by Ray Deeg
The faint sound of music could be heard coming from the house above them. Tom recognized the tune as Louie Armstrong’s “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen.” As they glanced up at the fortress towering overhead, an older man suddenly appeared at the top of the steps. He peered down at the two strangers standing in his yard. He was wearing khaki pants and a blue button-up shirt with white cuffs. His gray hair was well groomed, and his face offered a relaxed, curious grin. He held a crystal rocks glass and moved it in tiny circles. It glimmered in the sun. The silence was awkward, but he continued mixing the amber liquid and ice with the care of a scientist laboring over a microscope. Clearly the strangers in his yard were considerably less important than the ratio of cold water to whiskey in his glass.
The man took a sip and then spoke. “Morning, folks. Sure is a big rock, isn’t it?”
“I’ve never seen anything quite like it,” Gwen offered politely.
“You must excuse our interruption,” Tom said. “We were about to ring the doorbell, but I got carried away with the landscape.”
The man nodded. “It’s OK. Don’t get yourself all tied up,” he said calmly.
“I recently came into possession of a rather old photo,” Tom continued. “I think it was taken here, in your backyard, and we didn’t mean to—”
“I love old photos. You’re not the first person to show up here on a quest for history. The public television folks were out here a few years ago. Did a documentary. Albert Einstein stayed here; did you know that? He was working at the Tower House laboratory; it’s just down the street. Einstein, Oppenheimer—all those guys worked there.” The man took another swig. “Name is Rudy Conway, and it is my great pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Relieved, Gwen and Tom introduced themselves and told Conway about their trip to New Hope and everything that had followed—omitting the part about Monty’s murder and the visit from Esha Durga.
“Can I see the photo?” Rudy asked. He held it with both hands, the highball glass lodged between his arm and chest—the man clearly had experience keeping his glass upright. Rudy studied the photo carefully and then gestured toward the far side of the backyard. “Over there,” he said, handing the photo back to Tom.
As they walked, Tom held the photo in front of him, searching for a match with the house. The trio passed an old pergola that had become overgrown with grape vines and then a larger, open area shaded by dozens of enormous trees. After a few more yards, they reached a spot that seemed to match the photo’s backdrop perfectly. The table in the photo was gone, as were the people, but this was surely the spot. So much time had passed since the picture was taken, yet it seemed that nothing else had changed. People came and went, but the stone mansion remained, indifferent to the names that appeared on its title. They came and went like the leaves on the trees.
What is time? Tom thought. He felt as if some prophecy might flash into his mind and lend some meaning to his presence here. What is prophecy for, if not to discover the future, to travel in time? The impulse to peer into the unknown past in order to find meaning in the present was as old as humanity itself. Perhaps a truth to live for and be directed by lay just ahead. Tom thought of all the ineffective instruments mankind had used over the centuries to determine their destinies and even God’s intent: the direction of the wind, the entrails of an animal, a crystal ball. He thought of palm readers and snake charmers, of mystical healers and self-proclaimed messiahs. The perseverance—and futility—of human curiosity was a sad revelation indeed for anyone contemplating his or her place on this scant rock hurling aimlessly through the empty blackness of time and space. But one theme emerges. Perhaps it is the fear of an untimely death—or simply of death itself—that forces us into the sort of waking fear that becomes a permanent bondage. Perhaps it’s the fear of being unable to know one’s ultimate destiny that makes life, even as it happens, as obscure as the life that’s yet to come. Tom thought about the era in which he lived and wondered whether humanity had finally lost its primal need to know God.
Tom gestured to Gwen and Rudy to view the photo in his hand. The two moved behind him, gazing on the photo and comparing it to the background.
“Tuxedo Park, 1933,” Rudy said as he strained to read the inscription. He pointed to a man in the picture. “That’s Alfred Lee Loomis. This looks like Nikola Tesla, and the woman is Ellen Farnsworth, they called her Betty, Alfred’s first wife and mother of his three sons.” Rudy went on to explain that Loomis had lived in the house for more than two decades. The man was extremely wealthy, made his fortune in law and as a banker on Wall Street. He bought a distressed firm called Bonbright and Company with his brother-in-law, a guy named Landon Thorne. Thorne and Loomis revamped the firm and very quickly cornered the market on bonds for public utilities. Bonbright was a division of J. P. Morgan, so they had a little help too. “After the crash of ’29,” Rudy continued, “Loomis made even more dough. People couldn’t understand it. While everyone else was losing, Loomis was making. He sold before the crash and bought up everything again dirt cheap afterwards. He had to have some inside track. But then again, most people in Tuxedo Park do. That’s how they got here in the first place.”
Rudy took another swig of his whiskey. Tom wondered how often the nice man drank this early in the day.
“Loomis was a philanthropist, too,” Rudy continued. “But of all the things he was, that he enjoyed, he was an inventor at his core. And because of his great wealth, he was able to build a state-of-the-art laboratory right here in the Park.” Rudy looked at the house looming over them. The fog was thinning now. “Yup, Loomis developed the first radar system right here; it was called Loran. And the plans for the Manhattan Project were developed here in the Park, at the lab and at this very house.” Tom and Gwen were clinging to Rudy’s every word. “You mind if I make a copy of that photo?” Rudy asked.
“Not at all,” Tom replied.
“I keep a collection of photos, a history of the house. Would you like to see a few?” Rudy asked. Tom and Gwen nodded. “Come on in—I’ll give ya the nickel tour.” The trio walked to the front of the house. Gwen and Tom were beaming.
They entered a Dutch door into a large formal receiving room. The inside was a peek at turn-of-the-century opulence. The vaulted Jacobean ceilings formed domes overhead. An enormous fireplace stood at the center of the grand receiving room. The fireplace was framed in walnut carved with spectacular devils and angels and a cornucopia of blossoms, fruits, and foliage. If you looked carefully, you could see carvings of birds and other small animals frolicking among the fruits and plants amid a pattern of circles, all of which seemed to emanate from the fireplace. Gwen stared at two malevolent faces mounted on opposing pillars supporting the mantel. “Twin Beelzebubs,” Rudy remarked, noticing the direction of her gaze. “Joint was built in 1902, so it’s well over a hundred years old now. These windows in the front used to have the most incredible stained glass covers you’ve ever seen, but the nitwit who owned the joint after Loomis—the guy before me—he fell on hard times. He stripped a lot of the original fixtures to make ends meet, but he was finally forced to sell it to me. I have some good pictures, though.”
Gwen pointed to a small button set discretely below the right-hand carving of Beelzebub. “What does that button do?” she asked.
“Well, ma dear,” Rudy replied, clearly happy to have been asked, “Way back in the day, when you found yourself in the prickly situation that your glass had become empty, you’d simply push that, and someone very helpful would come around to refill it. That was how it worked back then. How’s that for modern technology?” He smiled and lifted the crystal glass to his mouth.
“Is Tuxedo Park named after, you know, tuxedos?” Gwen asked.
“It’s the other way around, actually,” Rudy replied. “In the 1880s, a guy named Pierre Lorillard, a tobacco millionaire, acquired thousands of acres of land from his relatives—he won a lot of it in a game of poker. He’s the guy who named this place Tuxedo
Park, but he got the name from a Native American tribe called the Lenape Indians, who used to live in these mountains. T-U-C-S-E-T-O is a Lenape word meaning “crooked water.” So to answer your question, in the 1800s, the New York debutante season started with a presentation of young ladies at the Autumn Ball, right down the street at the Tuxedo Club. It was at this ball that Griswold Lorillard, Pierre’s son, first donned what’s now called the tuxedo. He was described by a reporter covering the event as appearing in a tailless dress coat and a waistcoat of scarlet satin, ‘looking for all the world like a royal footman.’ Now you have to understand, because a Lorillard had worn it, that style quickly became accepted by society as the formal wear for men. Folks called the rich people here who wore them the Tuxedos, and so it was that the tuxedo was born.
“Anyway, Pierre designed the Park to be an enclave of the leaders of American wealth and society. They used to say this was where the New York Four Hundred came to play. Back then, times were different. Tuxedo was truly exclusive, and not for the nouveaux riches, either. It’s always been old money and old traditions.”
Rudy led them into a den and pulled a dilapidated photo album from the bookshelf. He sat down on the couch between his two new friends and began flipping through pages. “Mark Twain summered here in the Park in 1906 and spent considerable time here at Split Rock. He used to write in the backyard. He would lie on the grass right beside the rock. It was rumored that he came up with one of his famous expressions back there.”
“Which one?” Gwen asked.
Rudy smiled. “It’s better to take what doesn’t belong to you than to let it lie around neglected.”
“I can agree with that,” Tom replied. Gwen pushed her lips together, as if Rudy might be able to read their minds.
“Einstein and Oppenheimer spent a whole summer here, too,” Rudy continued. “They worked on the Manhattan Project. In this very room, in fact,” Rudy said, his eyes wide and serious. “Many of the scientists who worked in the lab stayed here. That’s why there are fourteen bedrooms. The lab had about that many, too.”
Rudy walked to the other side of the room and scanned Tom’s photo. He printed a copy and then placed the new addition in his tattered album. “Thanks for the picture,” he said.
“It wasn’t just the photo we found,” Tom said reluctantly.
“What else?” Rudy asked as he poured himself another whiskey.
Gwen looked at her watch. It’s not even noon, she thought.
“We found a small notebook, too,” Tom replied. “It belonged to Nikola Tesla. I’ve been trying to, shall we say, authenticate the contents. The notebook has an entry, and since we’re being so honest, it mentions a safe, right here in this house.”
“You don’t say,” Rudy replied.
“Would it be impolite of me to ask if there is a safe in the house?”
“It would only be impolite if I actually had one. But there’s no safe I know of. Of course, in all fairness, there are still rooms I haven’t seen. So what do I know?” Rudy grinned, signaling his sarcasm.
Tom held out the notebook, flipping through a few pages. “This is the entry I found interesting,” Tom said, and then he began reading out loud.
Saturday, October 15, 1932—At last I heard, two Skyring oscillators have been stolen from the lab, and government agents have been sniffing around harassing the researchers and demanding information. They have even come to visit me at the Waldorf Astoria. Alfred told me he would take legal action if this persists. In the last few weeks, he’s not returned my letters or calls. Alfred’s generosity in sharing ideas without regard to copyright had been refreshing, but I fear his only concern now is the reputation of his Tower House Lab and the other projects undertaken there. I cannot blame him; what could have gone wrong for Project Skyring has gone wrong, as is so often my fate. Despite the many setbacks, what we did to the markets and the recent explosion, Alfred has remained level headed. When last we spoke, Alfred informed me that he had secured the two remaining oscillators inside his basement safe until things calm down. magicis aliquid absconditum apud veteres uva exprimitur. CXXX, XX, LXXIX, XLIX.
“That’s a real artifact you got there,” Rudy said. He turned his glass round and round, watching the amber liquid spin. “It’s interesting that Tesla mentions the Waldorf Astoria. John Jacob Astor lived here in the Park, and John was first cousin to William Waldorf Astor. Anyway, I’ve discovered many secrets in the house over the years, but never a safe.
“Now, these Latin words here,” Rudy said, tapping the entry with his finger. Tom and Gwen stared blankly. “I think that’s your clue,” Rudy continued. “Back in 1932, finding someone to translate Latin was nearly impossible—and worse yet, you didn’t know if you were getting the real translation or a recipe for matzo ball soup.” Rudy opened a small laptop and began using a quirky version of hunt-and-peck. “Today you kids have so much information right at your fingertips; you’ve figured it all out. But you know what? It’s too much, and now it’s in the phones. Your friends are in there. Jesus, you kids are stretched.” Rudy examined the entry and copied the Latin text to the translation box. His face glowed blue like the screen as he pecked. He hit Enter, and the screen changed. Satisfaction washed over his face. He turned the laptop around in a theatrical manner to reveal his screen. Tom and Gwen stared.
Old grape juice, the magic is hidden among the ancients. 130, 20, 79, 49.
“Old grape juice, the magic is hidden among the ancients,” Tom and Gwen said in perfect unison.
“Old grape juice. That’s gotta mean wine,” Gwen said enthusiastically.
“And there’s a wine cellar in the basement,” Rudy said. “I’ve never used it, but we could have a look-see.”
“We might as well,” Tom said as he stood up.
The steps leading into the basement were dangerously steep, clearly designed for the adventurous homeowner. As they reached the darkness at the bottom, the air was cooler and the smell of coal and age was prevalent. Rudy snatched an industrial-looking flashlight from a shelf and aimed it down a long hallway. Both Tom and Gwen were shocked at the immensity of the basement; the scale was almost industrial. They walked past what appeared to be an old kitchen. “The servants used to prepare family and guest meals down here,” Rudy remarked as he illuminated the room for his guests to admire. As they moved down the long hallway, a dark-blue door came into view. Gwen noticed a strange squiggly symbol, apparently made of copper, embedded in the door. “This is the wine cellar,” Rudy said as he wrapped his hand around the door’s handle. “I have no doubts it was stocked with the best hooch available in the twenties and thirties, but this place hasn’t been used since.”
“What’s this symbol?” Gwen asked.
“They tell me that’s the Om symbol. There are several scattered throughout the house. It’s supposed to be good luck—or at least that’s what I’ve been told.”
Rudy pushed the heavy door open and fumbled for a switch. A click echoed, and an exposed bulb in a heavy wall sconce illuminated the spacious room. Wine shelves lined the walls, and an old wooden barrel lay discarded on the floor, surrounded by shards of green and black glass. Cotton-candy cobwebs bunched in the corners and hung from the ceiling and walls. The trio studied the room. Eventually, Rudy shrugged. “No one has used this room in eighty years,” he said.
Tom ran his fingers over the dusty shelves and then maneuvered his hand between a far shelf and the concrete wall. Gwen examined the ceiling and opposing wall. As the seconds passed without any signs of a safe, the mood turned from excitement to frustration, and then to disappointment. “Meh,” Rudy uttered, conceding defeat, and the trio sauntered out.
Rudy flipped off the light and shut the door. It closed with an echoing knock. “Did you hear that?” Tom asked.
Rudy and Gwen looked around as one does when trying to detect a noise, but there was nothing. “I didn’t hear anything,” Rudy answered. Gwen shrugged.
Tom walked back a few steps, turned the latch
handle, and reopened the wine cellar door. He flipped the light on again. “I just thought of something,” he said. “Would you come in here for a minute? I want to close the door while we’re inside. I’ll bet you never did that, Rudy.”
Eyebrows raised, Rudy and then Gwen reentered the wine cellar. Gwen suspected they were wearing on the man’s hospitality. “No, you’re right kid. I’ve never closed the door behind me while I was inside.”
Gwen shut the door. The latch echoed again, and the three stood quietly. Just as Rudy took a breath, a grinding noise drew their eyes to the heavy wall sconce: the rose-shaped decoration was rotating counterclockwise. When the grinding noise stopped, the rose stopped turning. Tom stepped toward the sconce and twisted the rose clockwise.
With an industrial-sounding knock, the back wall shelf swung out from the wall like a large refrigerator door. “Son of a bitch,” Rudy said out loud. A pulse of excitement shot across the room. Tom pulled back the shelf, and a waft of cool air crawled over his hands. He retracted them squeamishly, as if he’d seen a spider.
“What is it?” Gwen asked.
“Just a chilly feeling,” Tom replied.
And there it was, sitting behind the door and set inside a generous space in the wall—a pristine-looking antique wall safe. It was like nothing Tom had laid eyes on, and he blinked several times to make sure his vision was in full working order. “My God, Tom, it’s really here,” Gwen whispered.