Mr Kent’s Fantastic Machine (fragmento)

Susan scraped the bottom of the jar and spread the last bits of mayonnaise on the toast.

-Josh! Hurry up or you’ll be late for school -she called up anxiously.

Josh stomped down the stairs. Barely two minutes later, the toast had been reduced to crumbs and Susan was left alone in the kitchen. He’s so hyperactive, she thought, and as she cleaned up she pondered over who was to blame for that. After deciding for videogames and television, she went out into the front yard to get the paper.

-That seems like a very fine boy –said an elderly man standing in the garden next door.

-Yes, but sometimes I wish he weren’t so… twenty-first centurish, if you know what I mean.

Sixty long seconds went by until it dawned on Susan that she had no idea who she was talking to. She looked at the old man inquiringly.

-I’m Robert Kent. Just moved in –said the man kindly, as he offered Susan a wrinkled hand. She apologised for her carelessness and introduced herself.

-Susan Binns. My son’s name’s Josh. Welcome to the neighbourhood, Mr Kent.

The man was about to turn round, when he stopped, and after a few thoughtful seconds he said:

-You know, I need a hand cleaning the attic. Perhaps the youngster could be of help. He’d earn a few bucks and spend some time away from the television.

Susan was delighted by the idea, unlike Josh, who ran up to his room as soon as he heard the news that evening.

-Come on Josh, darling –said Susan as she sat on the bed next to him-. It’ll be fun!

-Fun? How can it be fun to be stuck with that old rug every afternoon?

Susan stroked her son’s hair with motherly patience.

-Ok, do it once, and if you get awfully bored and feel like shooting yourself after the first time, I promise you won’t have to go ever again.

Josh smiled, kissed his mom on the cheek, and began to get ready for dinner.

Susan was very satisfied when Josh came in the following evening, looking like anything but a ten-year-old who had spent the worst afternoon of his life.

-Did you have fun? –she asked, trying not to sound too anxious.

-Mr Kent is alright, Mom.

Throughout the subsequent week, Susan avoided inquiring about her son’s visits to Mr Kent, so as not to make him feel pressured. But the complaints never came, and she began to wonder how alright Mr Kent really was.

-Tell me dear –she said while he helped her set the table- what is it you and Mr Kent do up in the attic?

-Oh, well, the first three days, we threw out all the junk. There were tons of junk, Mom! And then we started playing with his time machine.

Susan opened the top drawer, counted three forks, three knives and three spoons, and they all hit the floor with an awful clang.

-HIS WHAT?

-His Time Machine –Josh repeated, as naturally as if he was talking about football-. We go places, Mom. We’ve been to the sixties, the eighties, to the time when that mean-looking man… Nikeson… was president. But the time we like visiting best is The War.

-The… war? –asked Susan timidly. And in order to disguise the fact that she was absolutely bewildered, she added:

-And by the way, it’s Nixon, honey.

-Yes –Josh went on, ignoring the correction- At first, Mr Kent said he wasn’t sure we should go there, because he said it was a very groosome war and I was too young and all. But then I told him we had talked about it at school, so he said it was ok.

Josh went upstairs to wash up, and Susan wondered.