JUKEBOX GIFTS
                    Dean Wesley Smith

   Dean Wesley Smith, a multiple Hugo and World Fantasy Award
nominee, has published over 50 short stories, co-edited the
award-winning Science Fiction Writers of America Handbook, and
teaches writing all over the country. In 1989, he won a World Fantasy
award at about the same time as his short story. "Where Have All the
Graveyards Gone!" appeared in the pages of F&SF. He has published one
novel, Laying the Music to Rest, and has sold three more. He is the
publisher of Pulphouse, and edits many of their projects. Alter a hiatus
from writing short fiction, he will have over 14 stories appear in 1994 in
various magazines and anthologies, including Grails: The Quest at
Daybreak, and Christmas Ghosts

   Dean has a series of stories written around the time-travel powers of
music, using the device of a jukebox. One such story has appeared in
Night Cry Magazine, another will appear in By Any Other Fame, and
then there is this one, "Jukebox Gifts." Perhaps, someday, he will collect
them all so that we can read the adventures of Radley Stout, his bar and
his magic jukebox all in one sitting.



  The stereo behind the bar was playing soft Christmas songs as I clicked
the lock to the front entrance of the Garden Lounge and flicked off the
outside light. I could feel the cold of the night through the wood door and
the heat of the room surrounding me. I took a deep breath. Christmas Eve
was finally here.

   I could see the entire lounge and the backs of my four best friends
sitting at the bar. I had never been much into decorating with Christmas
stuff and this year was no different. My only nod to the season was small
Christmas candles for each table and booth. Some customer had tied a red
ribbon on one of the plants over the middle booth and the Coors driver
had put up a Christmas poster declaring Coors to be the official beer of
Christmas. The candles still flickered on the empty tables, but the rest of
the bar looked normal. Dark brown wood walls, dark brown carpet, an old
oak bar and friends. The most important part was the friends. My four
best friends' lives were as empty as mine. Tonight, on the first Christmas
Eve since I bought the bar, I was going to give them a chance to change
that. That was my present to them. It was going to be an interesting night.


   "All right, Stout," Carl said, twisting his huge frame around on his bar
stool so that he could face me as I wound my way back across the room
between the empty tables and chairs. "Just what's such a big secret that
you kick out that young couple and lock the door at seven o'clock on
Christmas Eve?"

  I laughed. Carl always got right to the point. With big Carl you always
knew exactly where you stood.

   "Yeah," Jess said from his usual place at the oak bar beside the waitress
station, "what's so damned important you don't want the four of us to
even get off our stools?" Jess was the short one of the crowd. When he
stood next to Carl the top of Jess's head barely reached Carl's neck. Jess
loved to play practical jokes on Carl. Carl hated it.

  "This," I said as I pulled the custom-made felt cover off the old
Wurlitzer jukebox and, with a flourish, dropped the cloth over the planter
and into the empty front booth. My stomach did a tap dance from nerves
as all four of my best customers whistled and applauded, the sound
echoing in the furniture and plant-filled room.

   David, my closest friend in the entire world, downed the last of his
scotch-rocks and swirled the ice around in the glass with a tinkling sound.
Then, with his paralyzed right hand, he pushed the glass, napkin and all,
to the inside edge of the bar. "So, after hiding that jukebox in the storage
room for the last ten months, you're finally going to let us hear it play?"

   "You guessed it." I ran my shaking fingers over the cold smoothness of
the chrome and polished glass. I had carefully typed onto labels the names
of over sixty Christmas songs, then taped them next to the red buttons.
Somewhere in this jukebox I hoped there would be a special song for each
man. A song that would trigger a memory and a ride into the past. My
Christmas present to each of them.

  I took a deep breath and headed behind the bar. "I hope," I said,
keeping my voice upbeat, "that it will be a little more than just a song. You
see, that jukebox is all that I have left from the first time I owned a bar.
Since I've owned the Garden Lounge, it has never been played."

  Jess, his dress shirt open to the third button and his tie hanging loose
around his neck, spun his bar napkin on top of his glass. "So why
tonight?"

  "Because a year ago on Christmas Eve I made the decision to buy
another bar -- the Garden. Lounge -- and try again."

  "And I'm glad you did," David said, lifting his drink in his good left
hand in a toast.

   "Here, here," Fred said, raising his drink high above his head and
spilling part of it into his red hair. "Where else could we enjoy a few hours
of Christmas Eve before going home to be bored?"

  All four men raised their glasses in agreement as I laughed and joined
them with a sip of the sweet eggnog I always drank on Christmas Eve. No
booze, just eggnog.

  "It's been a good year," I said, "especially with friends like you. That's
why I've decided to give each of you a really special present."

  "Oh, to hell with the present," Jess said. "How about another drink? I've
got a wife to face and knowing her, she ain't going to be happy that I'm
not home yet."

  "Is she ever happy?" David asked.

   Jess nodded slowly. "And I wonder why I drink." He slid his glass down
the bar at me as he always did at least once a night. I caught it and tipped
it upside down in the dirty glass rack.

  "I'll fix everyone a last Christmas drink as you open the first part of your
presents." I reached into the drawer under the cash register and pulled out
four small packages. Each was the size of a ring box wrapped in red paper
and tied with a green ribbon.

  "Awful little," Fred said as I slid one in front of each man and then put
four special Christmas glasses up on the mat over the ice. I'd had the
name of each man embossed on the glass.

  "You know what they say about small packages," Jess said, twisting the
package first one way, then the other while inspecting it. "But knowing
Radley, the size will be a good indication."

  "You just wait," I said.

   "Great glasses," David said, noticing them for the first time. "They part
of the present?"

  "Part of the evening," I said. I let each man inspect his own empty glass
before I filled it. The names were etched in gold leaf over the logo of the
Garden Lounge. I'd had them done to remember the night. I hoped I
would have more than a few glasses left when it was all over.

   Carl was the first to get his present unwrapped. "You were right, Jess.
It's a quarter." He held it up for everyone to see. "Looks like old Radley
here is giving us a clue that we should tip more."

   I laughed as I filled his glass with ice. "No. It's a trip, not a tip." I
finished his drink and slid it in front of him. "Since you unwrapped yours
so fast, you get to go first." I nodded at the jukebox. "But there are rules."

  "There seem to be a lot of rules around here tonight," Fred said.
Everyone laughed.

  I held up a hand for them to stop. "Trust me. This will be a special
night."

  "So give me the rules," Carl said.

   I leaned on the dishwasher behind the bar so no one could see that I
was shaking. "On that jukebox is every damn Christmas song I could find.
Pick one that reminds you of a major point in your life -- some thing or
time or event that changed your life. After you punch the button and
before the music starts, tell us what the song reminds you of."

  Carl shook his head. "You know, Stout. You've gone and flipped out."

   "Sometimes I think so too," I said. I wasn't kidding him. Sometimes I
really did think so.

  "Tonight seems to be ample proof," David said, holding up the quarter.

   "Just trust me, that is a very special jukebox. Try it and I think you'll
discover what I mean."

  Carl shrugged, took a large gulp out of his special glass and set it
carefully back on the napkin. "What the hell. I've played stranger games."

   "So have I," Jess said. "I remember once with a girl named Donna. She
loved to --" David hit him on the shoulder to make him stop as Carl
twisted off his stool and moved over to the jukebox to study the songs.

   I watched as he bent over the machine to read the list. At six-two, two
hundred and fifty pounds, Carl was all muscle, with hands that looked like
he was going to crush a glass at any moment. A carpenter in the real world
outside the walls of the Garden Lounge, he sometimes employed four or
five workers at his small business. Mostly he built houses, although his big
project this year had been Doc Harris's new office. That had taken him
seven months and helped him on the financial side. He had never married
and no one could get much information about his past out of him. He had
no hobbies that I knew of and winter or summer I had never seen him
dressed in anything other than work pants and plaid shirts. He kept his
graying black hair cropped short and never wore a hat, no matter how
hard it was mining.

   After he bent over the jukebox for a moment, Carl's large shoulders
slumped, almost as if someone had put a heavy weight square in the
middle of his back. With effort he stood, turned around, and faced the bar.
His face was pale, his dark eyes a little glazed. "Found one. Now what?"

  I took a deep breath. It was too late to back out now. These were my

   "Put the quarter in and pick the song." My voice was shaking and David
looked at me. He knew me better than anyone and he could tell something
was bothering me.

 I took a deep breath and went on. "Before the song starts tell us the
memory the song brings back."

  Carl shrugged and dropped the quarter into the slot. The quiet in the
Garden seemed to almost ring as he slowly punched the buttons for his
song. "Anything else?" he asked as the jukebox clicked and the mechanism
moved to find the record.

  "Just state what the song reminds you of. And remember, you only have
the length of the song -- usually about two and a half minutes. Okay?"

  Carl shrugged. "Why?"

  "You'll know why in a moment. But remember that. It might be
important. Now tell us the memory."

   He glanced at the jukebox and then quietly said, "This song reminds me
of the night my mother almost died."

  I thought my heart had stopped. This wasn't what I had planned. Why
did he have to pick a memory like that? This was Christmas Eve. Most
people would have memories of good times. Times they wanted to relive.
Damn, it was too late now. "Two and a half minutes, Carl," I managed to
choke out. "Remember that."

  He glanced over at me with a frown as "I'm Dreaming of a White
Christmas" started. Then he was gone, back into his memory.

  And there were only four of us left in the Garden Lounge.

   The urine and disinfectant smells of the nursing home washed over Carl
like a wave over a child on the beach. He grabbed the door frame and held
on, feeling dizzy, confused. A moment before he had been standing in front
of the jukebox at the Garden Lounge, playing a stupid game that Radley
Stout, the owner of the bar, had insisted on playing. Carl had that memory
firmly placed in his mind, as well as the memories of the last twenty years.


  Yet he also had fresh memories of driving to the nursing home this
Christmas Eve. Memories of wishing he could go back to college, wishing
he could do something to put Mother out of her pain and suffering. And a
very dear, very fresh memory of his decision to help her die with some
dignity as she had asked.

  It had been a Sunday afternoon right after the second stroke. She had
not only asked, she had begged him to help her if another stroke took her
mind and left her body alive. That had been her worst fear. Yet he hadn't
done anything. The part of his mind that remembered the Garden Lounge
knew that she had suffered three more strokes. He had been too afraid.

   He squeezed the door frame until his hand hurt. Christmas music
played softly down the hall. "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas," the
same song he had just punched up on the jukebox at the Garden Lounge.
How . . . ? This made no sense.

  He forced himself to take a deep breath and look around. There was a
white-haired nurse sitting behind the counter of the nurse's station. His
mother was in her bed across the small room. Slight, wasted remains of
the woman she had once been, she no longer recognized him or anyone
else from her life. Most of the time she sat in a wheel chair and just
drooled, her head hanging limp.

  The doctors had said she would never recover from the series of strokes.
She would spend the next five years in that bed and chair. He would grow
to hate this room, hate his own fear, hate his own inability to do
something to help her.

   He glanced over at his own hand against the door frame. It was his
hand all right, only young. No scar where the broken window cut it last
year. No deep tan from being outside for so long. He was somehow in his
young body, with his old memories combined with his young ones. He felt
dizzy with the conflicting memories and thoughts. His mouth was dry. He
could really use a drink.

   From down the hall the song reached its halfway point and Carl felt
panic filling his mind. Radley Stout and that damn jukebox of his had
given him a second chance. An opportunity to do what he had always
wished he had done. Now he was wasting it by doing what he had done
the first time.

  Nothing

   He took a deep, almost sobbing breath. This time would be different. He
checked the hall and then moved across the room and around to the other
side of his mother's bed. She smelled of urine. Many times in the next five
years the nurses would change her diapers and many times he would be
forced to help.

   "This is what you wanted, Mom." He swallowed the bile trying to force
its way up into his mouth. "I'm doing what you asked."

  He pulled the edge of the pillow up and over her face, pressing it hard
against her mouth and nose.

  "I love you, Mom," he said, softly. "I've learned to be strong. I hope you
would be proud of me."

  She struggled, trying to twist her head from side to side. But he held on,
wanting to be sick, wanting to let go, wanting to let her breathe, but not
wanting her to suffer day after day for five long years.

  Finally the tension in her body eased and her head became heavy in his
hands. Very heavy.

    He gently stroked her soft hair as he held the pillow in place for another
fifteen seconds. Then he eased his mother's head back into a more
comfortable position.

   He stood up straight and took a deep breath, never taking his gaze from
the face of his dead mother. A feeling of sadness filled him at the same
time as a lightness, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

   "Thanks, Stout," he said out loud as the last faint chords of the song
died and took his future memories with it.

   As the last few notes of the Bing Crosby song faded into the carpet and
booths of the Garden Lounge, the air shimmered as if a heat wave had
passed though the room. None of the plants moved. And I felt no heat. But
I knew what it meant.

   I glanced around the room. Fred was sitting where Carl had sat, and the
planter that Carl had built for me under the east window was gone,
replaced with two chairs. Carl wasn't coming back, that much was clear.

   During the song I had calmed the other three men down, explained that
Carl had gone back into a memory. Then, on the excuse of Carl needing a
drink when he returned, I took his glass and moved over to the jukebox. I
had stood there with one hand on the cool chrome of the jukebox for the
last half of the song.

   I glanced down at the glass with Carl's name in my hand. So it had
worked. Anything I held as I touched the jukebox stayed in this time line
after the switch. Good. And because I was touching the jukebox I still
remembered Carl. Carl had changed something in his past and his new
future no longer brought him to the Garden Lounge. I hoped it was a good
new future for him.

   I studied the jukebox to see if anything had changed. Damned if I knew
how it worked. I had just taken it from storage in my old bar and fixed it,
put a favorite record in and the next thing I knew I had found myself
facing my old girlfriend, Jenny, in my young body.

   Scared me so bad all I did was sit there and stare at her. I had wanted
to be with her more than anything else, but I had not had the courage or
the desire to ask her to stay with me. On our third year of being together
she had gone back to college while I stayed in our hometown to work. That
semester she met someone else and by Christmas she was married to him.

   The song I had played on the jukebox had been our song. It had been
playing the night before she left for school. And that was where the
jukebox took me and left me for the entire length of the song.

  The next day I played the song again and the same thing happened
again. I did nothing but sit and stare at her.

   I didn't play another song on the jukebox until I had all the possibilities
figured out, including what would happen if I changed something, as Carl
obviously had done.

  "What the hell are you doing over there?" David said, twisting his
custom drinking glass in his good hand.

  "Yeah," Jess said. "You going to tell us what we're supposed to do with
these quarters?" He flipped it, caught it and turned it over on the bar.

   "Play a song," I said. None of them remembered Carl or my explanation
of where he had gone or anything he had done which included playing the
last song. He had never existed for them because they had not been
touching the jukebox.

  I moved back around the bar, dumped the remainder of Carl's drink out
and set the glass carefully on the back bar.

  "Who's Carl?" David asked.

  "Just another friend I wanted to give a glass to."

  "So how come you want us to play a song?" Jess asked.

  I took a long drink off my eggnog and let the richness coat my dry
throat. I was going to miss Carl. I just hoped he was happy. Maybe
sometime over the next few days I would look up his name in the phone
book. Maybe he had stayed around town. He would never remember me,
but it would be nice to see him again and see how things ended up for
him:

  "You all right?" David asked. All three men were staring at me.

  "Yeah, I'm fine. I was just thinking about how songs are like time
machines. When you hear one it takes you back to some special moment
when the song was playing."
   I pointed at the little boxes and the quarters. "Those are for your
memory trips. Fred. Why don't you try. it? But you've got to follow my
rules."

   "More damn rules, huh?" Fred said. "Can I at least get off my bar stool
or do I have to toss the quarter at the machine from here?"

   I tried to laugh but it came out so poorly that David again looked at me
with a questioning look. "Go pick out a Christmas song that reminds you
of something in your past. Then after you've selected it, stand beside the
machine and tell us the memory."

  Fred picked up the quarter from the bar and swung around. "I think I
can handle that."

  "I'll bet that's not what your ex-wife would say," Jess said.

   Everyone laughed and that started the nightly joking about Fred's
ex-wife. She was well known to the group because it seemed at times that
was all Fred could talk about. Her name was Alice and she and Fred had
gotten married young had one child, and gotten divorced in an ugly
fashion about ten years before.

   Fred was tall and thin, with about twenty pounds of extra weight
around his stomach. He used to have bright red hair that was now sun
bleached because he worked for the city streets department. He said that
almost a quarter of his salary every month went to paying child support,
even though his ex-wife very seldom let him see his daughter. He claimed
he loved his daughter and one Saturday had brought her in for all of us to
meet. Sandy had bright red hair like her father.

  "Got one," Fred said as he dropped the quarter into the slot and quickly
punched two buttons.

   "So what's the memory?" I asked. My stomach felt weak. Was I going to
lose Fred, too? Maybe I shouldn't warn him that he only had the time of
the song that if he wanted to change anything, he would have to do it fast.

  "The first time I got laid," he said, smiling. "The night Sandy came to
be."

  God, what was I doing to my friends? What kind of presents were these?
  "Stout," David said. "You all right? You're as pale as a ghost."

  I nodded and looked up at Fred. "You only have the time of the song.
Remember that. Just over two minutes."

  Jess laughed. "More than enough time for Fred to get laid, from what I
hear."

   Fred had taken a step to come after Jess when the Gene Autrey song
started and Fred vanished from the bar.

  The snow blew hard against Fred's face as he dodged across the rush of
pedestrians on the busy sidewalk and in the front door of Abraham's Drug
Store. The bell over the door jingled as he entered. The store smelled clean,
with a faint background of medicine. The tile floor looked slick from
polish.

  Old man Abraham was behind the druggist's counter in his white
smock. Judy, the clerk, was at the cash register waiting on a heavyset man
who was buying cough syrup. In the background the song "Rudolf the
Red-nosed Reindeer" played. That was the same song he had punched up
a moment before on the Garden Lounge jukebox. How the hell had Radley
Stout done this? What was going on?

  Fred glanced down at himself. He was still young, dressed in his high
school clothes. How could that be? He had been in the Garden Lounge
drinking eighteen years in the future. This was some practical joke. He'd
get Jess for this. And Stout.

  He was about to turn and head back into the storm when the younger
memories that were mixed with the older ones reminded him of why he
was here. He had come to the drugstore to buy a rubber. A condom.

  He was on his way to Alice's house. Her parents were at a Christmas
party and would be gone for a long time. He and Alice would start out on
the couch watching television and work their way naked to the floor. It
would be their first time and because he had chickened out and not
bought the rubber on the way to her house, she had gotten pregnant and
they had gotten married right out of high school. Sandy had followed three
months later.

   He grabbed hold of the door frame, then touched a bottle of hair oil on
a nearby shelf. Everything felt real. Damned if he knew what was going on.
   He turned back to face old man Abrahams who was now watching him.
It was no wonder he had thickened out the first time. He had bought
condoms hundreds of times in the last twenty years and right now he still
felt afraid. But what the hell could the old man do to him? Fred shook his
head. He didn't want to think about that.

  He took a deep breath and moved up to the counter.

  "Can I help you ?" Abrahams said, staring down from his high perch.
The guy looked like a cross between God and his dad.

   "I'd . . ." His voice broke and he cleared his throat and tried to lower the
pitch to a more normal range. "I'd like to buy a . . ." He glanced quickly
around. Judy was watching him and smiling. He'd had a crush on her for
years. It was no wonder his younger self had chickened out.

  "Well, young man?"

   Fred turned back to face Abrahams. He could feel his face getting hot. If
he didn't ask now, Alice would get pregnant and they would end up
married. That had turned out to be a fate much worse than asking one
simple question. Much, much worse. All those years of shouting and the
hate and the ugliness their marriage had been. The only slightly good
thing had been Sandy. But who knew how screwed up she was going to be
because of the ugly marriage he and Alice had had.

  He looked up at Abrahams. "I'd . . . I'd like to buy a condom." There. He
had done it.

   Old man Abrahams had the good sense not to laugh. But Fred could tell
he was holding back a smile. "Well, son, they come in packages of three or
six or twelve."

  "Six," he said quickly. No point in having to go through this too often.
But a dozen would seem like bragging.

  Abrahams nodded and rummaged behind the counter. "Now, which
brand would you like?"

  At that Judy giggled and Fred could feel his face and neck burning. His
younger self wanted to flee the store. He'd never be able to face her.

  But his older memories kept him there. "I . . . I . . . I don't care. Your
best."
  Again Abrahams nodded. "That would be Trojans." He slid the box
across the counter. "Pay Judy."

   Damn him. He was doing this on purpose. He had a register. He could
take the money. Again Judy giggled as Fred picked up the box and turned.
At that very moment he noticed that the song was almost over and he
knew without a doubt that his face was as red as Rudolf's nose.

  He pulled a five dollar bill out of his pocket and tossed it on the counter.
"Keep the change," he said to Judy and, without looking at her, he
sprinted for the front door and the snow beyond. At least now he had the
choice to have Sandy or not. He'd have to give this some serious thought.

  As the door slammed shut and the song ended, the memories of the
choice, Sandy, the marriage to Alice, and the next twenty years faded and
were gone.

    When the lounge finished shimmering I let go of the jukebox and moved
around behind the bar. Carefully I dumped what was left of Fred's drink
and placed his glass beside Carl's on the back bar. I hadn't felt this tired in
years. I looked at the two glasses. "Good luck, guys," I said softly. "I hope
life is better for both of you." But now I only had two friends left in the
bar. I could stop this at any time, while there was still someone left to talk
to.

   "So what are we supposed to do with these quarters?" Jess asked. "I got
to get home before that bitch of a wife chews my head off."

   I glanced at Jess and then at David. He was looking worried. "You play
a song. That's all." I motioned at the jukebox. "But find one that has a
strong memory with it." I took a deep breath. I might as well give him a
real present. "Maybe even one that was during the time that you met your
wife."

  Jess laughed. "Why the hell would I want to do that?"

  "Trust me," I said. "Just find a song." I dropped down onto the counter
behind the bar and concentrated on taking deep breaths and not thinking
about Carl and Fred.

   "You all right?" David asked. I looked up into his worried face. What
would I have done over the last few years without David's friendship?
What was I going to do without it over the next few years if I let him play
a song?
   "Just suddenly got tired. Nothing big." I stood and moved to pour
myself another eggnog and watch Jess pick over the tunes. less was the
best joker. He said he needed the practical jokes to keep his sanity with
his bitch of a wife.

  But when asked why he didn't just leave her, he always said marrying
her was his mistake and he would live with it. That was what he had been
taught. Then he would make a joke and change the subject.

   "Found one," Jess said. He held up the quarter. "You want me to play
it?"

  "Yeah. But after you select the song tell Dave and me what memory it
reminds you of."

  Jess dropped the quarter into the slot and punched two buttons to start
the jukebox. "You remember the song, 'Snoopy Versus the Red Baron?'"

  David and I nodded.

  "That was playing the moment I asked my wife to marry me. Figures,
doesn't it?"

  David laughed.

  But I didn't. I knew I was going to lose Jess also. "Remember that you
only have the length of the song. Not one second longer. All right?"

  Jess shrugged and started back toward the bar. "Whatever you . . ."

  The song started and he vanished.

  "What the hell?" David said, standing and moving toward the jukebox.

  I picked up Jess's mostly empty glass and moved around toward the
jukebox.

  David glanced at the two glasses on the back bar and then at the glass I
held. Then he looked over to where Jess had been. "You want to explain
exactly what the hell is going on here?"

   I nodded, too tired to argue. "But come on over and touch the jukebox.
It's the only way you're going to remember."

  Snoopy and the Red Baron were just starting to go at it on Jess's '65
Ford car radio as Jess found himself face to face with Mary, his soon-to-be
bitch-of-a-wife.

  "What the . . . ?"

  "Is something wrong, Jess, honey?" Mary said, her hand stroking his
arm up and down and up and down. She looked more beautiful than he
had ever remembered and she smelled wonderfully fresh, as if she had
been outside in the country all day. But he knew the look and the smell
wouldn't last long. Six months after they were married she would gain fifty
pounds and a few years later she would level out a hundred over her
marriage weight. But now, in this dream or whatever it was, she looked
sexy and very trim in her low-cut blue dress.

   Jess pulled back away from her and looked around. This was his car all
right. The same one he had sold in '71. The same one that he and Mary
had first made love in. He rubbed his hands along the steering wheel to
make sure it felt solid. They were parked just down the tree-lined street
from Mary's house.

   So how had Stout pulled this off? This had to be some kind of dream or
hallucination. That was it. Stout had hypnotized him and he was still
sitting in the Garden Lounge while they laughed at him. He'd get them for
this.

  Mary scooted over closer to him and rubbed his leg real nice, getting
the reaction in his crotch she wanted. "Were you going to ask me
something?" she Said, looking up at him with her large brown eyes.

   "That I was," he said. It was a clear memory that in this exact situation
he had asked her to marry him. He knew that's what his younger self had
been planning to do. He was currently a second year law student and he
remembered his classes that Friday morning real well. Yet he also
remembered sitting having a Christmas Eve drink with his friends at the
Garden Lounge twenty some years in the future. Strange. Too damn
strange.

  On the radio the Red Baron shot down Snoopy. Stout had said Jess only
had the length of the song. Whatever was going on, it was halfway over.
Mary rubbed less's leg and waited. Waited knowing what the question
would be. Waited knowing that she had led him right to where she wanted
him.

  Well, this time around she would get a surprise because dream or no
dream, this was going to be fun. Hell, after all the years with her, he
deserved a little fun.

  "I wanted to ask you," less said, then paused, trying not to smile.

  The Red Baron and Snoopy drank a Christmas toast.

  "Yes," Mary said, her voice low and sexy. She had been one beautiful
woman on the outside. That had kept him blind to all the ugliness that
was just under the surface. Blind until it was too late.

  "I wanted to ask you if it would be all right if I slept around with a few
other women? You know, sow a few wild oats before I settle down?"

  That did it. The sultry look drained from her face like wet makeup, to be
replaced by the bitch look he had grown so familiar with. "What did you
say?" she asked, her voice low and mean and controlled. He knew that
voice real well, too.

   He smiled, easing toward her, trying to act romantic. "I was just
thinking that for a few years, maybe five or ten, we could have an open
relationship. I'd love to sleep with a few other women. It would be good for
us. Honest. You know, free love and all." He moved as if to kiss her and she
backed away across the seat.

    "Wouldn't you like sleeping with other men? Then after we've both got a
little more experience we could live together for a few years. Trying on the
old shoes, as the saying goes." Jess knew that would get her. She had said
a hundred times how much she hated the thought of living together. For
her it was marriage or nothing. Damn, it was hard keeping a straight face.
He was going to thank Stout for this one. Best Christmas present he had
ever had.

  "You're sick!" she screamed. "Sick! Sick! Sick!"

  Jess tried to look innocent and sad.

  On the radio Snoopy flew off singing about Christmas Cheer as Mary
rammed against the car door, opened it and ran up the sidewalk.

  "Thank you, Radley Stout. I've been dreaming about doing that for
years."

  The song ended.
  And so did the dreams.

  I moved slowly around behind the bar, dumped out the remainder of
Jess's drink and set his glass beside the others on the back bar.

   "Got quite a collection there," David said as he moved over to take his
stool. "So Carl and Fred were friends of mine on another time line?"

  I took a long hard drink of my eggnog and then nodded.

  "Jess," David said, "was sent back by the jukebox to his memory and he
changed something that moved his life in another direction. And with that
new direction he didn't end up coming in here. Right? And he would have
no memory of ever being in here because he hasn't been."

  Again I nodded an.d finished off the drink.

  David picked up the quarter in front of him and glanced over at the
jukebox. "You know this is a wish that everyone has had at one time or
another? How come you've never done it?"

  "Oh, I did. Actually twice when I first discovered what the jukebox
could do. But I didn't change anything. Too afraid, I guess. And, I suppose,
not that unhappy with this life." I nodded at the three empty glasses.
"That is, until tonight."

  David took a sip of his drink and looked at his name on the glass. "So
you gave the gift of a second chance to your friends for Christmas."

   I laughed. "Seemed like a good idea at the time. But I didn't expect to
lose everyone. Not exactly sure what I expected, to be honest with you."

  "I'm still here."

   I glanced over at my best friend. He worked as a vice president of a local
bank and enjoyed flying his small plane on the weekend. But back
twenty-some years ago he and his new wife, Elaine, had been driving home
from a Christmas party. David was scheduled to finish flight school that
next spring. He had a dream of flying for the airlines.

  That night David had had a little too much to drink and the car missed
a slick comer and plowed into an embankment. Elaine was killed and
David lost most of the use of his right hand. End of flight school. End of
dream.
  I reached out and slid the quarter at David. "Your turn."

   David shook his head. "No chance. There's no way that I'm leaving you
after what you've done for Jess and those two other guys." He pointed at
the glasses lined up on the back bar.

  I laughed a laugh that sounded bitter even to my ears. "I don't know
what exactly I've done except change their life in some fashion. I can only
hope it is for the better. But you I do know the jukebox can help." I
reached across the bar and patted his mined right hand. "Go back to
before the crash and save Elaine. And yourself."

  David jerked as if he had never thought of the possibility.

    "You saw it work," I said. "If nothing else, give it a try. You don't have to
change anything. Just go back and see Elaine again. It's not a one way trip
if you don't change anything."

  He looked dazed. "If I don't change . . ."

  I nodded and picked up the quarter and placed it in his good left hand.
"Go say hello to your wife."

   Still looking dazed, he slowly stood and moved toward the jukebox. "Is it
really possible?"

  "Yes," I said. "Now pick the right song."

   He nodded and turned to study the song list. His tie hung loose in front
of him, his right hand useless against the glass of the jukebox.

   My stomach hurt and I downed a little more egghog. I knew that once
he saw Elaine he would be unable to stop from changing the past. I was
going to lose my best friend. But maybe someday I would see him again,
striding through an airport in his pilot's uniform. That alone would be
worth it.

  "Found the song," he said and turned to look at me.

  "Then go for it," I said.

  He paused, as if he wanted to say something. Then he turned and
dropped the quarter into the machine and punched the two buttons.

  "State the memory," I said. "Got to follow the rules, you know."
  He smiled. "This song reminds me of the night my wife died."

  I nodded. "Good luck. And say hello to Elaine for me."

  "I will," he said. "And I'll be back."

  "In case you're not, I'll be holding onto your glass and the jukebox."

  He smiled. "Thanks." The song started and he vanished.

  A light snow kept the old Ford's windshield wipers busy as David and
Elaine headed down the gravel country road toward the lights of the city.

  "Silent Night" was playing on the portable radio on the seat between
them. She was singing along, her voice pure and clear, even though a little
drunk. The party, just south of town in the foothills, had been a good one
and they had stayed far later than they planned.

  David looked over at his wife of six months. She had dark brown hair
that flowed long and straight down her back. Her eyes were a dark green
and her face lightly wrinkled with laugh lines. While David was in school
she worked at a dress shop. Her desire was to someday design clothes and
he knew she would be, would have been, good at it.

  "Son of a bitch," he said out loud. "Stout was right."

  "Who was right?" Elaine said, then went back to singing and watching
the beautiful wooded countryside flash by through the snow.

   David glanced once more at her and then back at the road. He couldn't
let her die. Stout had known that.

   David braked the car to a quick stop on the side of the road. He turned
off the car, yanked the keys out of the ignition and got out. Then as hard
as he could, he tossed the keys into the woods. in the silence of the night
he could hear them catch brush as they landed.

  That was his only set. Now there would be no way he could drive again
tonight.

  "David," Elaine said, getting out of the car and coming around to him.
"What are you doing?"

  "Saving our lives," he said. He grabbed her and held her tight, relishing
the feeling of her against him after such a long time. He had never
remarried because there had never been anyone again he felt this way
about. No one woman who had felt this good.

  The faint sounds of "Silent Night" drifted from the portable radio in the
car. The song was about half over. He didn't have much time.

  "Are you all right?" Elaine asked. "Why did you throw the . . ."

  "I'm fine. Like I said, I was just saving our lives. But now, before that
song ends, I need to save a friendship. A very important friendship to me.
And I'm going to need your help."

    I let my hand slip off the jukebox as the last of the song faded into the
empty Garden Lounge. David's glass was in my hand and I looked down at
it, feeling its heavy weight.

  David must have stopped the wreck.

   "Well, Stout," I said to myself out loud just to hear some noise. "Looks
as if you've gone and done it now."

  I moved slowly around behind the bar and set David's glass beside the
other three, name out. "I'm going to have to find some special place for
these." I laughed. "To remind me of another life that never was."

  The silence seemed to echo in the room. It was going to be a very long,
very quiet Christmas.

  I refilled my glass of eggnog and moved around to what had been
David's favorite stool. The jukebox seemed to call to me. "Come play me,
Mr. Radley Stout. Come and see your old girlfriend again. Ask her to
marry you. What would it hurt?"

  "No," I said loud enough to echo between the empty tables and booths. I
squarely faced the glasses on the back bar and held up my mug in a toast.
"Merry Christmas, my friends."

  Then I added softly, "Wherever you are."

   The empty glasses didn't return my toast, so I went ahead and drank
alone. i had the sneaking feeling i was going to be doing that for a while.

  I had finished the eggnog and was about to start closing down when
someone knocked on the front door.
  "I'm closed," I yelled. "Merry Christmas." I was in no mood for visitors
now.

  But the person knocked again. "All right, all right. Hang on a minute."

   I went around to the back bar and, being careful to not look at the four
glasses lined up there like so many tombstones, retrieved the keys and
headed for the front door.

  As I unlocked it and swung it open I heard, "Merry Christmas, Mr.
Radley Stout."

  David and a woman about his same age stood arm in arm facing the
door. He wore an airline overcoat and she had on a nice leather jacket.
"David," I said. "How . . . ?"

  He unhooked himself from the woman's arm and extended a perfectly
healthy right hand for me to shake. "Your hand," I said as I shook it. "You
didn't . . . ?" Again I stopped. There was no way he could know about the
wreck and his lame hand if it hadn't happened. And in this world it
hadn't.

  "This is my wife, Elaine," he said.

  "I don't know what to say," I took her hand. I felt as if I was shaking the
hand of a ghost. "Please come in." I stepped back, the feeling of shock
washing over me.

  David and Elaine moved into the bar. Both of them walked directly to
the jukebox.

  "But how could you remember?" I asked, moving up beside them.

  "He doesn't," Elaine said, laughing with a tense sort of laugh. David only
nodded and then turned to face me.

   "Christmas Eve, twenty years ago, Elaine said I suddenly called out the
name Stout, then stopped the car. I proceeded to toss the keys to the car
into the trees. For what crazy reason I have no idea."

  I laughed. "I do. Pretty smart thinking if you want to make sure you
can't drive that night."

  "But why would I want to do that?" David said. "And how would you
know anything about it? This entire thing has been driving me nuts for
two decades."

  I waved my hand. "I'll try to explain in a minute. For now please go on."

  Elaine reached into her purse, pulled out a few tattered pieces of paper,
and handed them to me. "For the next minute after he tossed the keys into
the brash, David madly wrote this while repeating your name and the
name of this bar over and over again so that I would remember it. He
made me promise that no matter what he claimed he didn't remember, we
would go to this bar on this Christmas Eve at this time to meet you. Not
one minute before or one minute after."

  David looked at me and shrugged. "Dammed if I can remember why. It
was as if I was possessed."

  "In a way, you were," I said.

  "You know what else he said?" Elaine asked. She looked at David and he
motioned for her to go ahead. "He said it was his Christmas present to
you."

  David looked at me. "Did it work?"

   I nodded, afraid to say anything. But I could feel the smile trying to
break out of the sides of my face. And after a moment all three of us were
laughing just because I was smiling so hard. I was going to enjoy these
new friends.

   I motioned for them to take a seat at the bar. "Boy have I got a story to
tell you." I scampered like a kid around behind the bar and grabbed the
glass with his name on it.

  "And for you, David," I said as I held the glass up for them to see. "A
very special Christmas present and a toast to friendship."
                              —«»—«»—«»—




  Administrivia:

  Version 3.0

  HTML Repackaging by Monica
Style Sheet by the E-Book Design Group

From "Fantasy and Science Fiction" (January, 1994)

2003.07.12