© 2023
by Dakota Orlando
Herbert George Wells picked up his tuxedo cat with one arm and patted the side of his third-generation time machine with the other hand. “How about this, Jules? While you’ll be twenty thousand leagues under the sea and journeying to the center of the Earth, I shall be thousands of miles away a hundred years ahead in time.” He scratched Jules’s head. “I will wager you never thought of that, hey, lad?”
He set Jules Verne down and watched him sit and lick his paw. Wells bent over and smiled. “I’m sorry to bore your lackadaisical personage with the greatest discovery of mankind.” Straightening, he stood erect with hands on hips. “With this newest model, I can travel not only to any date in time but also to any location on Earth … and I don’t have to take the machine with me.”
Jules looked up. “Meow.”
Wells laughed. “Yes, I’m sure you’d prefer a bowl of milk to time traveling. After all, you cannot eat or drink time travel.” Jules meowed again and sauntered off toward the basement stairs. “Where’s your sense of curiosity, laddie?”
He laughed again and climbed into the ten-foot-in-diameter transparent globe supported by dual rail runners. Turning the departure dial to the current day, October 31, 1899, he set the arrival dial for October 31, 1999. He spun the return dial forward to November 7, 1999, when he would automatically leave the future and return to the moment he first departed. He had preset the geographical destination to Philadelphia, U.S.A.
He eased the floor lever back toward him. A low hum began as his basement blurred and faded to black. When next he could see, he stood in a master bedroom laden with decorated, dark-brown furniture. He didn’t recognize the design but guessed it to be American Civil War era.
A youthful-looking, middle-aged woman stood before an ornamented dresser mirror, fastening a petticoat over some already in place. The petticoats puffed out, hinting at a large hoop skirt at the core. A crinoline ball gown of white tarlatan lay strewn on the bed. It also included an amber taffeta overskirt and bodice.
Wells adjusted his ascot as he bit his thickly mustached upper lip. A yelp drew his attention to the mirror. The woman had spied him and twirled around. He swept the silk top hat from his head. “I’m H. G. Wells, and I’ve traveled here from eighteen ninety-nine in my time machine.” He did not know he would suddenly blurt out the truth.
The woman straightened up and inhaled. “Oh, dear me.” She threw a hand over her bosom and, several seconds later, regained her composure and lowered her hand. She opened her mouth and spoke with an American Southern accent. “I’m Scarlet O’Hara. Welcome to Tara.” She leaned back and laughed.
“Sorry to break in on your privacy, Miss O’Hara, but I have a matter of immense urgency. I do believe I may have missed my mark by a hundred and sixty years.”
“Have you seen Rhett about anywhere?”
“Rhett?”
The woman tilted her head and smiled. “Why, Rhett Butler, of course. My stars. Don’t you know I meant my husband? Why, everyone this side of Atlanta knows good old, scandalous Rhett.”
“Atlanta?” He ran his fingers over his chin. “I seemed to have missed the city as well.” He whipped his hand down by his side. “No, madam, I have not seen Mr. Butler. I barely just arrived.”
“Oh, fiddle-de-dee!” The woman walked to the bed and stared at the crinoline ball gown. “Oh, well. Perhaps tomorrow.” She turned to him and grinned. “‘After all, tomorrow is another day.’”
Wells stepped forward and lifted his hat to his waist, holding it with both hands. “But the question is, madam, what year is it?”
“It had to be right at the close of the war. Eighteen sixty-four … eighteen sixty-five.”
“I mean, what year is it now?”
The door opened, and a teenage girl walked in dressed in a Victorian gown of the early 1880s, complete with the oversized bustle in the back. She entered, staring at the floor, stopped, and looked up. Her eyebrows shot up, and she spoke without a Southern accent. “Mom, you’re in your underwear, and there’s a strange man in your bedroom.”
“My,” the woman said. Her accent had disappeared. She ambled toward her daughter. “What powers of observation you have.”
“I thought you weren’t going to date right now?” The daughter pointed to the bed. “Boy, when you start, you just jump right in, don’t you?”
The woman turned her daughter around and pushed her toward the door. “Okay, Ann Veronica, that’s enough. I’ll introduce you to Mr. Wells downstairs.”
Ann turned at the door. “I came to ask where my stupid gloves and handbag are. Do I really have to wear gloves all evening?”
The woman nodded and started to close the door. “It’s part of a Victorian lady’s formal attire. It’s just for one night. Look in your top bureau drawer.”
Ann forced the door open as it was about to close and poked her head in. “Is this what they call a Victorian quickie?”
“In this get-up? Believe me, there’d be nothing quick about it. Now, go on.” She pushed Ann’s head beyond the doorframe, closed the door, turned around, and leaned against it. “I teach history at the university, sir.” She walked toward him. “Are you Professor Harmon’s guest? The archaeologist from London?”
“I’ve told you, Miss O’Hara, I’m H. G. Wells … the writer?”
She stopped, smiled, and eased her hands before her petticoats. “You know … you actually look like him. You are nicely done up, but you don’t always have to go around acting the part. I’m not really Scarlet O’Hara.”
He popped his hat back on. “But I really am Herbert George Wells.”
“Are you ready to join the party?” She strutted to the bed and started slipping into her crinoline gown. Her Southern dialect returned. “Now, Mr. Wells, you don’t want to be like The Invisible Man.” She pointed to the elaborately hand-carved wooden clock on the dresser with the Roman numerals. “You see that Time Machine? We’d better join the party lickety-split, or there will be The War of the Worlds.”
Wells bolted toward her. “Miss … whoever you are, you have just named three of my first four novels.”
“I know.” She held her arm out. “Where do you think I’ve been all my life … on The Island of Doctor Moreau? Now, why don’t you be a gentleman and escort a lady to her own party?”
Wells screwed up his face and left the woman’s arm hanging. “That was the fourth book.” He glanced at his feet. “What, may I ask, is your real name?”
“Victoria Stanley.” Vicky opened the bedroom door.
Wells eased the door out of Vicky’s hand and closed it. He spied a calendar on the wall and confirmed the date as October 1999. “This is more than a housewarming party.”
“It is also Halloween.”
“All Hallow’s Eve? My word. No wonder I was deceived.” He stared at her, attempting to compose his next words as if they would stand as the most important of his life. “I must convince you of my real identity, Herbert George Wells, and that I traveled here in a time machine of my own construction. My stay shall be but one week. I desire a confidante in whom I can harbor my trust.”
“I’m quite trustworthy, but to expect to believe that there is such a thing as time travel …?” She shook her head and reached for the door.
Wells withdrew a shiny metal box with two buttons inset on top of it from under his waistcoat. “Perhaps this shall convince you.”
Vicky stopped and gawked at him. Wells held out the box, pressed a button, and faded away. Vicky backed up several steps, her eyes opening wider than goose eggs. She screamed, and the bedroom door flew open.
“What is it?” yelled Ann, standing in the doorway holding her gloves. “Why are you screaming?” She entered the room, closed the door, and darted to her mother. “Jeez, you scared the crap out of me.”
Vicky rested her hand on her abdomen. “There’s been a lot of that lately.”
“Where’s your one-night stand?”
“He’s gone on to the party … I think.” She approached her daughter. “And he’s not a one-night stand.”
“Fine. Will you hurry it up, Mom? You’re late for your own party. I want to finish this because this stupid Victorian dress is killing me.” She grabbed her midsection. “This corset is nothing more than a medieval torture contraption.”
Vicky slapped one hand to her forehead. “Mr. Wells … he’s from a different ….” She threw a hand to her forehead. “I think I’m going to be ill.”
Ann threw out her arms. “Still playing Scarlet O’Hara? That’s nice, Mom. You know, I think I’d rather be in school.” She slapped her hands on her thighs. “You buy this incredibly expensive, outdated house, fill it with useless antique furniture we can’t even touch,” she paused for breath, “throw a big costume party set in the dark ages, and now you’re too sick to apologize to your guests for dragging them here dressed in ridiculous outfits. Your entire generation is screwed up, do you know that?”
Vicky threw up one hand. “Not now, sweetheart. We can discuss the gap another time.”
“The only Gap I want to discuss is in the mall … which is where I’d rather be right now … dressed in a nice pair of tight blue jeans.”
Vicky didn’t notice a form taking shape behind her daughter. “Ann Veronica, you’ll drive me to an early grave.”
“W-W-Well,” Ann stammered, “I’m going downstairs and tell them you will be there in five minutes.” She spun around and slammed into Wells.
Wells stepped back. “Pardon me.”
Ann jumped and squealed. “Where’d you come from?”
Vicky pointed. “This is Mr. Wells. He’s … related to the famous writer Herbert George Wells.” She sat on the bed, her hoop skirt rising, revealing her full-length bloomers. She let out a squawk and jumped back to her feet. Wells laughed.
Ann turned to her mother. “You see how ridiculous this clothing is? How females ever put up with such useless, ridiculous, idiotic clothing is beyond me.” She looked back at Wells. “It’s all men’s doings. They wanted to dress up their live dolls, never once thinking of being practical.” She looked again at Vicky. “Look what it’s done for you, Mom. You’ve just upended yourself and flashed your underwear at a complete stranger.”
Vicky grinned sickly. “Well, it is a one-nighter.”
Wells laughed harder. Ann turned back to him. “What’s so funny, Mr. Wells? It was men who invented this torture gear.” She spun around. “Mom, I’ve had it up to here.” As her hand reached the top of her demonstration point, it knocked her frilly, veiled bonnet ajar. Wells laughed louder as Ann straightened her hat, and she pranced around him to the exit. She yanked it open, walked out, and slammed the door behind her.
Wells and Vicky looked at one another and burst into laughter.
“Typical display for a daughter these days, I take it?” Wells asked.
“I’m afraid the children of today are heard and not seen, Mr. Wells.”
Vicky took Wells by the hand and led him to the door. “You can stay in the guestroom. It’s decorated in your decade. I’ll introduce you as my late husband’s cousin.”
“That will be smashing.”
“You were into science, I understand. I’ll present you as a scientist. You can make up the rest. Now, come with me.”
They strolled arm in arm from the master bedroom.
******
After arriving downstairs, Vicky turned to Mr. Wells. “I forgot to bring my parasol. Wait here while I go back upstairs and fetch it, then I’ll introduce you properly.” She disappeared into a crowd of people.
Wells spied two men and a woman conversing a few feet away. The woman wore a modest day dress comprising a satin damask of blue and gold, a Bolero jacket, and leg-of-mutton sleeves. She held a parasol, not in the manner of a lady in the 1890s, but more like a military man holding a rifle. As he approached the woman from behind, he noticed something strange in the back of her dress. A slit ran vertically from her high collar down her back.
Being a creature far more curious than his Jules Verne tuxedo cat, he could not resist easing up behind her and examining it. The slit seemed covered with a flap of cloth over its entire length. The temptation being too overwhelming, he reached out, caught the flap, and almost had it moved to one side when the young woman twirled around.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Wells grinned. “I-I-I beg your pardon. There was something on your back, and I tried to—”
The woman thrust her back toward him. “Well, if it’s a bug, please get it off. I hate them.”
Wells took advantage of the lady’s misinterpretation to turn the flap aside on the collar. A small metal tag dangling from another piece of metal sprang into view. Below both pieces of metal, ran a long metallic seam down to her waist. He traced it with his finger.
“What are you doing back there?” the woman snapped.
“I’m sorry,” Wells said. “I’ve never seen a metal seam embedded in clothing. What is its purpose?”
“Metal seam?” the woman said. “What the hell are you talking about?”
One of the gentlemen edged closer to Wells. He wore a black tailcoat with silk lapels, black trousers with braid side seams, a black satin waistcoat, white shirt, collar, tie, and black top hat. His white gloves were nowhere to be seen. His attire exploded straight out of the 1860s, except for his unidentifiable footwear, which seemed to fit no period that Wells could recognize.
“I think he means the zipper,” the gentleman said.
“Yes, the zipper,” Wells agreed. “In what manner does it operate?”
Wells couldn’t resist his curiosity. He reached for the zipper and pulled the metal tag down, holding the top of her collar with his other hand. The seam came apart as the metal tag moved lower.
The woman pulled away and stared at Wells. “What are you … a pervert or something?” She reached behind her neck and hastened away, leaving the two smiling gentlemen staring at Wells.
He noticed the second gentleman’s tie. “That is quite a unique tie.” The small bow tie seemed fastened to the collar in some unknown manner instead of being wrapped around the neck with a cloth strap. The rest of his clothing screamed 1850s, including a black tailcoat and trousers, white waistcoat, shirt cravat, collar, and gloves.
“I know,” the second gentleman replied. “I had to use a modern bow tie because I couldn’t get anything that looked Victorian.”
“It’s silly, don’t you think?” the first gentleman asked. “Vicky making us all get dolled up this way … just because this holiday and her housewarming happen to fall on the same day.”
“Well,” the first gentleman continued, “what can I say? I did the best I could. I would just as soon have come dressed as a clown.”
The second gentleman raised both his arms. “Not our elegant ‘Victorian,’ Victoria Stanley. No. Everything has to be a century out of date to match her antiquated house.”
The first gentleman giggled. “I bet at the college, she makes all her English Literature students dress this way during dress-up day.”
“What year is it?” Wells inquired.
“The house?” answered the second gentleman. “I don’t know. The twenties or thirties. Whenever the silly Victorian period was.”
Wells popped his eyebrows up. “The nineteen thirties? The Victorian period lasted that long?”
“We wouldn’t know,” the first gentleman said. “We’re not historians. We both teach math at the university.”
“What year is it now?” Wells asked.
“Yeah, right,” the first gentleman said. They walked off.
Vicky returned carrying her parasol. “Are you ready?”
“When will they invent zippers?”
“Nineteen thirteen.”
“Then I should live to see it. What a marvelous invention!” He slipped his hat back on. “And what of Queen Victoria?”
She pointed at him. “You’re living in eighteen ninety-nine?” He nodded. “She’s got two more years.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Don’t feel badly. Even in 1999, she still stands as England’s longest-reigning monarch.” She raised her hands and clapped them together several times. Everyone stopped their conversations and turned to face her.
“Thank you all for coming,” Vicky said. “I’d like to introduce a cousin of my late husband, who came all the way from Kensington in London, England, Mr. George Wells. He is a living descendant of H. G. Wells and would be glad to answer any of your questions about the life of that famous writer. I have a small ballroom, so follow me, and we’ll start the evening’s entertainment with some dancing.”
After gathering in the ballroom, Vicky waved her hand. “Maestro, play something I’m sure Mr. Wells would know firsthand. Leo Delibes. The waltz from the ballet Sylvia.”
A few seconds later, the music started. She clasped Mr. Wells’s arm and twirled around the dance floor with him. Soon, many others joined in.
“Excuse me, madam,” Wells said. “Where, might I ask, are you hiding the musicians?”
She held up one hand and stretched her thumb and forefinger apart about three-and-a-half inches. “On a small device, we call an iPod.”
“Not on a cylinder?”
“We’re way past Edison.” Vicky threw her head back and enjoyed the next twirl along with the accompanying strains of the waltz. After several minutes, Vicky stopped before her daughter and offered her to Mr. Wells for the rest of the dance. Before Ann could protest, Wells whisked her away onto the crowded floor.
“Hey!” said Ann. “I don’t dance.”
“Too late,” Wells replied. “You already are. And, dare I say, you’re quite exquisite at it. You know, I find you a most fascinating woman.”
“Woman?” Ann smiled. “Hey, I think I like this. Keep flapping your yapper.”
“I would like to know all about you, Ann Veronica. What are people your age doing these days?”
“In America?” Ann smiled.
“Yes. What is important to you?”
“Well, no one has really asked me that before. Not even Mom … or Dad when he was alive.”
“What happened to your father?”
“Don’t you know? You were his cousin.”
“Well … I’ve been away … in the jungles of the Queen’s domain of India … for a lengthy period of time.”
“But India’s been independent since I can remember.”
Wells gulped. “You mentioned you’d rather be in school. Yet, you appear to be beyond the schooling years.”
“You mean I look older than seventeen? It’s nice of you to say so. Either it’s the clothing, or you’re just being nice.”
“Perhaps when I see you in the morning, dressed as a woman of the twentieth century….”
“Are you staying here?”
“For a week. I am your second cousin, Cousin Ann Veronica.”
“That’s right. We’re related.” Ann giggled. “I think I’m going to like you.”
“Tell me more about yourself. I want to know everything.” The music stopped. Wells held out his arm, and Ann hesitated, smiled, then took it. They strolled to the refreshment table.
“Let me tell you about my boyfriend, Blaine, Cousin George. We just broke up.”
“I’m frightfully sorry. I suppose that means you are no longer seeing him.” Wells dunked the dipper into the punch, poured its contents into a crystal cup, and handed it to Ann. “Was it serious?”
“We were talking about getting married someday. When he referred to me as the future Mrs. Blair Mumford … well, I freaked.”
“Freaked?”
“Lost my temper. He knew how I felt. I’m not giving up my name for any man. What’s wrong with going through life as Ann Veronica Stanley? Why should I give up what I’ve been comfortable with for seventeen years?”
Wells poured another glass of punch. “What’s wrong with taking the man’s name?”
“It shows possession. Women are not objects to be owned. To men … men are most important, and that’s because we women are the mothers. We bring life into the world. All the male does is have a good time. The woman does the suffering, the nurturing … and all the rest of it. The very thing that makes us important is what men used to put us down. We are people, and quite frankly, if I had lived in H. G. Wells’s time, I would have raised hell … if you’d excuse the language.”
“I suppose you would. It all seems so radical.”
She sipped her punch, eased the glass down, and glared into his eyes. “I know the history very well, Mr. Wells. While we women cared for the kids, the men reached out and snatched all our rights away. It’s like the fluke conquering the necessary.”
“‘The fluke conquering the necessary?’ So, men are flukes, are they?” He grinned.
Ann shrugged. “Everyone knows the default gender is female. Every fetus starts out female. If nature takes no action on the embryo, it produces a female. She needs a fluke to produce a male. My mother always uses the old expression, ‘Necessity is the mother of invention.’ Well, I say, ‘mother is a necessary invention.’”
Wells nodded. “And men are just … flukes. Very intriguing. Women’s suffrage existed as far back as my great-great-grandfather’s day.”
Ann sipped her punch again. “What did they suffer from?”
“Much like you, they felt slighted and taken advantage of. Equality. They wanted to vote and be equal to men.”
Ann jerked her head back. “They couldn’t even vote? Did they want to keep their names when they got married?”
“There was one woman … Woodhull … an American. She moved to London in the seventies but ran for the presidency in America.”
“In the 1970s? Never heard of her.” Ann sipped more punch.
Wells shrugged his shoulders. “The 1870s. She turned out to be very unpopular … even among other women. It seems she approved of women having frequent affairs. Even after they were married.”
“Affairs? What kind of affairs?”
“You know what I mean.” Wells gazed across the room.
“No, I don’t.” Ann paused. “You mean screw around?”
“Screw ’round?” Wells bobbed his eyebrows.
“Yeah. Like having sex with just anyone.”
Wells shoved his drink to his mouth and glanced around. “Oh, my.”
“Sounds like the late sixties. The hippies were the only ones with any sense. Free love. Why not?”
Wells leaned closer. “I’m curious. How would you assign a surname to the children if you didn’t take your husband’s name?”
Ann eased her cup down and stared at him. “I’ve got an idea about that. If the baby is a boy, the surname would be the father’s. If a girl … the mother’s. What’s wrong with that?”
“That is a most fascinating notion.”
Ann scrutinized his face. “You think it’s stupid?”
“Nothing’s stupid. If it’s possible, I always say it’s worth contemplating.”
“Shit … I like you, Cousin George.” She giggled. “Don’t tell my mother I said that. She hates it when I curse.”
Wells slipped a finger to his lips. “Not a word, I promise.”
He continued interviewing Ann. She told him about several more notions that would help establish total equality between the sexes. She even spoke of delicate things, like methods for preventing pregnancy, a concept not altogether unheard of by Wells. He found her quite a remarkable character, ripe for a future book, and candid enough to have shocked the women seeking suffrage in his own day.
The party ended at ten because Ann had school the next day, and it was a workday for everyone else. Vicky escorted Wells to the guestroom and had him wear her deceased husband’s nightclothes. He climbed into a familiar Victorian, canopied bed and fell asleep thinking of the interesting week ahead.
******
The next morning, Wells woke before dawn. A Victorian bathroom lay just off the guestroom, so he knew how to operate everything. The toilet was the type with the tank mounted beneath the ceiling with the pull chain hanging beside it for flushing. The tub also seemed authentic, being made of porcelain and mounted on four feet shaped like lion feet with exposed claws.
However, after changing into some twentieth-century leisurewear, he found the most interesting items downstairs. Against the wall stood a large wooden box at least four feet wide with a piece of opaque glass in front. It wasn’t a window because upon further scrutiny, he discovered no way to open it. He pondered the purpose of the furniture when he heard a noise behind him. He turned to find Ann dressed in blue, faded pants and a small band of cloth for a top wrapped around her bosom, barely covering the vitals. She stood beside a low French Victorian coffee table and sofa.
“Trying to turn it on?” she asked, reaching toward the coffee table. “They don’t have remote control devices in England?”
Ann picked up a small rectangular black box off the coffee table endowed with a multitude of buttons, pointed it in his direction, and pressed one.
Wells threw his hands before his face. “I don’t want to go back just yet!”
She lowered the remote. “What?”
After closing his eyes, he heard a voice behind him. “All right, Wild Bill. Stick them hands in the air, or I’ll fill you full of lead.”
He spun to see a face in the box’s window. The man wore a dirty, disheveled Stetson hat from the wild American West. “Heavens!” he said. “You brought someone here from the past.” He reached out and touched the glass.
“What are you talking about?” Ann said.
“Oh, I see. He’s behind the glass. It’s a picture … only it moves and talks.”
“And it looks better from back here,” Ann said. “Want the local news?” She pushed another button, and the image changed to a woman sitting behind a long, shiny-topped table looking out into the living room of the Stanley house.
“Can she hear us?”
“Only if you go outside and shout loud enough to be heard in downtown Philly. That’s a good fifteen miles away.” She lowered the remote onto the table. “Want some breakfast?”
They entered the kitchen, where Vicky had just finished placing eggs, bacon, and toast on three plates. Vicky stopped after they came in and threw her hands on her hips. “Ann Veronica. You know tank tops are not part of the dress code for your school.”
“They never say anything, Mom. It’s never enforced.”
“It doesn’t mean you can break the rule. Good citizens obey all rules. Consider it a valuable job skill.”
Ann folded her arms. “Oh, Mom!”
“Don’t ‘Oh, Mom’ me. After breakfast …” She pointed to the exit. “… upstairs and change.”
“Okay.” Ann sat down and played with her toast. “Cousin George treats me like an adult.”
Vicky glared at her. “That’s fine if you display the maturity of an adult. Adults don’t wear tank tops to work.”
Ann smiled. “What about strippers and pole dancers?”
Vicky turned back to the stove. “Don’t get smart-mouthed with me.”
“Just kidding. Can’t you take one?”
Wells scratched his head. “One what?”
“A joke.” Ann bit off a piece of bacon she had picked up with her fingers, paused, and jumped up excitedly. “Say, Cousin George, why don’t you come to school with me today? We just studied H. G. Wells, but my English teacher says his writing style is too … too … something. Verbose, I think she called it.”
Wells popped up his eyebrows and frowned. “Really? I’m too wordy? I mean my great-great-grandfather.”
“As Mrs. Wilson says, ‘Overly descriptive to the point of dumping trainloads of words on a modicum of ideas.’”
Wells grimaced. “Interesting metaphors.”
******
They ate with minimal discussion and sauntered to Mrs. Wilson’s first-period English class. Ann spied Mrs. Wilson writing on her dry-erase board before the morning bell and stepped up to her.
“Mrs. Wilson?”
She turned around. “Yes, Ann Veronica?”
Ann eased a hand onto Wells’s shoulder. “This is Mr. Wells … my second cousin. His great-great-grandfather was H. G. Wells. I know we just finished with the works of H. G. Wells, but I thought the other kids might like to ask him some questions about his great-great-grandfather.”
Mrs. Wilson threw a hand onto her chest. “That’s wonderful.” She held out her hand, and they shook. “I suppose Ann Veronica has told you that I’m not a particular fan of the works of your great-great-grandfather, but I do recognize his extreme importance in literature. After all, every English class studies him at one time or another.”
“Thank you so much for the opportunity, Mrs. Wilson. Yes … Ann Veronica told me you thought H. G.’s writings verbose.”
“Just a personal opinion. I prefer a style more to the point.” The bell rang. “Everyone,” Mrs. Wilson said, “we will forgo our study of the Orson Welles’ radio broadcast of War of the Worlds, which panicked so many people in this country back in the nineteen thirties. We have an extraordinary guest with us today.” She pointed to Ann standing beside her. “Ann Veronica has brought her cousin, the great-great-grandson of H. G. Wells. He will answer any questions you have. Mr. Wells, I think you will find my class quite well-informed.” Mild applause broke out.
Wells bent over and whispered in Ann’s ear. “There was a broadcast of the War of the Worlds in the nineteen thirties?”
“Yes,” Ann answered. “They broadcast a live reading, and everyone thought the Martians had invaded the Earth for real.”
“Is Orson Welles related to me?”
“I don’t think so, unless you spell your last name to end in es.”
He turned to the class. “Yes, everyone, do ask a multitude of questions.”
“Mr. Wells,” a girl said from the back of the room. “I saw the movie they made in the thirties about your great-great-grandfather’s book, The Shape of Things to Come. I thought it was goofy. Some of the predictions he made were really way off.”
A long pause developed as Wells tried to think of a response to the book he had yet to write.
Mrs. Wilson stepped forward. “H. G. Wells wrote that in nineteen thirty-three, and once Hollywood gets an author’s work … well, what can I say? It ends up embellished. That is one of your vocabulary words for this week. Rudy? What does embellish mean?”
While Rudy defined embellish, Wells noticed his insides started quivering, making him nauseous. He struggled through the rest of the period, referring to the expertise of Mrs. Wilson when questions surfaced on works he hadn’t yet written.
Mrs. Wilson strolled toward him after the period ended. “Mr. Wells. I think you need to bone up on your great-great-grandfather, especially the period after eighteen ninety-nine.”
Wells thrust a hand toward Mrs. Wilson. “Indeed, madam. I shall endeavor to do so as my homework assignment.” He winked.
******
During lunch, Wells tapped his spoon on Ann’s lunch tray three times. “Have you ever looked up the complete works of H.G. Wells?”
“No.”
“Well, I think it would be a real eye-popper … for both of us.”
“That’s a wonderful idea since you don’t seem to know them all.”
“Apparently, I cannot. Do you have a library?”
Ann led him into the library and settled behind a machine with a screen full of words. She tapped on the keyboard several times, and the text changed. She pointed to one area of the screen. “Here they are. These are the works of your great-great-grandfather.”
Wells took the seat Ann vacated and stared at the screen. Love and Mr. Lewisham (1900), his current work, topped the list. Then came Kipps: The Story of a Simple Soul (1905) and The History of Mr. Polly (1909)—all billed as his comic novels.
“Holy crap!” Ann said.
Wells spun around to see her standing behind him, looking over his shoulder. He shot a glance at the librarian, who offered Ann a glare. Everyone in the library turned their attention toward them.
Ann pointed to the screen. “There’s my name!”
Wells raced down the list and stopped at the title she indicated. The pit of Wells’s stomach dropped away as cold chills radiated throughout his body. It read Ann Veronica (1909), a novel described as women’s emancipation.
The girl standing behind him would wield significant influence over his ideas—so much that he would write a novel about her. Did this mean he was destined to go forward in time all along? Did this little girl have something important to say—something so important that all the Victorian Era had to be her sounding board? Perhaps something in what the women’s suffrage advocates of his day were saying … and maybe it wasn’t just all female temperament as he had suspected.
“Ann Veronica Stanley,” Wells said as he gawked at her. “I think we need to go somewhere and talk.”
She stared at him and nodded for a long time. “I think so, Mr. Herbert George Wells. I’ll want to make sure you get everything right.”
They left the school early, hurried to Ann Veronica’s favorite cafe, and had a lengthy and meaningful talk.
THE END
Click HERE to go to Top
Click HERE to Return to Welcome Page