by Mark Wesley
“Locker room? What do you mean?”
“The locker room where I was changing.”
“Dear son, you are speaking gibberish and look a mess.”
Timothy stood staring at the woman and trying to make sense of his situation.
“When was the last time you had something to eat?”
“To eat?” Timothy uttered.
“Yes. I imagine it has been some time, seeing as how confused you appear to be.”
“Yes. That’s it, I am a little confused,” Timothy answered. “Could you please just tell me where I am?”
“Well child, I think if you don’t know where you are, you are more than a little confused.”
“No. I’m fine . . . or I will be. Please, can you just tell me where I am?”
“Do you really not know? You are standing in Grand Central Station, New York.”
“New York!” Timothy exclaimed in amazement.
“Child, I really think you need help. Let me call an officer.”
“An officer?”
“Yes, you know, a policeman. He will be able to help.”
“Yes,” Timothy replied, thinking one would surely provide help. “I need a policeman.”
The lady walked Timothy over to a gentleman in a dark coat and trousers who twirled a small wooden club about his wrist.
“Officer,” she exclaimed, drawing the man’s attention. “This boy is in need of some help. I believe he is a bit confused and probably has not eaten in some time.”
The officer looked down at Timothy and noted the boy’s disheveled appearance. “I am so sorry this boy has been bothering you, ma’am. We get beggars in here all the time—I’ll take care of him immediately,” the officer said, as he firmly grabbed Timothy by the arm.
“Good. Thank you, officer,” she politely added.
“You are most welcome, ma’am. You have a pleasant day.”
The policeman, holding Timothy by the arm, pulled the boy along like a child dragging a rag doll. “You lot always come in here and cause nothing but trouble, thieving and stealing, begging and picking pockets.”
“I don’t think you understand.” Timothy started, trying to explain himself.
“I understand perfectly, and I am tired of you little brats bothering all the paying customers.”
“Sir . . . ,” Timothy tried again as he was jerked hard about the arm, almost pulling it from its socket. “Owww. That hurts.”
“I’ll do more than that if I catch you around again.” The officer dragged Timothy to the nearest exit, a double glass door framed in brass. Opening the doors, he tossed the boy to the curb like a cook chucking out old bits of food. “Now, get outta here and don’t come back.”
“Officer, you don’t understand. I’m not from here. I need to figure out where—”
The officer interrupted Timothy, holding his club overhead. “Get on, boy, before I thump you one.”
Timothy looked up at the club and at the officer’s face. Everything suggested a sense of seriousness and impending danger.
“OK,” Timothy answered, holding out both hands. “I’m going.”
Timothy proceeded down the sidewalk and away from the station, barefoot and still looking a mess. As he walked, he felt the warm and dirty concrete against his bare feet. He could smell the stink in the air, filled with horse manure and garbage. The shouts of pedestrians, coach drivers, and food vendors, the squeaking honk from the horn on each buggy that passed rang in the boy’s ears. Slowly, he made his way further down the block, twisting and turning as he gazed up, down, and side to side, taking in all the sights, sounds, and smells.
Getting to the corner of the block, Timothy took note of a stack of newspapers next to a vendor. He made his way through the crowd of people now rushing towards him, bustling to whatever work or task motivated each step. Approaching the tightly stacked pile of newspapers, the boy began to make out the title on the front page:
Brooklyn Daily Eagle
I’ve never heard of that paper before, Timothy thought. Now noticing the date. he was completely taken aback. It can’t be . . . July 19 . . . 1908!
4
The Gift
A yellow taxi pulled up to the front of Timothy’s house, carrying the friends home after an exciting night at the carnival. “So, the children are home,” Timothy’s grandfather said, noting the light on through the front window. “I guess we ought to be quiet as we go in.”
Roland let out a moan as the car stopped in the driveway. “My belly,” he exclaimed.
“I told you that you couldn’t eat that many chocolate malts in a row, Roland,” Timothy’s grandfather said with a chuckle.
Roland and Brian got out of the car as Kyle stumbled out behind him. Wiping his sleepy eyes, Kyle drearily followed his friends to the back door.
“You boys head on in; I need to have a word with my grandson,” his grandfather said as he stopped the boy at the back door.
The friends proceeded into the kitchen and upstairs to Timothy’s room where they all collapsed on the sleeping bags they had set up earlier.
“What is it, Granddad?”
“I haven’t given you your present yet.”
“I don’t need a present, Granddad.”
“Nonsense. Every little boy deserves a present on his birthday.”
“I’m not so little anymore,” Timothy teased.
“Of course not. I didn’t mean it like that . . . every young man deserves a present on his birthday.”
Timothy waited patiently—doe-eyed and expecting something good—as he had always received the most unique and wondrous items from his grandfather.
Reaching into his coat pocket, his grandfather retrieved a small wooden box with faded and chipped dark red paint. “Timothy, the contents here in this box are of great significance.”
Timothy wondered what magnificent item his grandfather could be hiding in this little box: a golden coin from a buried treasure or a new pocketknife; maybe something even better.
“It has been with me for many years now and always brought me luck on the open sea.” His grandfather held out the small item as Timothy reached to take hold of the present, but just has Timothy did, his grandfather pulled it back. “There is just one more thing,” he said, looking sternly at Timothy. “You must promise me something.”
Timothy had rarely seen his grandfather take on such a serious demeanor. It was clear that this was not be mistaken as a joke.
“OK, Granddad,” Timothy replied cautiously.
“You must promise me you’ll wear what’s inside of this box at all times—at school, when you sleep, when you shower. At all times.”
“What? Really?”
“Yes . . . will you promise?”
“Is it some secret medallion or gold coin?”
“Not exactly. But, I need your promise.”
Timothy was not one to cause distress to his family or friends. He generally tried to be accommodating. While this request seemed peculiar, the boy could not bring himself to say as much. Instead, he found it easier to agree.
“Yes, Granddad. I promise,” Timothy answered, excited to see what treasure was hidden in the small package.
Taking the little wooden box, Timothy unlatched the hook that held it closed and opened the hinged lid to find a small key hung about a leather cord.
“A key?” Timothy asked, puzzled by the present. He pinched the necklace with his index finger and thumb and pulled out the present. With a bewildered and slightly disappointed look, he could not help but ask, “Umm . . . why do you want me to wear an old key?”
The item was a simple skeleton key, brass with faded and worn writing around the bottom that Timothy could not make out. Nothing special or magical about its appearance.
“This, Timothy,” his grandfather stated with a proud
smirk, “is the key to my first house.”
“I thought you didn’t have a house?”
“Once. Your grandmother and I owned one for a short time. It was the first and only place I ever settled down, and it was your grandmother’s heart. Though the house was lost, I kept that key,” he said, pointing to the item in Timothy’s hands. “It was a way of keeping her—and my only true home.”
“But, why give it to me, Granddad?”
“Ahhh, good question,” his grandfather said with a smile. “Well, Timothy, it’s a bit of sailor’s superstition. I’ve been having a run of bad luck, and I need to change it. Back in the old days, sailors would part with something dear to them, and leave it behind, back on shore. It’s believed that nothing will happen to them if they have something special to retrieve. Something they’ve left behind. I don’t really have anything dear to me; everything I own can fit into a duffle bag, and none of it means all that much. You, your dad, your mom, and that key are all that are important.”
“So why do I have to wear it?”
“Aha, another good question,” he replied, nodding his head, as he lowered his voice and spoke more softly, in a mysterious voice. “The superstition says that it will only bring a sailor luck if someone dear to him keeps it close. A sailor would normally give his wife his wedding ring, but I don’t suppose you want my wedding ring; do you, Timothy?”
“No. A key is better, Granddad.”
“So. You understand, do you?”
“I guess so.”
“Then you’ll keep your promise? To wear it always?”
“I promise.”
“You know, I might be out there fighting a terrible storm when you’re back here having a nice cup of soup and off to a warm bed. And . . . if you take it off then you never know what might happen. My luck might flip upside down and run out.”
“I promise, Granddad.”
“Good. I know I can trust you,” he added, patting his grandson on the shoulder. “Now go ahead. See how it fits.”
Timothy put the leather cord over his head to see how the key would hang about his neck.
“Yes, but you’ve got to wear it under your shirt.”
“Under my shirt?”
“Of course. You don’t want anybody seeing you wear such a silly thing as a key, do you?” he joked. The two had a laugh as Timothy placed the key inside his shirt. “That’s better. I can feel my luck changing by the second. Can’t you feel it? Yours will change also.”
“I guess I could always use some good luck on the swim team.”
“Sure. That’s a great place to have good luck. What about wrestling? You still on the mat?”
“Yeah. But it’s not wrestling season yet.” Timothy turned and opened the back door. “Let’s go in and have another piece of that birthday cake.”
“Sorry, young man, but I’ve got a ship leaving tomorrow morning at sunrise. I can’t stay.”
“But,” Timothy complained, “you just got here.”
“I hate to go, but duty calls.”
“Then when will you be back?”
“Soon, I hope.”
“That’s what you always say. . . .”
“Now, now. Don’t be so gloomy.”
Timothy perked up as he had a sudden stroke of intellect. “I promised about the key, so you have to promise something, too.”
“Promise what?”
“You’ve got to promise to come back really soon.”
“Ahh,” Timothy’s grandfather acknowledged with a chuckle. “I promise.”
“It’s almost been a year since I saw you last.”
“I promise. Really soon.”
“OK. So, now we both have promises that need keeping.”
“That we do,” he said, reaching out to pull his grandson into a big hug with a warm smile that crinkled the lines about his face. “Now, you take care and be safe, and know that as long as you wear that key, I’ll be safe also.”
Timothy nodded his head as he returned the hug with a big squeeze.
With that last gesture, as if putting a period on the conversation, Timothy’s granddad stepped out from under the backdoor light and disappeared into the dark night.
The boy walked inside to see his father laid out on the couch, awake and watching TV. “Hurts again?” Timothy asked his father.
“Yep,” he said, adding, “where’s your granddad?”
“He had to leave, but he said to say hello and that he’ll see you next time.”
“That’s my dad. Never able to stay. Always on the go,” Timothy’s father plainly answered. He gingerly pushed himself up from the couch and walked out of the room, showing no emotion.
Timothy proceeded up the stairs to his bathroom where he began brushing his teeth. After scrubbing his face, he threw on a clean t-shirt, some pajama bottoms, and climbed into bed. Unlike Timothy’s mom and friends, his dad had managed to go the whole day without saying happy birthday to his son.
“Good night, Dad,” Timothy whispered as he turned off his bedroom light.
5
Getting Home
Stranded outside the train station, Timothy had spent many hours wondering what had happened and how he might get home. After his interaction with the police officer, he felt there was no one he could go to for help or who might believe his crazy story.
I am so hungry, he thought as he stared at a food vendor selling steaming hot dogs and cold lemonade to paying customers. I’ve never gone this long after swimming without eating.
Looking down, Timothy held his belly as a rumble commenced. I’ve got to get some food.
The boy’s mouth watered as he saw the people bite down and chew at the boiled pieces of meat; mustard and ketchup oozed out of the corners of their mouths with each chomp as others gulped down the refreshing lemonade.
If only I could have some.
Provoked by hunger, Timothy found himself standing next to one of the customers in line. “Sir . . . would you mind buying me some food, please?” he asked.
“What?”
“Would you mind buying me one, please?”
“Get on, boy; leave me be,” the man replied, turning sideways as to brush him off.
Looking down the line, Timothy saw others quickly shrug their shoulders and turn their gaze away, clearly in an attempt to ignore him and his plea. A bit embarrassed and feeling like a scorned child, Timothy returned to the stoop where he had been sitting and put his head between his legs, looking down at the sidewalk.
The day was warm and beads of water formed on the boy’s forehead. Even though he sat well within the shade of the towering buildings, the city’s hot and musty air hung motionless offering no breeze. Timothy could not help but feel the humid and stale heat which made it seemed like he was sitting in a steam bath at the recreation center.
Keeping to himself, Timothy hunched over, resting his arms and head about his knees as he looked up, staring at the people walking by.
“Got you,” a monstrosity of a man said as he abruptly grabbed Timothy’s collar, pulling the boy from the stoop to his feet with one swift tug. Another gentleman nearby commanded, “Hold him tight. Don’t let him go.”
What is this? Timothy thought, worried for a moment that the officer who had run him out of the train station had returned. Three men circled around the boy like vultures at a carcass. Vile and slovenly in appearance, each stuck out as if they were rotten apples in a bowl of fresh fruit. Their clothes tattered, hair a mess, teeth black with stains and cavities, beards unkempt—mangled and encrusted with bits of dried food.
What is that smell? Timothy wondered as he tried to pull away and relieve himself of the foul odor that emanated from all three. Like old fishermen, the aroma of the sea inhabited the air around them. A pungent, salty smell, well-distinguished as a blend of fish and body odor. No matt
er the scent, escape was impossible for the boy as the giant maintained his grasp.
“Trying ta leave wit-out giving us our property?” the ringleader asked.
Looking through an old brass monocle, the gangly pirate, more akin to a starving dog than a man, stared directly at the boy’s pocket, “Thar it is, Grackle. It be in his pocket.”
The ringleader leaned in as a smile revealed the blackened grit against his decrepit teeth.
“Get it, Tike,” Grackle commanded.
Timothy forcefully slapped his pocket shut as Tike’s hand reached out towards the key.
“Let’s have it,” Tike ordered, adding, “now!” as he struggled with the boy to free the item.
“Stay away from me!” the boy shouted.
“You impudent little child!”
“I say we stick ’im,” the Anchor blurted.
“No. She wouldn’t like us to stick ’im,” Grackle answered.
“He’s going to be a lot less trouble if we stick him now,” Tike argued as he fought to pry the boy’s grip loose from the key.
“No. She wants the boy unharmed.”
“What are you talking about?” Timothy demanded.
Lurching in towards him, Grackle lowered his voice, taking on an annoyed tone, “You think you’re so smart, Hornigold? But we found you.”
“Hornigold?” Timothy questioned, looking confused. “I don’t know who you think I am. My name is Timothy McGee and—”
“The boy thinks he can fool us,” Tike interrupted with a laugh, shaking the boy’s arm.
“This is pointless, Hornigold,” Grackle added, seemingly fed up with the futile struggle.
“Hornigold?” the boy interrupted. “My name is Timothy,” he shouted, with a look of audacity.
“You’re Wes Hornigold’s son, and that cheating mutt is not getting the best of this cheating pirate,” Grackle explained as bits of filth spat from his mouth, landing on Timothy’s cheeks.
“I still say we stick ’im,” Tike offered with a mischievous smile as he pointed his bony finger at the boy.
“Argh, that’s not what she wants, you twit!”