned to hear comments on Ira Wolfman. Oh, anything! I liked even to hear the name—Dr. Wolfman. Or, just Wolfman. The name alone mesmerized.

  It was astonishing to me, Wolfman was not universally admired. In fact, Wolfman seemed to be resented. His grading, his sarcasm, his “fancy” vocabulary. Wolfman wasn’t down-to-earth like certain other professors who told jokes, teased their students and didn’t expect them to know much.

  Of course, in some quarters Wolfman was much admired. “Brilliant guy”—“brainy”—“cool.” (It was notable, “cool” had been a term of admiration way back in 1959.) Even the foolish remarks of some girl classmates were prized by me, comments on Wolfman’s looks, clothes, style—“He’s from New York City, you can tell. Real smart.”

  “He’d be a dreamboat if he didn’t act so snooty . . .”

  “Snotty.”

  (Not funny. Though others laughed I did not laugh.)

  “Obviously, Wolfman is Jewish.”

  “Oh—that’s a Jew? Him?”

  “Bet you. They’re supposed to have little horns on their foreheads—just bumps, by now. After so many thousands of years.”

  Jewish! I had not thought of this.

  Wolfman. Ira Wolfman. My love.

  Therefore I could not be anything less than the very best student in Wolfman’s quiz section. My hope was to be the very best student in Psychology 101—to earn the highest grades among the more than two hundred students enrolled in the course.

  Miss Enright! Dr. Axel and I are—well, frankly impressed . . . We would like to encourage you to major in psychology.

  How many times I dared to approach Wolfman’s office during his office hours. Invariably there was a student inside: the frosted-glass door was closed. Badly I wanted to press my ear against the window, to determine if the visitor was a boy or a girl.

  Fee
ling a kind of disappointed relief, that I was spared making a fool of myself.

  The corridor was a busy one, on the first floor of Greene Hall. I was jostled by students hurrying to classes. To give myself some purpose I stared at a bulletin board festooned with posters and announcements of psychology department events: lectures, symposia, applications for summer fellowships, advertisements for graduate programs at other universities. I thought—I could apply for one of these. Could I?

  I wondered if I really might excel in psychology. If I might go to graduate school, someday. (But when? And where?) If there was any hope for me, in Exile, to do anything worthwhile with my life.

  I clung to S. Platz’s words: Wainscotia was an “excellent” university. After I graduated, and was returned from Exile, the State would arrange for me to receive additional training, to prepare me for employment in NAS. I wanted to believe this.

  Yet, in the corridor outside Wolfman’s office, I felt a sense of hopelessness. What had brought me here? What did I think I might acquire from Wolfman? His respect, his friendship? His love? His assistance, in escaping from Exile? (But—where? “Adriane Stohl” had not yet been born.) There was no his; I had no true idea of the man, beyond his charismatic classroom personality which (I had to know) was a public performance. I felt dazed, uncertain. Abandoned. If a stranger had tapped me on the shoulder and said Come with me. Your sentence has been altered, you will now be Deleted I would have come unresisting.

  I wasn’t sure if I was waiting to see my quiz section instructor, as others enrolled in Psych 101 were, or just standing there in the corridor hoping not to be jostled. My insomniac nights and protracted workdays left me in a paralysis like a ball that has been thrown hard, has rolled far, but has lost momentum and has come to a stop . . .

  A student emerged from Wolfman’s office, somber-faced, clutching at a paper, and departed. And there came Wolfman to the doorway yawning, to see if another student awaited him.

  His eyes moved onto me, startled. I saw a look of pained recognition. “Miss Enright. Hello.”

  Wolfman’s usually ebullient voice was wary, flat.

  Pleading with me—No. Go away please.

  I nodded hello. I felt very shy, suddenly. Stricken with shyness like a physical disability.

  “Did you want to see me, Miss Enright?”

  “N-No. Thank you.”

  “You don’t? Didn’t?”—Wolfman was vexed but amused.

  Quickly I turned away. Fled. The part-deflated little balloon, the rubber ball given a kick by Wolfman—there it goes!

  Afterward the encounter left me shaken. I had to wonder if it left Wolfman shaken, too.

  Orphan

  Embarrassing to confess: how I followed Ira Wolfman, at (what I hoped was) a discreet distance. I did not want to upset him—or anger him—but I could not stay away from him.

  I was convinced: he’d recognized me. We were two of a kind in Zone 9: Exiles.

  In English literature class we read poetry of the Romantics. We learned of the Romantic concept of soul-mates. It was clear to me, Ira Wolfman was my soul-mate.

  Once Ira Wolfman left Greene Hall by the side door near his office, in the company of two other men—young men—had to be psychology colleagues. In our class he often spoke of his “lab”—an experimental laboratory under the direction of A. J. Axel—and these two might have been laboratory coworkers. So long as Wolfman was with them he appeared to be relaxed and jovial; he did most of the talking, and the others laughed; for Wolfman had a dominant personality, in such circumstances. But as soon as he left his companions and walked on alone his expression reverted, like ice melting, to an expression of sobriety, brooding.

  Like one who is in Exile. One who is far from home.

  In an entranceway I stood just far enough away so that Wolfman wasn’t likely to see me. Badly I wanted to call to him—“Dr. Wolfman, hello! Let me walk with you.”

  Never would I have spoken so recklessly. Of course.

  Observing how Wolfman made his way to a bicycle stand behind Greene Hall where he tossed his briefcase into a wire basket, unlocked the bicycle and straddled it and pedaled away.

  He didn’t own a car? Was that possible?

  Without breaking into a run I followed a block or so. Watching the cyclist disappear into traffic on University Avenue.

  In Zone 9 bicyclists never wore safety helmets. Yet it surprised me that one who knew so much about the human brain, its fragility as well as its mysteries, should so expose his head to injury, as Wolfman did.

  This was troubling. This made me wonder whether Wolfman was of this time, after all. Was I imagining everything about him? Was I losing my mind?

  Blindly I turned away. Stepped in front of a vehicle and was nearly run over amid a skidding of brakes.

  Rawly a male voice yelled: “Look where you’re going, stupid!”

  The shout was a rebuke to my naïve yearning. But it would not dissuade me from yearning.

  TRIED TO LOOK UP Wolfman, Ira in the Wainscotia telephone directory but there was no listing under that name. No listing under the name Wolfman.

  Which meant: Wolfman didn’t have a telephone. Or, Wolfman had a private number.

  How strangely isolated people were, in 1959. If you could not “look up” someone in a telephone directory you could not locate him at all.

  If I wanted to know where Wolfman lived I would have to follow him on foot. How I could manage that, I had not the slightest idea. And if I followed Wolfman home, what then? Could I have knocked at his door? Waited for him in the street?

  How long, in the street?

  I was becoming desperate, feverish. At the same time with a part of my mind I understood how irrational I was being. How like a rat in a maze, running, darting, always forward, never turning back, driven by appetite that was never filled. Yet the conviction that Wolfman was my soul-mate could not be shaken.

  Wolfman had to live somewhere fairly close to the university campus, probably in a rented apartment. For he seemed to have no car, or anyway no car that I’d seen.

  I wondered if he lived with someone? A chill passed over me at the prospect of his living with a woman. Or worse, his being married.

  A husband? A father? Yet—an Exile?

  This did not seem likely.

  Certainly, not likely. Procreation was forbidden.

  (But what a cold clinical term—procreation! Thinking of my mother who’d had Roddy and me, had babies, how much warmer a way of speech, how much more maternal.)

  (Thinking of Mom with a sensation of such loss, sadness. Wanting to cry—Mom! Dad! I am so sorry, I let you down.)

  (Did they even know if I was alive? I wondered. Maybe Roddy knew, and could tell them. Or hint to them.)

  In Zone 9 there were limited ways in which one could learn about another person. Ira Wolfman wasn’t a public figure, wouldn’t have been listed in the university library catalogue probably. Still I decided to search there, in long clumsy wooden drawers, under the heading PSYCHOLOGY, 20TH CENTURY. To my surprise discovering that Wolfman, Ira was one of several authors listed for journal articles written under the direction of A. J. Axel. But there was no personal information about Wolfman.

  How strange it was to me, this enormous building filled with books! In my former life everyone used eBooks of one kind or another, rarely “paper”-books; in NAS-23 the State controlled all electronic communications and transmissions and so it was not possible to access any title of any book that had not been approved by HSIB—Homeland Security Information Bureau. What would have been “magazines” and “newspapers” that had passed through the censor-filter were exclusively online in NAS-23—unlike the thousands of publications here in Zone 9, in 1959.

  How strange, and how wonderful: the Government could not possibly control all these publications! Yet it seemed mysterious to me, that there was, in Zone 9, so much freedom—that, in Zone 9, did not feel like freedom.

  As a university student I was often in the library—a
building that stored books. There were no longer “libraries” in NAS-23—these old buildings had been put to more practical uses.

  The university library was an old pinkish-red sandstone building with a rotunda, stately columns, and wide stone steps descending to a broad flagstone path; from a distance the lighted rotunda could be seen for miles. The library faced the chapel, the administration building, and the Hendricks Humanities Building across the campus green: this was the so-called historic campus, originally established by a land grant from the federal government in 1831. Nearby was the McCabe Science Building with its several new wings for physics, chemistry, math, psychology—in the post-Sputnik era, the fastest growing departments at the university.

  Everywhere were trees for which I was learning names: oak, elm, pine, birch. A particularly beautiful tree, with a beautiful name: juniper pine. Paths through the trees were sometimes concrete, sometimes earthen. At the edge of the campus was the arboretum—a hilly place of many acres. (My roommates never visited the arboretum—why would they? Too far away, and nothing to do but walk. They got enough walking up steep hills on campus! And I was afraid to walk a mile or so to the arboretum, out of an irrational concern that I would stray too far from my “epicenter” and draw unwanted attention from my invisible monitors.)

  More than nine thousand students were enrolled at Wainscotia State yet the atmosphere of the campus was rural at its edges. In the early morning deer were seen grazing on lawns. There were sightings of wild turkeys, pheasants, foxes, raccoons. There were rumors of black bears.

  Creatures of which I knew, but which I’d never seen except in facsimile, or as “virtual” images.

  When I’d first come to Wainscotia this setting had seemed like a dream to me—unreal, disorienting. I thought—This is a virtual place, this is not real. In Media Dissemination, where my brother worked, there were skilled hackers who’d been co-opted by the Government to work for them, to create such utterly realistic VVS—(Visceral Virtual Settings)—that you could not believe they were not real. An entire subfield had emerged in VVS research, to establish a way in which “virtual” sounds could be made to seem as if they were coming from outside the human skull, and not inside; I had to suppose that the same was true for “virtual” sights. (Since the devastation of so much of the landscapes of North America, there had been perceived a practical need for virtual landscapes; even higher castes invested in these.) At Wainscotia I could not shake off the feeling that when I turned away from the “historic” campus it dissolved like ink fading in water.