They glanced at each other. Soph toyed with her glass but didn’t drink. “Comstock arrested my friend Penny in New York. He … he dragged her to the police station when she was in the middle of an abortion, along with her patient. They let the poor woman die, bleeding on the floor of the police station. Penny committed suicide rather than go to prison.”
I was shocked. “I heard him give a speech in New York where he bragged about how many abortionists he’d driven to suicide. But I thought he was saying it for effect.”
Soph shook her head and I realized she was on the brink of tears. “I’m so sorry,” I said gently. “That’s why I want to make this edit and stop the men who follow him.”
Aseel looked grim. “That’s a tall order. Comstock is a special agent for the post office. He can snoop on anyone’s mail and have them arrested if he thinks it’s obscene or indecent.”
I nodded. “He’s looking for newsletters exactly like the ones you write, Soph. He’s gotten some courts to agree that information about birth control is obscene.”
“I know.” Soph walked to the window, looking mournfully into the empty street. “I’ve worked very hard to stay out of his way.”
“How do you plan to make this edit?” Aseel demanded.
I desperately wanted to spill the whole plan, but I’d already broken too many rules. Revealing the future was against the law in most time periods. It was also a form of cruelty, a theft of people’s agency. Of course some travelers did it, but I wasn’t going to stoop that low. I needed a way to explain myself without causing harm.
“Comstock is making laws now that will last generations. But we can’t stop him directly. I’ve already tried that, with the anarchists. We have to taint his ideas somehow, make them seem repugnant to the general public.”
Aseel cleared her throat in the same way she did at the theater when she was running out of patience. “Very well, but as I asked before, how are you going to do that specifically?”
“Comstock is trying to branch out beyond New York and go national with his crusade. That much he’s already announced in various places. It’s a matter of public record. You can see why the theaters of the Midway are something he’d be very, very interested in.” That was as much as I could tell them, without veering into dangerous territory.
“He’s already shut down some theaters in New York, right?” Aseel asked.
“He has. And some bars. But the Midway could turn the tide back against him. If I can interfere with his work there, I think I can make the edit. But I can’t do it alone.”
Soph’s face had gone from somber to mischievous. “I’m in.”
“You are?” Aseel was dubious. “I mean, I like you, Tess. But I barely know you.”
“I understand that. We don’t have to do anything yet. All I ask is that you keep your eyes open and watch for any hints that Comstock or his YMCA boys might be coming.”
Aseel raised her glass. “Okay. I’ll drink to that.”
We all drank, but a mood of sobriety had overtaken us and it wasn’t long before we retired to bed.
EIGHT
BETH
Irvine, Alta California (1992 C.E.)
A couple of postcards came, but Hamid didn’t write much on them. One featured a bizarre 1930s incarnation of Mickey and Minnie, and another was a 1970s “family photo” of Donald Duck’s more obscure relatives. I grabbed them out of the mail before my parents did, tucking them into my SAT study guide between the sections on multiple choice guessing and algebra review. The only people who knew about me and Hamid were my friends, and I planned to keep it that way.
I got Hamid’s final postcard on a scalding day when the air conditioner filled our house with an otherworldly whistling noise. In a supposedly happy scene from Disney World, people dressed as the Seven Dwarfs ogled Snow White in an especially creepy way. I flipped it over to read his note: “See you after July 15 I hope.” That was a week away. I immediately ran to the bathroom and threw up. The alien was back in my chest, and I had to get it out.
Or maybe something else was going on. The next morning, I threw up again. On the third day of hurling, I started to panic. My period was late and I was barfing for no reason. I kept thinking about a movie we’d watched in seventh-grade health class about a girl who died from a coat hanger abortion. The teacher gave us one of those unconvincing “I’m your buddy” speeches about how abstinence was the only way to prevent pregnancy. I could still hear his voice in my mind as he dispensed this wisdom. “There’s one simple rule: Wait. Until. You. Are. Married.” He punctuated each word by smacking a fist into his open hand. “That’s why sex education is so simple. Because there’s only one rule. See how easy that is?” He grinned right at me and winked. I think it was supposed to be fatherly, but it made me nauseous.
Which brought me back to the present, where I was hanging on the edge of the toilet, gagging and gasping and telling myself that I couldn’t be pregnant. What was I supposed to do? I could hear my mom talking on the phone downstairs—she spent her entire summer vacation on the phone—and my dad was at the shop. I needed to talk to Lizzy right now.
* * *
Dropping my bike in Lizzy’s front yard was already making me feel better. This was normal. I was going to my friend’s house. I was not about to die.
But when I rang the doorbell, I realized my hands were shaking, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to talk. Luckily I didn’t have to say anything when Lizzy opened the door.
“Holy shit, Beth. What the fuck is wrong?”
I must have looked pretty terrible, and suddenly I was crying so hard I could barely stand. Lizzy’s eyes widened and she reached out to grab me in a hug. “Come up to my room.”
I caught a brief glimpse of her mother down the hall, reading something at the kitchen table, then we were mounting the stairs with their mashed-down shag carpet. This pathway was as familiar to me as the one to my own room. Lizzy shut the door and we sat on the floor, our backs against the fluffy bulk of her bed. She put on the Grape Ape EP Terrorist State while my hiccups subsided. Their words rained down on my head like missiles:
IT’S TIME TO TAKE CONTROL
ONLY WE CAN STOP THE PAIN
THIS WAR IS KILLING EVERYONE
IT’S TIME TO MAKE A CHANGE
Lizzy put her arm around me and I thought about how this room had been our laboratory when we were ten. We spent that whole summer pretending to be geoscientists, keeping notebooks full of observations about the rocks we found in the neighborhood.
“Do you still have those boxes of rocks we collected when we were kids?” My voice sounded shaky and strange.
“Maybe? I’m pretty sure my mom kept them for a little while.” She gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
“I think I might be pregnant.”
“Oh shit. Shit, Beth. What the fuck. Didn’t you use a condom?”
“I mean, mostly. But then there was one time … but he pulled out before…” I put my face in my hands.
Lizzy didn’t say anything for a long time and I stared into the darkness of my eyelids as Glorious Garcia yelled about melting every gun in the world.
“You know that’s bullshit, right? Pulling out is not … it doesn’t … I mean, you are my best friend in the universe, but this is not an unlucky edit. That was really stupid, Beth.”
“I know.” I mashed fingers into my eyes until I saw red spots. “I know, I know!”
“Does Hamid know?”
“No! I don’t want to tell him. I don’t even know if I want to see him again.” As I spoke, I finally looked at Lizzy and realized it was true. My so-called relationship with Hamid could hardly sustain a month of one-sentence postcards, let alone something like this.
“Well, it’s partly his fault.”
“I guess so. But I barely know him. I don’t know what he would do, anyway. It’s not like he’s some kind of magical abortionist.” I started crying again. “He’s just some … idiotic guy.
”
“He’s definitely an idiot.” Lizzy shook her head. Then she said the very last thing I would have expected. “We should talk to my mom.”
I’d grown up with Lizzy, but I’d never thought of her mom as somebody we could talk to about anything more serious than what we wanted for dessert. She was one of those vaguely liberal parents who’d told me to call her Jenny instead of Mrs. Berman, her job involved a lot of travel, and that was roughly all I knew about her. When we found her downstairs, still reading, I noticed that she seemed older than when I’d last seen her a couple of weeks ago. Maybe she was tired.
“Mom, we need to talk to you about something private.”
She looked up, her faint smile fading into concern. “What’s going on?”
We sat down on the other side of the table and I looked helplessly at Lizzy. I had no idea what to say.
“Beth thinks she might be pregnant.”
My cheeks burned and I stared at my hands. I couldn’t believe Lizzy was saying it out loud like it was no big deal. But her mom—Jenny—seemed totally unfazed. She put a hand on my arm comfortingly.
“Okay, let’s think. Beth, are you sure? Have you done a pregnancy test?”
I shook my head and felt more tears blobbing up in my eyes.
One trip to the pharmacy and two hours later, it was official. The blue stripe meant I was definitely pregnant. My mother would have been spiraling into total meltdown, hurling accusations, but Jenny gave my arm another pat and looked sympathetic.
“I told Lizzy that she should come to me if something like this happened because I know a doctor who can help. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”
I stared at her, shredded by panic and hope. “Do you mean … abortion? What kind of doctor does that?”
“I met him through a friend, when I needed help.” Jenny and Lizzy glanced at each other, and for a second I could see the same lines in their faces. “He’s a regular family doctor who has a little business on the side. It’s all done in his office after hours.”
Lizzy put her hand on my other arm. “Do you want us to help you?”
I thought of all the times my father had told me I was doing the wrong thing. I thought about how he flipped rules around arbitrarily and invented new ways for me to disobey him. And then I thought, dizzily, that I was not in my father’s house.
“Yes. I want an abortion.”
“Okay. Let me make some calls. The sooner you do it, the easier it will be.” Jenny headed for the phone. For the first time, it occurred to me that Lizzy hadn’t been born a decider. She’d learned it from her mother.
NINE
TESS
Chicago, Illinois (1893 C.E.)
The morning after I came out to Aseel and Soph as a traveler, I navigated between a headache, yet another carriage full of ostriches, and monumental chunks of Ferris wheel to reach the Algerian Theater. Sol was addressing the whole troupe when I arrived, while Aseel translated into Arabic. With opening day right around the corner, he’d arranged for a special preview show at the local press club for that afternoon. Several of the dancers would perform, with Aseel’s Lady Asenath routine as the main attraction.
“What? This afternoon?” Aseel whirled on Sol, glowering. A few of the dancers cracked smiles. They were always amused when Aseel fought with Sol.
To his credit, he looked sheepish. “That’s the only time they would give us. But a lot of press are coming! We should get lots of notices.”
There was nothing to be done but to make the best of it. Aseel swung into action. “Salina, Amina, and Bertha, come with me. We’ll figure out something. And you too, Tess. We need our costumes to look perfect.”
I followed them to the dressing room. As I sewed furiously, Aseel went over their set. Each dancer would do her number while the others watched, and of course Lady Asenath would be the climactic act. She also dispensed some advice. “Remember to bring a veil to rip off your face at some point. Those white gentlemen love it.”
Salina looked dubious. “A veil? How does that fit into my dance?”
“I trust you can make it work.”
Salina shrugged and looked at me. “You got a veil?”
“I can make one for you right now.” I looked over at Aseel. “You want something to cover her nose and mouth? Or her whole head?”
“Nose and mouth is fine.”
“Nothing on my head with it? Who wears a veil over her nose and mouth without a head covering?” Salina threw up her arms.
Aseel rolled her eyes. “Look, I know. But trust me. They will eat it up.”
Sol brought us in a carriage to the press club, where we found Soph pacing back and forth outside. She was fuming. “They won’t let me in, despite my press credentials!”
“Come with us, and I’ll get you in.” Aseel crooked her finger for Soph to follow.
When we reached the entrance, the doorman scowled. “This is a men’s club. She can’t come in.”
“I’m press, sir! It is a press club.” Soph’s pale cheeks had gone red and her hair was coming undone.
Aseel stepped forward. “She’s with us. We’re the reason why everyone is here.” And with that, she swung the dark wool coat off her shoulders to reveal her danse du ventre costume, with its nearly transparent chemise and ropes of beads shimmering over the generous curve of her belly.
“What … what … are you … Lady Asenath?”
“I am. And we’re going inside for our press conference.”
The man gaped.
I wondered what made him gaze at her like that. She was beautiful, but not in this era’s conventional sense—she fit no Gilded Age ideal with her brown skin and thick waist. Was he rocked by moral indignation? Titillated by the idea of a live-action French postcard? Whatever it was, she forced him to look beyond the phantasm his desire conjured. She radiated authority. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Aseel took it for granted that men would do what she said. And it worked. In the face of her supreme certainty, the doorman stood aside.
“Why, thank you, sir.” Aseel gave a curtsy that made her look even more regal. “I do hope you’ll come visit us on the Midway.”
Soph sailed in after us, the row over her credentials completely forgotten.
The setup was not ideal. Some of the younger press men had cleared a space along one wall of the smoky room, arranging overstuffed chairs and heavy tables in a haphazard imitation of cabaret seating. We had no dressing room, so the dancers retreated to a sofa in the corner to shed their coats and fix their veils in place. All of them wore beaded belts and tassels over the puff of their long skirts, cinched beneath the swell of their stomach muscles. Their little vests were basically push-up bras adorned with all the gold thread and coins I could muster. Though the effect was diminished somewhat by their modesty camisoles, which covered them from neck to elbows, we all knew it was racy enough to inspire headlines. That’s why we were here.
Sol gave a brief preamble, explaining to the assembled men that in his humble opinion, as director of the Midway, the dancers of the Algerian Theater were going to be the most impressive and astonishing attraction anyone had ever seen. He talked about how these dances originated with the Berbers of the Maghreb, and would educate Americans about the enchantments of other cultures. As he spoke, I could see Soph writing swiftly in shorthand, nodding as Sol thanked each of the dancers by name. She’d found a seat next to an elderly man with hamster-sized muttonchops, who kept glancing at her as if she were a radish come inexplicably and irritatingly to life. I did some final adjustments on Amina’s skirts and then withdrew further into the corner, where I could watch everyone’s reactions to the show.
Bertha went first, walking daintily to the center of the room, practically tiptoeing in her incongruous, Western-style slippers. She flitted through a pantomime routine, waving handkerchiefs as she pretended to be a lady fretting over her toilette. Then came Amina and Salina, who did a short version of the danse du ventre, then tore their veils off with co
mical enthusiasm. It wasn’t part of the traditional dance at all, but Aseel was right. When the women’s round cheeks and rouged lips were revealed, some of the men gasped audibly and there was a general shuffling of notepads. Meanwhile, Aseel was whispering furiously to Sol, pointing at a dusty pianoforte in the corner. I knew immediately what she was getting at. They needed music. Desperately.
“For the act you’ve been waiting for … Lady Asenath … I’ll be providing some music.” Sol sounded uncertain, but the press men moved chairs out of his way so he could sit at the instrument. Aseel made a “go go” gesture with her hands and Sol looked pensive for a moment, then began to pluck out a simple tune.
Was I going crazy, or was he playing a Ke$ha song? I bobbed my head and tried to recall the lyrics to “Take It Off,” until they blurred in my mind with the lyrics to a song we sang as children: “There’s a place in France where the women wear no pants…” I couldn’t believe it. Had Sol Bloom invented a tune that would last for generations, and become synonymous with both strippers and shitty Orientalist tropes? I pondered. More likely, he was playing a variation on a tune that some anonymous keyboard-tickler had written. Still, he was transplanting it into a new context. I was actually here for the origin of a meme. This was the kind of thing that got you published in Nature.
But as soon as Aseel stepped into the middle of the room, my thoughts of academic fame evaporated. She stood completely still, head down, slowly lifting her arms to wield the clashing finger cymbals on her hands. As she raised her bare face—no veils for Lady Asenath—her shoulders started to move with the music. She shivered and stopped, shivered and stopped, her tassels flashing in and out of her skirts like fish in sunlit water. Soph stopped writing and watched in open admiration, her lips parted. Many of the men wore the same expression.
When Aseel began to undulate, her necklaces ringing, she made the room hers. Her body pulsed like an artery. She barely moved her feet, and yet she embodied a motion more fluid and frenetic than anything a ballerina could evoke with whirls and kicks. As the music reached a crescendo, so too did the rolling waves of her muscles, rippling down her midriff into the trembling layers of her skirts. There was something sexual about it, but not in the kittenish, saucy-ironic style these men had seen in burlesque shows. This was a body that would resist them if they dared to approach it. She swayed and flexed and showed her strength.
The Future of Another Timeline Page 8