Somewhere In Time

250 Pages·1975·0.85 MB·English

by  Richard Matheson

Scanners note.. Over the last few years I've scanned and posted dozens of
ebooks. This one is very special, it really does have the power to make a grown
man cry. It is a hauntingly beautiful book. If you are reading it for the first time,
I envy you. If you've read it before, or watched the movie, - based upon the
book, - welcome home.
Somewhere in Time by Richard Matheson.
A novel in the tradition of Jack Finney's Time and Again, as well as Matheson's
own What Dreams May Come. Somewhere in Time inspired a 1980 film starring
Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour that has become a genuine cult classic.
Note by Robert Collier
I'm not sure I'm doing the right thing in having my brother's manuscript
published. He never thought it would be. He didn't even think he'd finish it.
He did finish it, however, and, notwithstanding certain first-draft weaknesses, I
feel that it merits public attention. Richard was a writer, after all, albeit this is the
only book he ever wrote. For this reason, despite uncertainties which still
prevail, I submitted it for publication.
Yielding to the publisher, I've done extensive pruning in the first section of the
manuscript. Again, I'm not sure I've done the right thing. I can't dispute the fact
that this section was lengthy and occasionally tedious. Still, I do feel guilty about
it. If it were up to me, I'd publish the manuscript in its entirety. I hope, at least,
that my excisions have been faithful to Richard's intent.
In addition to believing that my brother's book deserves to be read, there is
another reason for having it published.
Frankly, his story is incredible. No matter how I try, I can't believe it. I hope its
publication creates the possibility that someone will. For myself, I can accept
only one aspect of it-but that I accept completely: To Richard, this was not a
work of fiction. He believed, without question, that he lived each moment of it.
Los Angeles, California July 1974
---------------------
November 14, 1971
Driving down Long Valley Road. Lovely day; bright sunshine, blue sky. Past the
three-rail fences painted white. A horse appraises me. Ranch country in Los
Angeles. Down one side of a road dip, up the other. Sunday morning. Peaceful.
Pepper trees on each side of the road, foliage stirring in the breeze.
Almost out now. Away from Bob and Mary, from their house, from my little
guest house out in back; from Kit who came to visit while I worked, clomped
hooves, sighed, nickered, groaned, and, all else failing to evoke attention and
potential feed, bumped her nose against my wall. No more.
The last dip and the final speed bump. Up ahead, Ventura Freeway and the
world. Adios Amigos printed on the sign above the gatehouse. Farewell, Hidden
Hills.

Standing in the car wash. Strangely empty. Everyone at church? A beige
Mercedes-Benz just inched by. Always meant to get one someday. Scratch
another project. Drinking beef broth purchased from the vending machine. Here
comes my dark blue Galaxie. Staid, acceptable, and moderately priced; my kind
of car. The nozzles greet it, shooting out their long, thin streams of lather.

In the empty parking lot outside the post office. Last visit to my box. Won't
bother stopping service. Mailed my last bill payments off to Ma Bell and The
Broadway.

Waiting at the stop sign by Topanga Boulevard. An opening now. A quick turn
left-ease over-right turn-up the ramp and onto the Ventura Freeway. Farewell,
Woodland Hills.
A really gorgeous day. The sky bright blue; thin pale streamers of clouds. The air
like cold, white wine. Past Gemco, past the Valley Music Theatre. Both behind
me now, no longer real. Solipsism is my game now.
Flipped a coin before I left the house; heads north, tails south. Heading for San
Diego. Odd to think that one more penny flip and I'd be in San Francisco late
this afternoon.
My luggage is spare: two bags. In one, my dark brown suit, my dark green sport
coat, slacks, a few shirts, underwear, socks, shoes, and handkerchiefs, my small
zip case of toiletries. In the other suitcase, my phonograph, headphones, and ten
Mahler symphonies. By my side, my faithful cassette recorder. Clothes on my
back; the works. Except, of course, the traveler's checks and cash. Five thousand
seven hundred and ninety-two dollars and thirty-four cents.
Funny. When I went to the Bank of America Friday, and stood in line, I started to
become impatient. Then it came to me. No need to be impatient any longer. I
looked at all the people, feeling sorry for them. They were still subordinate to
clock and calendar. Absolved of that, I stood becalmed.

Just missed the turnoff for the San Diego Freeway. No sweat. May as well
observe my footloose scheme right off. I'll readjust, go downtown, hit the Harbor
Freeway, and reach San Diego by another route.
A billboard up ahead commending Disneyland. Should I pay a final visit to the
Magic Kingdom? Haven't been there since Mora visited in 1969 and Bob and
Mary and their kids and I took her out there. No; Disneyland is out. The only
attraction there, for me, would be the Haunted Mansion.
Another billboard. Blurb: Now Open-The Queen Recommends Long Beach.
That sounds more like it. Never been aboard her; Bob went overseas on her in
World War II. Why not take a look at her?

To my left, the obelisk, the big, black tombstone: Universal Tower. How many
times have I been in there on appointments? Strange to realize I'll never see
another producer, never prepare another script. Never again have to call my
agent. "Hey, for Chrissake, where's my check? I'm overdrawn." A peaceful
thought, that. Super timing too; to leave when hardly anyone is working anyway.
Nearly to the Hollywood Bowl. Haven't been there since late August. Took that
Screen Gems secretary. What was her name again? Joan, June, Jane? I can't
recall. All I remember is she said she just adored classical music. Bored her silly.
Insignificant stuff too, Bowl-style. Rachmaninoff's Second Concerto?
Joanjunejane had never even heard it.
You'd think that, after all these years, I would have met someone. Bad Karma?
Something bad. To never, in your whole life, meet a female who gets through to
you? Incredible. Something hidden in my past, no doubt. Obsession with my
tricycle. Boo, Freud. Can't you just accept the fact I never met a woman I could
love?
In heavy traffic near the Harbor Freeway. Cars surround me. Men and women
everywhere. They don't know me, I don't know them. Smog down here. Hope it's
clear in San Diego. Never been there; don't know what it's like. One could
describe death that way.
The Music Center. Stunning place. Went there a week or so ago, B.C.- before
Crosswell. Mahler's Second Symphony performed. Mehta did a brilliant job.
When the chorus came in softly in the final movement, I began to tingle.
How many downtowns will I see? Denver? Salt Lake City? Kansas City? Have
to stay in Columbia for a day or two.
Amusing thought. I'm going to be a criminal because I don't intend to mail in
any more car payments. And you know what, Mr. Ford? I don't even care. Jesus!
A truck just veered in front of me and I had to switch lanes fast. My heart began
to pound because I didn't have time to see if anyone was close behind me in that
lane.
My heart is still pounding and I feel relief at being safe.
How pointless can you get?

I see her three red, black-tipped smokestacks now; Is she cemented there?
Already, I feel sad for her. Rooting such a ship in place is like stuffing an eagle.
The figure may look impressive but its soaring days are over.
The Queen just spoke; a deafening cry that shook the air. How huge she is. An
Empire State Building lying on its side.

I paid my money at the red booth, rode the escalator up, and now trudge slowly
along the covered walk, approaching her. To my right is Long Beach Harbor,
water very blue and moving fast. To my left, a small boy stares at me. Who's the
funny man talking into a black box?
Another escalator ahead, very long. How tall is the Queen? Twenty stories, I'd
estimate.

Sitting in the Main Lounge. Woodwork finish of the thirties. Odd they thought it
chic. Broad columns. Tables, chairs. A dance floor. On the stage, a grand piano.

An arcade; shops around a tile-floored plaza. Overhead lights the size of truck
wheels. Tables, chairs, and sofas. All this floated once? Amazing. What was it
like on the Titanic? Imagine a place like this awash with icy sea. A frightening
vision.
What I'd like to do is sneak below; to the dark part, where the cabins are. Walk
along the silent, shadowed corridors. I wonder if they're haunted.
I won't, of course. I'll obey the rules.
Old habits die harder than those who follow them.
A blown-up photo on the bulkhead. Gertrude Lawrence with her white dog. Like
the one they used in David Lean's Oliver Twist; ugly, squat, and pointy-eared.
Miss Lawrence smiles. She does not realize, as she strolls the Queen's deck, that
mortality walks close behind her.

Photos in a case titled Memorabilia.
David Niven doing a Scottish jig. He looks quite merry. He doesn't know his
wife is going to die soon. I gaze at that frozen moment and feel uncomfortably
godlike.
There's Gloria Swanson in her furs. There's Leslie Howard; how young he looks.
I remember seeing him in a movie called Berkeley Square. I recall him time-
traveling back to the eighteenth century.
In a way, I'm doing something like that at this moment. Being on this ship is
being partially in the 1930s. Even to the music piped around. It has to be music
played aboard the Queen at that time; it's so dated, so magnificently ticky-tick.
An announcement on the board states, Christened by Her Majesty The Queen,
26th Sept., 1934. Five months before my birth.

Sitting in the Observation Bar. No business-suited men around me though, no
drink before me on the table. Only tourists and black coffee in a plastic cup, an
apple danish baked in Anaheim.
Does she mind? I wonder. Does the Queen accept her fall from grace? Or is she
angry? I'd be.
Looking at the counter section. What was it like in those days? Give us a gin and
tonic, Harry. A glass of white wine. J.B. on the rocks, please. Now, submarine
sandwiches and ice-cold milk and burning-hot coffee.
Above the counter is a mural. People dancing, holding hands, a long thin oval of
them. Who are they supposed to be? All of them are frozen like this ship.
I feel an odd sensation in my stomach. Something like the feeling I get watching
a movie about racing when they show a point-of-view shot from inside the car;
my body knows it's sitting still, yet visually I'm traveling at high speed and the
irreconcilable contrast makes me queasy.
Here the feeling is reversed yet equally uncomfortable. I'm the one who's
moving and the Queens environment is fixed. Does that make sense? I doubt it.
But this place is starting to give me the creeps.

Officers' Quarters. No one here but me, in between two tour groups. The
sensation is intense now; something pressing at my solar plexus. Sounds enhance
it; announcements made aboard the Queen back then: "Will Miss Molly Brown
please contact the Information Bureau?" The Unsinkable?
A bell rings as I stare into the Captain's Dayroom. Were they smaller people
then? Those chairs look undersized to me. Another announcement: "Angela
Hampton has a telegram awaiting her at the Purser's Office." Where is Angela
now? Did she get her telegram? I hope it was good news.
Invitations on the wall. Uniforms hanging motionless behind glass windows.
Books on shelves. Curtains, clocks. A desk, a pale white telephone. All
suspended, static.

Navigating Bridge; the Nerve Center they called it. Polished, bright, and dead.
Those wheels will never turn again. That telegraph will never relay orders to the
Engine Room. That radar screen will be forever darkened.

Had to leave the tour part of the ship. Still feel odd. Sitting on a bench in the
Museum. Extremely modern here; out of sync with where I've been. I feel
depressed. Why did I come here anyway? A bad idea. I need a forest, not a
landlocked mortuary.
Well, okay, I'll see it through. That's my way. Never break off in the middle.
Never put aside a book, however dull. Never walk out on a play or movie or a
concert, boring though it is. Eat everything on your plate. Be polite to older
people. Don't kick dogs.
Stand up, damn it. Mope.
Walking through the main room of the Museum. Giant blow-up of a front page
grabs my eye: The Long Beach Press-Telegram. The headlines read:
CONGRESS DECLARES WAR.
Lord. An entire division aboard this ship. Bob experienced it too. Ate off a
partitioned tray like that one, with eating utensils like those. Wore a long brown
overcoat like that, a brown wool hat, a helmet with a liner like that, combat boots
like that. Carried a duffel bag like that and slept in a bunk like one of those
stacked three high. That would be my brother's memorabilia of the Queen. No
Scottish jigs or walking one's pointy-eared, white dog. Just being nineteen years
old and crossing an ocean toward likely death.
That sensation again. A core of deadness hanging in my stomach.
More memorabilia. Dominoes. Dice in a leather cup. A mechanical pencil.
Books for religious services; Protestant, Catholic, Jewish, Mormon, Christian
Scientist-that old, familiar book. I feel as though I were an archaeologist
excavating in a temple. More photographs. Mr. and Mrs. Don Ameche. Harpo
Marx. Eddie Cantor. Sir Cedric Hardwicke. Robert Montgomery. Bob Hope.
Laurel and Hardy. Churchill. All suspended in time, forever smiling. I've got to
leave.

Sitting in my car again, depleted. Is this what psychics feel like after entering a
house filled with a presence of the past? I felt it growing in me constantly, a
drawing, twisting discomfort. The past is in that vessel. I doubt it will endure
with all those people tramping through. Presently, it must be dissipated. But it's
there now.
Then again, maybe it was just the apple danish.

Twenty minutes after two, on my way to San Diego, listening to some weird,
cacophonous music; no melodic line, no content.
Lordy, there I go again. Held up by a camper, pulling out into the next lane,
speeding up and passing, jockeying to gain position. Don't you get the point,
R.C.?
The music ended. Didn't hear what it was. Now they're starting "Ragtime for
Eleven Wind Instruments" by Stravinsky. Just turned off the radio.
Los Angeles has vanished now. So, too, has Long Beach and the Queen. San
Diego is a fantasy. All that's real is here; this piece of highway unreeling in front
of me.
Where will I stop in San Diego?-assuming it exists, of course. What difference
does it make? I'll find a place, go out to eat; maybe a Japanese restaurant. I'll
catch a movie, read a magazine or take a walk, I'll drink, pick up a girl, stand on
a dock, throw stones at boats, I'll decide when I get there. Boo to schedules.
Listen, cheer up, kiddo! It's going to be a ball! There's months and months