shoulders shook. His breath came in terrible gasps. He cried out to God, Saint Mary Mother of God, and Jesus. He called to his mother, his father, to Doctor Dee, and a lot of other names. Then he just wept. I’d never seen a man cry like that. I’d never seen anybody cry like that except my mother when my father left.
I felt so sorry for him. Strange as this whole thing was for me, at least I was still in my own time, with everything I knew about still around me. My mom and I had lost my dad. But Edmund had lost a whole world. And there was no way to get it back. I just sat with my hands in my lap wishing I could think of anything that would help.
Finally, when he had cried himself out, he crossed himself and said, “I am an Englishman. Many of us have been cast on strange strands before this. Come what may, I am still Edmund Shakeshaft. I thank ye, Miranda Hoberman. May God reward your kindness to me.”
“You’re welcome, Edmund,” I said. And then suddenly I had a brilliant idea. “Would you like some tea?”
“Tea?” he said, in a voice that was still shaking.
“Yeah. Mom and I have lots of different kinds.”
“What is tea?” he asked.
“I thought all you English guys drank tea all the time,” I said.
“No,” Edmund said. “Never heard of tea.”
“Well, I’d like some,” I said, hoping it was just a language thing. “Let me make a cup.”
I got up and went over to the stove. I shook the kettle, heard that there was no water in it, and filled it from the tap.
“How does yon work?” he said.
“I don’t really know,” I said. “Water pressure, I guess.”
I went back to the stove and turned on one of the burners.
Edmund stood up to get a better look. Dad would have thought that was a good sign. Getting interested in his surroundings.
“How is’t ye can cook without fire?” he said as the burner began to glow.
“It’s electric,” I said. “Sort of like lightning, but not dangerous. Look.” I walked over to the light switch and flicked it. The light over the table came on.
Edmund stared up at the ceiling. He didn’t look happy.
“Don’t panic,” I quickly said. “It’s not black magic or anything like that. It’s just science. Everybody does this. You can do it.”
“I can?”
I turned off the light. “Come on,” I said. “First lesson in twenty-first-century living.”
He slid along the wall until he was standing beside the light switch.
“Since this is me first time, must I say any special words?” he asked me.
“No. Just push up on the switch.”
He did, and the light, of course, came on. He turned it off. He turned it on. He did it back and forth until the tea-kettle whistled.
“See if you can prop up the table and we’ll sit down,” I said.
While Edmund crawled under the table and tried to stick the leg back on, I got out two mugs and filled them with hot water and tea bags. I figured English breakfast blend was the way to go.
When the tea had steeped, I brought it over to the table. Edmund was sitting at it now, and the thing didn’t shake even when he leaned on it.
“’Tis a simple break at the joint,” he said. “A man could mend it in no time at all.”
“Not my dad… He can fix people, though.”
“A physician, is he?” Edmund asked.
“No. A psychologist. But he’s very good at it,” I said.
“A psychologist. A beautiful word. What does it mean?”
“I guess you’d call him a soul doctor.”
“He must be very holy then,” Edmund said.
“Nope. He’s just good at fixing other people.”
“Mayhap I could mend the table for ye,” he said.
“Mom would like that,” I said. “Try your tea.”
Edmund sipped it.
“Take the bag out first,” I said.
He tried a second sip and made a face. “Strange taste. Have ye no beer?”
“How old are you?” I asked him.
“Sixteen, near seventeen.”
“You have to be twenty-one to drink beer in California,” I said.
“Twenty-one? What the hell for?” he asked. “Are ye savages?”
“Some people start a lot earlier. But it’s illegal if you’re not an adult. And my mom would kill me if I gave one of my friends beer. How about—wait a minute.”
I went to the refrigerator and pulled out a cola. “Try this,” I said, and popped the can open.
Edmund tried one sip. Then he tilted back the can and slurped. “Nectar,” he said. “What d’ye call it?”
“It’s just a cola. Some people call them soft drinks. There’s plenty in there. You can pull one out any time you want.”
Edmund got up and went over to the fridge. “May I open’t?”
“Sure.”
He jumped back when the chill air hit him. “’Tis winter in there!”
“Yep,” I said. “Refrigeration.”
He knelt down and carefully put one hand inside. He felt the food, picked it up and looked at it. Spelled out the words on the packages.
“Is it always so within this chest?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “You can adjust the temperature, but that’s what it’s for. To keep food cold so it doesn’t spoil.”
“’Tis the wonder of the world,” he breathed.
“Wait’ll you see television.”
“Tell-a-vision?” Edmund said. “Prophecy?”
“Not quite,” I said.
“Whatever tell-a-vision be, it must wait—I must ask ye now to lead me to the jakes.”
“The what?”
“The
