Page 83 of Strangers in Time

Humans make poor gods. We’re just not up to it.

Imogen had written that as the opening lines in Chapter Eight. It was one of his favorite epigrams.

But then, both of their lives had been transformed in ways Oliver would never have imagined. And maybe that was why Imogen had never finished her book. Yes, that clearly was the reason she had not. And it was also the reason she had died.

He put the pages on top of the tin box and sat back in the old, worn, and uncomfortable chair. This was intentionally so. Imogen did not like to write in comfort. She wanted to feel on the edge of pain as she wrote, so that she could authentically transfer that emotion to the story.

Pain was a universal connection; everyone felt it at some point in their lives, physically, mentally, and/or emotionally. No one, rich or poor, young or old, was exempt from its claws. However, the resulting ache in his back from the unyielding chair prompted no grand ideas from Oliver. His fingers did not even reach for the typewriter keys. He felt inadequate and overwhelmed.

Distracted and dismayed, he looked up at the doorway to see Molly and Charlie staring at him, their faces puffy from disturbed sleep.

He clumsily rose as they entered Imogen’s old sanctum.

Looking around before settling her gaze on the Crown typewriter and the stack of pages Molly said, “Are you a writer?”

Oliver came around to the front of the desk and perched on the edge, blocking their view of both the machine and the pages. For several reasons he felt deeply invaded, a long-kept secret abruptly lost.

“My wife was. A very good one, in fact.”

“Are any of her books here? I’d love to read them.”

“She was writing her first when she died.”

“Oh,” said Molly.

“I didn’t think you’d be up this early,” said Oliver.

“The rain woke us,” said Charlie.

“Really? I found the sound quite relaxing,” said Oliver, though he was, of course, wide awake.

“I mean the water was drippin’ on my head,” explained Charlie.

He and Molly were sharing the small spare bedroom that held twin cots.

“Ah, yes, I’ve been meaning to fix that leak for ages.”

“This is a very nice room,” said Molly timidly, as though shesensed they had disrupted a treasured privacy. But then she stared at thetypewriterand her expression changed. She edged forward.

“Yes, I like to come in here. Usually not this early, but…”

“Are you… have you been trying to finish the book for your wife?” Molly drew still closer to the desk, saw that it was indeed a typewriter with a blank page wound in, and her features relaxed.

“What… um, no,” he fibbed. With far more candor he added, “I have neither the talent nor the discipline to do so. I’m much more comfortable with numbers. They are what they are, and they always add up the same way. I prefer that sort of consistency. I do not like unpredictability in the least. Yet that seems to be all there is anymore, which is why the world is so bewildering to me presently.” He stopped abruptly as though chastened by the fact that he had revealed so much of a personal nature.

“Could I read what she has written?” Molly asked.

He put a hand protectively on top of the pages. “That wouldn’t be fair to Imogen. I mean, a story only half finished?”

He led them from the room, closed the door, and locked it.

“Now, would you like some breakfast? I have two eggs, a strip of bacon and a slice of ham, and some bread and margarine and Golden Shred. I’ll need to go to the shops today with my ration book for more provisions. While you’re eating I can take a look at that ceiling. I think a well-placed cloth or two will suffice. Or perhaps moving the cot?”

He went off to the small kitchen to prepare their meals.

Molly said, “I’m not sure he was being truthful. But thatwasa typewriter.”

“But that don’t mean he’s not doin’ somethin’… bad.”

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